Excerpt from THE GILBOA IRIS: # 5

JFK International Airport, New York


“Mace! What a surprise.”
“Hi, Dara. You look wonderful. I guess farm life agrees with you.”
“I was on a kibbutz, Mace, not a farm.”
“Whatever. You look great. Your parents are going to be thrilled to
see you, finally.”
“I thought they would be here.”
“Well, turns out, your mother had an art show, and your father is
still in Maryland at RDECOM. You know the drill, Dara, he’ll be back
tomorrow for the weekend.”
“Yeah, I know the drill. How did you get out?”
“Your father sent me. I took the early morning shuttle from
Washington. He didn’t want you landing at JFK airport without anyone
to greet you.”
“How thoughtful.”
“Hey, if anyone should gripe, it’s me. Apparently I’m pretty
dispensable in the research lab.”
“You know my father thinks the world of you, Mace.”
“I know. It’s just a matter of paying my dues. So, anyway, Columbia
in the fall, huh? You must be excited.” I nodded to be polite. We made
our way to the airport parking lot and Mace threw my luggage in the
back of his trunk, which was a chaotic jumble of disheveled clothes,
research papers and empty beer cans.
         “Still living out of your car, I see.”
“You know me,” he said with a wink, “I’m a man of perpetual
habit.” He opened the passenger door for me and then walked around
to the driver’s side. “Okay, I think we’re good to go.” He backed out of
the parking space, burning rubber as he did so, and flew onto the Van
Wyck Expressway toward the city.
         “So, Mace…did you ever think of finding someone and settling
down? Maybe even getting a permanent residence?”
“Well, I’ve been waiting for you to grow up, Dara.”
“Mace, you’re like a generation ahead of me,” I teased.
“Hey, I’m only twenty-eight, and you’re what, nineteen? That’s only
a nine-year difference – I think there’s potential,” he said, flashing an
ample smile.
“Ever the optimist! I guess you never bothered checking out the
singles scene in Maryland. Do you still spend weekends in New York?”
“Yeah, I don’t like mixing work with play,” he threw me a playful
fiendish look. “Anyway, there’s nothing like New York City.”
“So I hear. Where do you stay these days when you’re in the city
and not in Maryland?”
“Oh, here and there. That’s never a problem.”
          No, I wouldn’t think it would be, I thought. Mace Devlin, graduate
of engineering from MIT, was charming to a fault. He boasted a clean
cut, Midwest American look about him, Nebraska to be more precise,
and was a real ladies’ man. His chocolate brown hair was close-cropped,
and he had smoldering dark eyes, almost black, that were smooth and
penetrating at the same time. His nose was broad and looked like it had
been broken more than once, but he had a ready smile that displayed
deep dimples on his cheeks as his redeeming feature. I never thought
he was particularly handsome, not in the classic sense, although he had
a quality about him that was extremely alluring. And, he knew it.

        We drove up the road to my parents’ house, a brownstone on 70th
Street, off Central Park on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. It was
a quiet, tree-lined street with diverse-colored brownstone buildings and
their grand, sandstone-raised entrances lining the way. Ornate carvings
and ornamentation characterized the nineteenth-century architecture.
My parents’ house was in the center of the block. They owned the
entire building, consisting of four floors, the bottom of which hosted
my mother’s art gallery.
       Mace double-parked the car on the street and walked me to the
door, carrying my suitcases with casual ease. He looked more like a
marine than someone cooped up in a lab doing research. “Well, this is
it, Dara. Welcome home, again.”
“Thanks for picking me up from the airport.”
“Hey, anytime. You know where to reach me if you need me. I have
all my calls forwarded.”
“To where? Your car?”
“Go out with me one night, babe, and you might just find out.”
I rolled my eyes at him, “Bye, Mace.”