Corsets and Quartets

by DeSimone, Mercy

  Turning toward Cliff, I laugh at his expectant grin. "Ok, yes, I am impressed! What else have you got up your sleeve?"

  A loud pop interrupts my question as a waiter opens a bottle of champagne next to me and pours a mimosa, placing it carefully next to my plate.

  "Did you plan that?"

  "Yes," he quips, until I realize the waiter is placing mimosas down the counter in front of every plate. "Well, I planned to come here knowing there would be mimosas." The laughter dancing in his eyes lights up his whole face.

  "Nice." I clink my glass to his in a salute and let the bubbles wash over the surface of my tongue, causing a pleasant tingle that relaxes me. Tilting my head to the side, I realize his gaze is on my neck.

  "It's a rune." At his confusion I continue, "An ancient symbol that the Celts used to divine prophecies. Kind of like we use tarot cards."

  "Uh huh." A slight frown marks his face for a moment, as if trying to understand the reference. Maybe he's one of those people that don't believe in tarot and psychics.

  "This particular symbol is a sign for transformation." Do I sound like some mystical, Stevie Nicks, gypsy wannabe? Moving on. "Maybe we should look at the menu first, and then we can get to know one another better." I quickly change the subject. Strike one for Josie.

  With a last frown at my neck, Cliff smiles again, and I breathe a slight sigh of relief.

  "Not necessary. Chef's table, chef's menu. Just sit back and let it come."

  "Really?" Ok, now I know I sound like a gleeful child, but I'm practically salivating at the thought of the dishes to come. I've never had the money to do a chef's tasting table, and I can't deny I'm excited. I have a foodie heart and a fast food budget. If chefs had muses, I would throw myself at their feet and offer to spend my days tasting all of their newest concoctions without question. Death by food coma—there's worse ways to go.

  "Chef's rules." Smiling at me, Cliff glances toward the front of the restaurant again, where Shana talks animatedly on a cell phone, staring our way. How odd.

  "So, Cliff, now that you've lured me here, tell me about yourself."

  "What else do you want to know? You got the basics from my profile. I'm forty-two, divorced, I have a twelve-year-old daughter, and I'm a veterinarian. I talk to animals all day, and try to lure pretty women to me by being good with kids and animals. So basically, I have no game, which is why I'm on a dating site."

  "Are you implying I have no game?" I chastise.

  "No. I never said that! Why would you even think such a thing? Clearly, you are a beautiful, accomplished woman, whose only failing is that she is easily lured with bacon."

  "And trying to meet eligible men on random dating sites," I return with my best martyred smile.

  "Well, look how much we have in common then! Come on, it's your turn. I know we're the same age, you like books, and you believe Christmas should only be celebrated in December. Which clearly makes you a rebel." Glancing at my necklace again, Cliff continues, "So, you've never been married. Do you have any kids?"

  "No, but I like kids, it just wasn't in the cards."

  "So, how many guys are you dating right now?" His abrupt question takes me by surprise.

  "None. In fact, you're the first person I've met online that I've agreed to meet in person. I'm not going to lie, it's a miracle you actually got me here. I was really skittish at the thought. That website has been less than the treasure trove of eligible men that they advertise. I mean, you could be an axe murderer."

  "It's a well-known fact that axe-murderers are brunch-averse," he replies, wiggling his eyebrows. "They only come out at dinner time."

  Choking slightly on my champagne, I straighten as the waiter steps between us to take our drink order. "I'd love a cappuccino with almond milk."

  I'm surprised when Cliff orders tea.

  "That's very British of you."

  "Thank you, I think. Or are you one of those coffee snobs who believe tea is for weaklings?"

  "Not at all, I like them both in their place. I just consider tea to be more civilized. It's rare to find guys who prefer tea over coffee. As a closet Anglophile, I just find it intriguing."

  "Oh, my mother will love you. She's a Brit. Really, she was born there and spent most of her adult life here, but it still leaks out occasionally."

  "Really? In what way?"

  We're interrupted by two plates sliding across the counter toward us. I glance up in surprise to the rakish smile of Mark Isaacs as he flashes bright white teeth my way, before reaching across the counter to shake hands with Cliff.

  "Yes, please tell us, Heathcliff."

  I know I'm staring, but it's not often that you get to meet one of the city's best chefs in person. He's a culinary god, having worked for some of the best restaurants in the country before settling in Philly, and he's very easy on the eyes.

