Page 35

THIRTY-THREE

I hadn’t been in the market for a new boyfriend, so when we hightailed it out of the White Dog Café that Friday afternoon and headed for Alex’s apartment, all I was hoping for was a torrid night with the best-damn-looking guy I’d ever been with.

He did not disappoint. And then came Saturday morning. I’d had more than my share of awkward goodbyes—throwing my clothes on in a hurry and doing the walk of shame in front of neighbors, and occasionally, the same doorman who’d seen me go upstairs the night before.

This was different. It was 11:00 a.m. We were in bed, still naked, enjoying a late-morning breakfast of Friday night’s leftover Chinese food.

“Lizzie told me about your mother,” he said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks. Did she tell you about the crazy lady who almost took my father for all he was worth?”

“No. She said there was some family drama after your mother died, but that it was your story to tell.”

So I told him the tale of Connie Gilchrist, leaving out, of course, the part where Johnny Rollo and I broke into her house.

“Wow,” he said. “If I was your father, I’d have sworn off women for the rest of my life.”

“And how long do you think it would take before the next dumpster fire in high heels and a push-up bra came along to change your mind?”

“Good point. As you can see, I’m susceptible to beautiful and intelligent women.”

“All men are, and my father is no exception. So Lizzie and I orchestrated a meet and greet between him and the librarian, Beth Webster.”

“And are they dating?”

“Not anymore. They got married two years ago. I love her, Lizzie loves her, and I know my mother would approve of our choice. So,” I said, “your turn.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I don’t know... start at the beginning.”

“Okay. It was September 11, 1978, and I was left in a Dillon’s grocery store shopping basket at fire station 6 on North Plum Street in Hutchinson, Kansas.”

He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t kidding. “Oh my God,” I said. “You were abandoned?”

“I like to think I was rescued. Whoever left me there couldn’t take care of me, but they loved me enough to leave me someplace safe.”

“Did you ever find out who your birth mother was?”

He shook his head. “Not a clue. It might have been some local schoolgirl, but I was found on a Monday. The Kansas State Fair was on the previous weekend, so it’s possible that I could have been left by any one of the thousands of exhibitors or carneys who were passing through Hutch at the time. The note in the basket said, ‘This is Alex. Please find a real mother and father to love him . ’

“I’d been well fed and taken care of, and the hospital pegged me at four weeks old when I was found. That’s a long time to hold on to a baby you know you can’t raise, so I’m sure it wasn’t an easy decision for her to give me up.”

“Who became your parents?”

“I was lucky. I could have gone into the foster system and bounced around for years. But the fire chief and his wife... I’m sorry, this is kind of a bummer topic for a first date.”

“This stopped being a first date about an hour after you sat down at my table at the White Dog,” I said.

He smiled, and I marveled at the power he had over me just by moving a few facial muscles.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he said. “I don’t usually let women do the kind of things you did to me on the first time out. I’ve studied anatomy, but clearly you are my superior in that department.”

“And we still have two days left to the weekend,” I said, munching suggestively on a cold spare rib. “Now tell me about the fire chief and his wife.”

“My mom and dad,” he said. “Nancy and Kevin Dunn. It was 1978. Their only child—a son, Dylan—had been killed in Vietnam six years earlier. They were in their early fifties at the time. They weren’t thinking about more children, but then along comes this newborn in a basket from Dillon’s supermarket—it didn’t matter that it was spelled different from their son Dylan. My mom—she wasn’t my mom yet—she decided it was a sign. She told my dad they had to adopt me. And he just said, ‘If that’s what you want.’”

“Just like that?” I said.

“That was my dad. He was the easiest guy in the world. He’s gone now, but he always let my mother call the shots. Never argued, never complained. So they adopted me. The doctors did the math, and the official court papers say I’m Alex Dillon Dunn, born in Hutchinson, Kansas, on August 11, 1978. It may not be a hundred percent accurate, but it’s been blessed by the powers that be in the Sunflower State, so that’s my story.”

“And are you going back to Kansas when you finish med school?”

“Probably not. Mom is pushing eighty; she’s got some moderately progressive cognitive impairment, but last year she moved into an assisted-living facility, and she seems to be happy there. I grew up in the Midwest, but I’ve become kind of fond of the East Coast, so I think I’ll stay here. Not in Philly. I’m definitely not a big-city kid. Anyway, I’ve still got two years of medical school before I have to think about where I’m going to do my residency.”

I had already thought about it. Heartstone Medical Center. But I didn’t tell Alex. Not on the first date.