by R. S. Lively
Alice had a point. Not that I wasn't realistic about them. These people are no different than the ones my parents used to have over to our house when my brothers and I were younger. Differentiated from their friends by the types of gatherings they'd be invited to, the ones who showed up for business dinner parties and tasteful corporate-sponsored meet-and-greets had the same air about them that these four do.
The only exception may be Sandra. She's the reason I agreed to host this dinner here tonight. I chose to live outside of the trendy areas and the high rises for several reasons, one of which is not wanting to get into the habit of spending my evenings networking. Sandra has been a very loyal client over the last few years, not only continuously extending her own fairly ridiculous bucket list, but also funneling several other lucrative clients my way. When she told me she and two of her friends who also happen to have worked with me wanted to persuade a woman who is on the fence about the whole bucket list thing, I suggested they accompany me on one of my upcoming plans for another client. Holding the gathering at my house was her idea. She said it would be more personal and give Andrea the opportunity to really get to know me and the purpose of my company.
Now by the way Sandra’s been eyeing me from under her slightly off-kilter false eyelashes, and not so subtly inching the hem of her dress up to reveal the lacy top of her thigh-high stockings, I'm starting to think there might be ulterior motives here. I've never had the occasion to invite her to my house, but in the times we've interacted at the parties and events inevitable in our social circle, she's been pleasant. Even fun at times, seeming to stand at least a bit apart from the others. That made me willing to go along with her plan, but the way she's looking at me now, her finger dipped just a hint too far into her drink and swirling around a swizzle stick that is sans olive because I forgot to bring them in from the kitchen, I'm starting to second-guess it.
"Dean, I was just telling Andrea about the time you brought me to your private island so I could swim with dolphins and how much fun we had. Do you remember that?"
I sit in the chair furthest from Sandra and reach for a glass. Usually I'd go for the bourbon, but tonight I feel I might need to stay completely in control of my faculties. Tipping sparkling water into the glass, I take a long sip.
"Actually, that wasn't my private island. That belongs to my brother Seth."
"Well, you certainly acted like it belonged to you."
She flips her hair, and Andrea's eyes slide over to me. A smile flickers on her lips. I bring the glass to my mouth again so the sip can fill the silence of me not knowing what to say.
"Swimming with dolphins is a popular request," I say as I swallow. "That's one that’s always surprised me. I figure with as common as cruises are these days, most people who have any interest in getting up close and personal with the flipper-ed kind would have already done it. But... there it is."
Sandra lets out a cascade of giggles and flips her hair again.
"See, Andrea, I told you Dean is a card. He's just so modest. Acting like it's just swimming with dolphins. Oh, look. You have a bit of fuzz. Let me get that for you."
She gets up from the edge of her seat and leans across the table toward me, using her thumb and forefinger to pluck something probably imaginary from my shoulder. Her hand is lifting toward my face, but before it can get there, a tray appears between us.
"Canapes!" Alice announces. She looks directly at Sandra. "Canape?"
Sandra looks put off, but daintily lifts one of the appetizers from the tray before lowering back down into her chair.
"Thank you, Alice," I say. "Have all of you met Alice? She's our chef for this evening. She comes highly recommended."
Actually, she doesn't come recommended at all. I still have no idea who she is. But I'm going with it.
"It's really my pleasure," Alice says. "If you have just a second for me to steal you away, though. I need to ask you something in the kitchen."
I put my drink down and hold up a finger to the group to indicate I'd be right back. Alice is putting the finishing touches on a salad when I walk into the kitchen.
"Everything alright?" I ask.
"Hmmm?" She looks up at me. "Oh, yeah. Everything's fine. I just thought you might need a break."
I laugh and snag a chunk of cucumber from the cutting board. Popping it in my mouth, I lean against the counter to look at her.
"Thanks. It was getting a little much in there."
"What is with that Sandra woman? Is she your girlfriend?"
"Sandra? Absolutely not. She is a client."
"Well, if you ask me, which you didn't, but since I already volunteered the life story of my dessert to you, I'll go ahead... she seems like she's interested in a touch more than work."
"You think so?"
She walks over to the kitchen door and leans through the doorway to peer into the living room. From that vantage point she should barely be able to see the furniture, but the look on her face when she comes back tells me she saw plenty more than that. I can only imagine Sandra staring back at her, wondering when I was coming back.
"How often does she come over here?"
"She's never been here."
"This is the first time you've talked about it?"
"First time I've talked about it. She's asked a few times."
Alice smiles knowingly and drizzles what looks like homemade dressing down over the leafy salad.
"So, this woman has been hinting around for you to invite her to your house and you don't, then suddenly she has a business reason for you to have her here? Sounds a bit fishy to me."
"Does it say something about you that your mind immediately goes there?"
"It says I'm a woman. But other than that, no. That's not my style."
"What's your style?"
She grins.
