by Grace Palmer
As she scanned the room, her eyes caught on a head of curly light brown hair in the middle of the room. All she could see was the back of the man, but it was enough to stop her cold in the middle of the walkway.
His hair was long enough that it covered the back of his neck and flipped out over the collar of his shirt. A few corkscrews stuck out at odd angles, familiar enough that Liza was tempted to stick her hand out and work her finger through them.
Cliff had always hated when she did that, but she swore she couldn’t help it.
Her heart lurched in her throat, and her stomach fell to her knees, and she blinked at the back of the man’s head in utter disbelief.
What was he doing here? It couldn’t be.
She was seconds away from taking a step towards him when someone crashed into her back and the sound of glass breaking turned every head in the restaurant.
A waiter had finished clearing a table next to her and backed out from between the tables, only to find Liza frozen in the middle of the walkway. The dirty dishes perched precariously on his tray went crashing to the floor.
But Liza couldn’t focus on that. Not while she was still staring at what had—just a second ago, she could swear!—been the head of her ex-husband…
But was now the face of a perfect stranger.
Liza blinked at the man, realizing her mistake. It had all been in her imagination. Cliff wasn’t in Willow Beach. Why would he be?
The man frowned, clearly wondering if Liza was having a seizure or an episode of some kind, so, as reality caught up to her, she spun around to the waiter and apologized profusely, her face growing more heated with every second.
“I’m so, so sorry,” she pleaded. “Please, let me help clean up.”
“It’s okay, Ms. Hall,” the hostess said as she hurried over, laying a hand on Liza’s shoulder. “I’ll help Mark with the dishes as soon as I seat you.”
Mark, the water in question, looked embarrassed, too, as he stopped down to clean up the mess, even though it had been entirely Liza’s fault. To save them both further embarrassment and even more of a scene, Liza apologized quickly again and hurried off to what was, thankfully, a corner table in the restaurant.
“Accidents like that happen at least once a week,” the hostess said. “I’m just grateful the glasses were empty. That would have been even more of a mess.”
Another memory tickled the back of her mind. She knew better than most that the hostess wasn’t lying. Liza was grateful for the woman’s attempts to comfort her, but she was even more relieved when the hostess left her alone. She needed to compose herself before her clients arrived—hopefully, well after the glass and shattered dishware had been cleaned up.
Cliff had mentioned something about remaining friends after they signed the divorce papers, but things like that hardly ever work out. It wasn’t that they hated one another, but were they supposed to go for coffee or become racquetball partners? Anytime they met, their history would hang over them like a weight, making any activity or conversation difficult.
No, it was easier not to see each other. Though, that carried with it the anxiety that Liza would see Cliff unexpectedly somewhere, and what would she say then?
Hello, nice to see you. Lie.
How have you been? Hopefully not better than she’d been.
Are you seeing anyone? No! The forbidden question. Not to be spoken.
Cliff wasn’t in Romano’s, but the usual anxiety Liza always felt before a consultation was now amplified by the strange feeling that he would appear at any moment.
It was absurd, of course, so Liza did her best to push the ghosts of her past away and focus on the meeting. She pulled out her planner and set it on the edge of the table. Then, she pulled out her ribbon-tied box of profiteroles and set them on top of the planner, angling them slightly so it looked casual and not as if she’d placed them there just so.
Mark and the hostess made quick work of the spill in the middle of the room, so by the time the hostess was walking towards the table again, two people Liza couldn’t quite see walking behind her, Mark had brought the table closest to the accident a free plate of cannolis to make up for the inconvenience and potential danger they’d endured. Liza wondered if she would get a free plate of cannolis, too. Unlikely, since she’d been the one to cause the accident. Plus, then she’d have to explain to Stacy and her husband why she’d been given the dessert, and she wanted to avoid the topic altogether.
The familiar flutter of nerves moved through Liza, and she sat up a bit straighter and resisted the urge to fix her hair. She didn’t want to look jittery when her clients arrived.
The hostess smiled at her as she approached, and Liza couldn’t help but think there was something condescending in it. A sense of “don’t worry, I won’t tell them what you did earlier.” Even though she felt foolish, Liza needed the hostess on her side, and smiled back.
“Here you are,” the hostess said, stepping aside with a wave of her arm. Immediately, a middle-aged woman who looked close to Liza’s age stepped forward. She had gray-streaked brown hair, laugh lines around her vibrant blue eyes, and a body that spoke to years of a yoga practice or Pilates.
Most of the brides Liza met were young women, wrinkle-free and perfect, just starting out in life. Liza enjoyed being part of their big days, of course, but it made it seem impossible for anyone on the back half of life to find someone. So, this bride was unexpected, but not at all unwelcome.
“You must be Stacy,” Liza said, standing up and extending a hand. “I’m Liza Hall. It’s wonderful to meet you.”
“Liza! Hi!” Stacy spoke with obvious excitement, each of her words punctuated with an octave rise. “It’s so wonderful to finally meet you.”
“Liza?” Stacy’s fiancé stepped out from behind her, and Liza couldn’t imagine how he’d ever managed to hide. He was over six feet tall with broad shoulders well-clothed in a cashmere sweater and fitted gray pants.
Liza was so distracted by the sight of him—and horrified by her own indiscretion in perusing his appearance—that she smiled up at him without actually looking at his face. “Yes, that’s me. Liza, your caterer.”
She moved to sit down, but the man stepped forward and grabbed her wrist, forcing Liza’s eyes up to his face.
The moment she saw him—really saw him—everything faded away.
Time stopped, the restaurant disappeared, and Liza stared into a face she never thought she’d see again.
The dark hair she’d always admired was speckled through with gray, but it still waved back past his right ear no matter how much gel was in it. Lines fanned out around his eyes and mouth, and his skin was deeply tanned from years of being in the sun. His green eyes, though, were unchanged. They undid Liza just as easily now as they ever had, and she let out a small gasp.
“Benjamin.”
He smiled just as he had all those years ago—before she loved him, before he left, before her heart broke—his shoulder lifting in a half shrug. “Just Ben.”
Stacy stepped forward with a frown, looking from Liza to Ben. “Do you two know one another?”
Liza’s hammering heart jolted to a stop at the realization that she and Ben weren’t alone. Someone else was there.
Stacy.
His fiancée.
Ben only smiled and threw his arm around Stacy’s shoulders. “Something like that.”
5
Thirty Years Earlier
Liza didn’t have time to flirt with customers. Men tried often, sauntering up to where she was mixing drinks and leaning against the bar with their hip. They’d exude confidence and ask for a refill and her number in the same breath, as though if they slipped the requests in simultaneously, Liza would give her number to them as part of her job.
“Sorry, no dating customers,” she’d say. “Company policy.”
There was no such policy, of course. How could there be? Most of the other girls on waitstaff requested their boyfriends come and sit in their sections so
they could see them while at work. Still, the lie deterred most men from repeated attempts.
One night, after waiting a table of ten and a drunken bachelor party who spent half of the night screaming at the football game playing on the screen above the bar, Liza didn’t have the patience for any more antics. She’d received a meager tip from the large table that did nothing to make up for the headache they’d induced, and after doing her budget the week before and realizing how far she still had to go to afford a year of college on her own, she felt deflated by all of it.
So, when a man sidled up to the bar and crooned a request for her phone number along with a gin and soda, Liza didn’t have the patience to even pretend to be nice.
“I’m busy. Ask him,” she said, tipping her head to her coworker, John. He was tall and thin, and he gave the appearance that his limbs operated separately from the rest of his body, like a puppet with an inexperienced puppet master at the helm. After a paycheck’s worth of broken glasses on his first week on the job, Liza made him swear he’d stop trying fancy bartending tricks and just fill the drink orders.
“I don’t want him,” the man said, leaning forward so Liza could smell the alcohol on his breath. “I want you.”
Liza had a feeling he was talking about more than just wanting a drink, but she ignored him and went about pouring refills for the bachelor party. The groom was already bowled over at the table, too drunk to sit upright, so she’d swapped his drink for a soda. Hopefully he’d be too drunk to notice there was no alcohol in it. For her deception, though, Liza gave him the refill for free.
“Come on.” He reached his hand across the bar like he was going to touch her arm, and Liza jerked back out of his reach and fixed him with a glare.
“No, you come on,” she spat. “I’m trying to do my job. If you’d like a refill this very second, my coworker is free and happy to take your order. If you’re willing to wait, then go sit down at your table and I’ll bring it to you when I’m done.”
Liza hefted the tray off the counter and lifted it over her shoulder, walking around the bar quickly to try and avoid any more conversation with the flirtatious man. Liza knew he hadn’t really done anything to deserve her wrath—he was simply the one unfortunate enough to be there when Liza’s tolerance for leering men finally bubbled over—but he also hadn’t made her job easier. Rather than listen to her and walk over to John or take a cue from her sour body language, he’d pressed. So, Liza had pressed back.
Still, she felt guilty.
Until she was halfway across the restaurant and heard him behind her.
“I can see that you’re stressed, but I think I can help with that. I’ll show you a good time.”
He dodged a table and lightly jogged to get in front of Liza. His hair was pale blond, almost white, and parted down the center. White fuzz was growing on his upper lip, the beginnings of a very poor mustache, and his eyes were bloodshot.
He was drunk and pushy, and Liza didn’t feel guilty at all for what she said next.
“Unless you plan to leave me alone and never speak to me again, I’m not sure what good time you could show me.” Liza fixed him with cold eyes for a few seconds, hoping her serious expression would break through his drunken haze. Then, she spun around and walked away faster than she normally would while holding a tray in an effort to shake the man off.
It all seemed to happen in slow motion. Liza was a few steps away when she realized her tray was lighter and slightly off balance. Then, she looked over her shoulder and saw the glasses in the air. Several of them were sideways, liquid already pouring out, and all Liza could do was watch in horror as alcohol and the single soda she’d made for the future groom dumped all over the head of an innocent man.