"Standing around in the kitchen eating chocolate cheesecake and talking about people."
"That sounds like a lot more fun than anything going on out there."
"I'll save you a slice. For now, gather your guests and head to the table. It's time for dinner. Don't sit across from Sandra. Stuffed chicken breast might be able to stop you from having to have too deep a conversation with her, but I can't promise it will offer you any protection against a game of footsie. It's not magic."
The rest of the evening, I split my time between batting off Sandra's advances in the most professional ways possible and slipping in to see Alice as much as I can. Just as she had promised, there's a slice of chocolate cheesecake waiting for me on the island when my four dinner guests return to the living room for coffee. I take a few bites and we exchange observations about the others, before I have to go join them again. By the time I usher them out the door, I know I want to see Alice again. She's cleaning up the kitchen when I step back in and scoop up another bite of the cheesecake still sitting on the corner of the island.
“How'd it go?” she asks.
“Fairly well, I guess. Andrea agreed to work with me on her bucket list.”
“Congratulations.”
"Thanks. And thank you for cooking tonight. I was all delicious."
She gives a short laugh.
"It was nothing special. But I'm glad you enjoyed it."
I watch her go into a battle for her soul against a splatter of sauce on the stovetop.
"You know, you don't have to do that. I have people coming in to clean tomorrow morning."
She sighs and tosses the sponge into the sink, brushing her arm back against her forehead to brush away a rogue curl that has tumbled down from the messy bun where she had relegated the rest.
"That's right. I forgot. Spoiled."
She tosses me a smile and takes another bite of her cheesecake.
"Are you busy tomorrow?"
The question pops out of me before I have a chance to think it all the way through. She narrows her eyes at me questioningly.
"I have to work, but I can probably get away in the afternoon. Why? Do you have another party?"
"No, I don't want to hire you. I just want to see you again."
Alice looks surprised and, for the first time all evening, seems speechless.
"Oh."
"So, are you free?"
She nods, and I have the compulsion to reach up and release her hair from its tie.
"Yes."
"Good. Give me your number and I'll get in touch with you tomorrow."
We hesitate at the front door for several seconds before she finally says goodnight and slips out toward the waiting car. The lock is barely flipped into place when my phone rings.
"Hello?"
"Dean!"
"Mr. Pfeiffer?"
"I'm having second thoughts, Dean."
"About what?"
I flip the lights off in the living room and go back into the kitchen for another slice of cheesecake to bring with me into my bedroom.
"Skydiving. Your brother already scheduled it."
"I thought that's what you wanted."
"It is. It was. I just don't know anymore."
"It is perfectly normal to be nervous, but don't be scared. Like I told you, Seth has done this countless times. He knows what he's doing and has connections with the best in the industry. It will be an amazing experience."
"And will I have experiences after this one?"
"Yes. You will be perfectly safe, Mr. Pfeiffer. This is not how you will meet your bucket."
Chapter Seven
Dean
I plan things for a living. That’s what I do. People come to me and say, ‘Dean, I'd like to imitate Esther Williams in a swimming pool of ice cream’ and I find a hypothermia expert and start researching how long it would take to fill the deep end with fudge ripple. On the other end of the range, I end up with Mr. Pfeiffer and lose him in a cave. Either way, planning even the most bizarre of bucket lists doesn't intimidate me.
So, why the hell can't I plan a date?
Last night, the thought of Alice walking out of my house and – to channel the brooding teenage part of me – out of my life, jarred me into asking to see her today. But as soon as she agreed, and actually did walk out of the house, I realized I had no idea what to do with her.
Now I'm only a few hours away from seeing her, and still don't know what we should do. Alice has officially confounded me. I still don't really know her. She's definitely not a cook. The chocolate cheesecake last night was phenomenal to the point that I might be ashamed to go back to Magnolia Falls and face Victoria. I might feel like I've cheated on her cheesecake.
But that didn't change that Alice wasn't the person Jonathan hired and flitted around the kitchen with a distinct air of trying to cover her ass the whole night. It didn't bother me. There had to be some reason she showed up instead of the man I was expecting. The thing is, I don't even really care that I know almost nothing about her. It makes getting to see her not in the context of working for me more fun. I actually look forward to getting to know her.
That's where the problems lie. Dating hasn't been a priority of mine in years. Possibly ever, if I'm being honest, but when I do go out it's with women I already know. We're already a few dates and countless small talk chats into the process by the time I pick them up for dinner. That also means we're several steps closer to the inevitable realization that the first date wasn't a good idea and there wouldn't be a second. I very often start the night in a suit and end it in a bad mood. Even if the rare occasion does occur that I head out with the same date more than once, after a handful of nights I'm bracing for the next stage in their mating dance.
The Ring Finger Display.