The incident lasted two seconds, but it felt like hours. Liza stood there in frozen horror as the dark-haired man—even darker now that he was soaking wet—jumped up from his chair and instinctively tried to shake off. His friends all dove out of the way, already laughing at his misfortune, and Liza couldn’t breathe.
She’d broken plates in the kitchen, spilled drinks on a table, and even fallen on her butt in the middle of service in front of a restaurant full of people. But never in her years of waitressing had she dumped drinks over someone’s head. As she replayed the fall in her mind, she was also fairly certain one of the glasses had hit the guy in the head, as well.
Did he have a concussion? Would she be sued? Would she be fired? Was he going to yell at her?
The man who had been after Liza—who, in all reality, was the reason Liza had spilled the drinks at all—was gone. Either her telling him off had worked, or he’d taken off after her embarrassing moment, likely believing karma had enacted his revenge for him. Either way, he was no longer there to blame, so Liza would have to take full responsibility.
“I’m so sorry,” she started, setting the tray down on a nearby table and bending down to pick up the larger shards of glass, as though that might somehow undo the damage she’d done. “This has never happened to me before. I lost control of the tray, and—I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.” His voice was deep and warm and, most importantly, kind.
Liza looked up at him and saw he was smiling. And what a smile it was. White teeth with a small dimple in each cheek.
“I was wondering whether I should get another drink or call it a night and head home, and you made the responsible choice for me. Actually, I should be thanking you. You’ve saved me a real headache in the morning.”
He knelt down next to her and dropped a few chunks of glass on the tray, and Liza’s heart fluttered. She couldn’t smell anything beyond the sickly sweet smell of soda and the bitter alcohol, but she imagined this man would smell amazing. He had on a loose-fitting denim shirt tucked into a pair of tight-fitting denim jeans, and he looked like he’d just strolled out of a catalog.
“You don’t have to help,” she said quickly. “I should go get a broom and a mop and…find you a towel.”
She was flustered and embarrassed and hopeful that she could hide in the back while someone else cleaned up the mess, but before she could get up, the man laid his hand on her arm. “Are you okay?”
Liza choked on a laugh. “I’m the one who dumped an entire tray of drinks on you. I should be asking you that.”
“But you’re the one who was accosted by a drunk patron, so I’m asking you.”
Liza allowed herself to look up at him, pushing past her embarrassment, and she was met with the greenest pair of eyes she’d ever seen. They were green like light filtering through the wide leaves of a sycamore tree—a pale, luminous green. They were mesmerizing. He was mesmerizing.
Liza only realized she hadn’t answered when he arched an expectant eyebrow.
“Oh yes. I’m fine,” she said. “I’m fine. That happens all the time.”
The man chuckled to himself. “So I’m learning. I now understand why you rejected me outright a couple of weeks ago. My lame come-on probably didn’t impress you.”
Liza was taken aback. If this man had hit on her, she’d remember it. Certainly. He had dark black hair, bright green eyes, and dimples. Liza didn’t like being hit on at work, but she had a pulse. She had eyes. She would have taken notice if a guy like this had taken any interest in her.
“You don’t remember.” He shook his head and smiled shyly, which only made him more attractive. “And you shouldn’t. Honestly, I’m glad you don’t. It wasn’t my best moment. I think I said I didn’t need dessert if I had a waitress as sweet as you.”
His cheeks flushed, and he squeezed his eyes shut in embarrassment, and Liza couldn’t help but laugh.
“See? It was bad,” he said.
“I’ve heard worse.”
He cast his eyes up to her, and they caught. For a moment, the mess and the shattered glass and the attention of every single other person in the restaurant faded away, and they were alone. Liza had never felt anything like it. She’d never been so instantly captivated by someone.
“I’m sorry, Mr. VanEtton. This was all my fault. I lost control of my tray and—”
“She’s being kind to save me the embarrassment.” The man, soda still dripping down his neck and soaking into his shirt, held out his hand to her manager. “I’m Ben, and this is all my fault. I accidentally tripped Liza and made this mess. I’m sorry.”
Mr. VanEtton comped Ben’s meal and dismissed Liza back to the kitchen to clean up and send one of the busboys out to clean the mess. As soon as she had some distance from Ben, she realized her guilt must have clouded her judgment.
He wasn’t that handsome, was he? Not any more handsome than any other man who had ever hit on her. She just felt so guilty for drenching him in soda that she wanted to make it up to him. That’s what it must have been.
Except, when she came back to the dining room after her break and saw Ben was gone, the disappointment was so sour it turned her stomach.
He had been that handsome. And Liza shouldn’t have walked away. She should have stayed and asked for his number. He’d apparently already hit on her once. After dumping an entire tray of drinks on him, it was her turn to make the move, and she’d failed.
Two days later, when she showed up for the dinner shift after a day off, Liza had mostly been able to push thoughts of Ben out of her mind. He’d been cute, after all, but she hardly knew him. She didn’t even know his last name.
Then, she walked to a table in her section and saw him sitting in a booth by himself, his hands folded politely in front of him, an easy smile on his face.
“I’m wearing a windbreaker in case of any unexpected downpour,” he teased, smoothing his hand down the water-repellent material.