It used to astonish me how soon the women would start making their empty ring finger their central characteristic, but now I start looking for the cues if I hazard a third date. There must be a book floating around somewhere convincing women to hasten an engagement by planting the image of a bare ring finger in a man's mind. Many of the women have used the same basic techniques, from suddenly always sitting with their hand pressed to the table in between us to giggling with increased frequency and brushing at me with their non-bejeweled hand as if to playfully tell me to go away. Eventually, I do.
It's not that I inherently dislike the women. I just don't like the feeling in my gut that each of them looks across the table and imagines me as a money clip with a diamond solitaire ring as a head. It's not much different than high school, only with higher heels, higher hair, and higher prices. They aren't thinking about a future with me. They are thinking about a future with my bank account. Plug either of my still-single brothers in my place, and the women would be just as happy.
Sometimes I happen on women who don’t have the nails of their ring fingers painted with glitter or smoothly-slipped mentions of early morning meetings or jogging club into the first conversations of the evening. They enjoy the perks that come along with catching the attention of a billionaire, but eventually the novelty of no strings and no depth would wear off for both of us.
Alice is different. She isn't impressed by me. Mistaking me for a bartender at my own party, not holding back her delightfully sharp tongue when describing my guests, then hiding out in the kitchen and sharing cheesecake with me were testament to that. Even hearing my name had no effect on her. All she saw was the modest brownstone and the small guest list. Something about that intrigues me.
I don't want to show off to her. I have no interest in trying to impress her with my money; unlike my brother Seth, who once hired a production crew and had Rodeo Drive blocked off so his girlfriend of three weeks could live out her Pretty Woman fantasies. Wanting to spend time with Alice is actually about seeing her again, but that leads me right back to my original question.
Why the hell can't I plan a date?
I'm hovering somewhere between not wanting to potentially change the dynamic between us by tossing money around and wanting to have fun with her. Curiosity about what might be right below the uniform and fine sheen of cooking oil and judgment from last night makes me want to plan something amazing. Desire to avoid looking like I'm one of those vapid spoiled people trying to buy her attention makes me not have any idea what to plan.
There is really only one option. I have to call in the expert. Fishing my phone out of my pocket, I dial and hold the slippery device between my shoulder and ear as I stick my fork into the refrigerator to stab out a bite of leftover cheesecake. If I wash it down with a swig of black coffee, it's breakfast. There's all the C's. Cream cheese, chocolate, coffee, and carbs. Essentially what I have is a deconstructed bagel with cream cheese and mocha.
"Dean?"
"Emma! Hi. I need your help."
"What did you do? Grant says I can't bring the baby with me to bail you out and he's in a meeting right now."
"No, I'm not in jail. I need your help planning a date."
"A date?"
She sounds more put off by the idea of me planning a date than she did thinking about me in jail.
"Yes."
I give her a brief rundown about Alice, and the fact that I'm supposed to pick her up in a few hours... and that's where the plan ends.
"Do you have any ideas? Anything at all?"
"Well…"
"What is it?"
"It's a really nice day."
"Aren't you in New York?"
"Yes."
"In February?"
"Yes."
"So, what you mean is it's a fucking cold slushy day."
"There's sun."
"Where are you going with this?"
"I was thinking a picnic in Central Park."
She hesitates so long I think the call might have dropped, but then I hear Lily in the background.
"A... picnic. In... February."
The incredulous way she says it doesn't deter me as I start envisioning the date.
"Just something simple. It'll be the perfect chance to just talk and get to know each other."
"At a picnic…. in Central Park… in February."
"You were amazingly helpfu
l. Thanks, Emma."
"Glad to be of service."
Tucking my phone in my pocket before she can come up with another idea and confuse me, I make my way toward the bedroom to get dressed. I have a picnic basket to pack.
Three hours later…
"You know this is completely cliché, right?"
Alice's hand over her eyes doesn't do much to block the bright sunlight bouncing off the smooth stretch of white snow in front of us as we trudge our way across Strawberry Fields. I'm headed for a tree in the distance, where the shade will cut the glare, and we can lay out the blankets I’m carrying under my arm. I grin at her.
"Yes."
She nods.
"As long as we're clear."
We get to the tree, and she takes the basket from my hand so I can lay out layers of blankets on top of a gray tarp I'm glad I had the foresight to grab. it helps to smooth down the snow and keep it from melting and soaking through the blankets.
“I don't mind clichés,” I tell her as I drop down onto the middle of the blanket and reach up for the basket. “I figure, they’re clichés for a reason, right? All of them have their origin in something, and sometimes that something is absolutely amazing. This is one of those things.”
I hold my hands out to encompass the beauty of the park cloaked in snow and sparkling afternoon sunlight.
“So, you don't mind doing the same thing as a million other people?”
"Not if it's worth doing, and I feel like moments like these are definitely worth doing. It might sound like another cliché but doing things like this makes me feel like I'm part of the incredible ongoing history of New York. Can't you just imagine people a hundred years ago coming out here for the afternoon?"