  Average height for a guy, he can't be more than six feet tall, with a wiry build that reminds you of a soccer player or runner. Curly dark hair is pulled back into a messy knot that looks sexy rather than feminine, while dark stubble gives him a dissolute, dangerous look.

  "Thanks, Mark. I'll remember that."

  Cliff throws a mock punch his way as Mark holds both hands up in surrender.

  "Just trying to keep you honest in front of the ladies, Heath!" he mocks.

  Pulling my fascinated stare away from Mark, I look at Cliff in surprise."Heath?"

  "Heathcliff. I told you my mother lets her British side dominate at the worst times. Her fascination with Wuthering Heights was inconvenient to say the least."

  I can't hold back the laugh that escapes.

  "That must have been hell growing up. Please tell me it was shortened to Cliff before you went to school?"

  Ruefully, Cliff shakes his head at me. "I wish. My mother always insisted on calling me Heathcliff. The kids at school liked to call me 'fat cat.'"

  "Fat cat? I don't… Ohhhhh…" I try to keep a straight face, until Mark snorts.

  “I swear that's why he became a vet." Our eyes meet, dancing in shared laughter, while Cliff looks pained.

  "Thanks, Mark. Just keep driving that knife deeper, and you're going to find some pet mice in your kitchen one day. Ignore him, please. Everybody else does."

  Glancing down at the plate before me, a small moan of appreciation escapes at the sight of a poached egg tucked into a delicate cup of what appears to be crisp prosciutto. Small dots of black caviar crown the surface, while long fingers of toasted sourdough flank the sides of the plate like soldiers. Distracted by the perfectly cooked egg in front of me, it takes a moment for me to realize that both men are now staring at me in fascination.

  "Have you ever heard such a sexy sound before?" Mark asks Cliff as he waits for me to break the yolk.

  Suddenly self-conscious, I pause as a look passes between them.

  "Ummm…what? Why are you both staring at me that way? Please don't ruin this beautiful moment." At their puzzled look, I continue, "You're making me self-conscious. My egg and I would like to be alone now, please."

  Ignoring them, I break the yolk, dipping a piece of crisp sourdough into the runny, golden goodness and groan again.

  "Well I'll be damned, a woman who eats. Hold on, gorgeous, I can do better. Great find, bro!"

  Fist bumping Cliff, Mark heads back into the kitchen, allowing us to rebuild the bubble of intimacy.

  "Wow, this is amazing. How did you and Mark meet?"

  Breaking his own egg, Cliff takes a bite before replying.

  "We met through Shana. She's Mark's sister."

  Surprised, I glance back to the hostess and realize we're being scrutinized again—or maybe still.

  "Did you and Shana date?" The twinge of insecurity rears its ugly head again.

  "No, my wife."

  "Hold on. Mark dated your wife?"

  That's pretty progressive, hanging out with someone who dated your wife.

  "No, Shana dated my wife. Rather, my wife left me for Shana."

&n
bsp; Stunned silence blankets the space between us as my mind tries to catch up to the information I've just been given, while Cliff patiently eats and waits.

  "Your wife left you for another woman." Ok, stop stating the obvious.

  At Cliff's nod, I try to frame another sentence, and finally just shrug helplessly and fall silent until Cliff takes pity on me.

  "Lori and I were happy in the beginning, but a couple years after Tracey was born, something was just off. We hung in there, thinking that maybe it was just the change of having a kid monopolize our lives, but kind of started drifting apart. I could feel Lori pulling away, but I didn't know how to stop it." Taking a deep breath, Cliff continues, "One day, she asked me to meet her here for lunch and introduced me to Shana. They told me they were a couple and she wanted a divorce."

  "I'm assuming you were surprised?" I try to keep my voice matter of fact at his revelations.

  "Yes and no. We hadn't had sex in I don't know how long. Obviously, something was broken in our relationship. On one hand, it's good to know that, under those circumstances, there's nothing you could have done to fix it." Looking a bit sheepish, he admits, "On the other hand, it's a little hard on your masculinity to find out your wife is leaving you for a woman."

  I bite my lip and nod in sympathy.

  "Yeah, I guess that could be a little rough on the self-esteem. Although, I imagine it hurts to find out you're being cheated on, whether it's with a man or a woman."

  Cliff's eyes drift to my neck again, and I wonder why my necklace is so fascinating to him.

  "At any rate, Mark was here that night and got wind of what was going on. He introduced himself, told his sister she was an ass for ambushing me in a public place, and dragged me to the bar where he proceeded to get me drunk. It turns out we're both Eagles fans and like a lot of the same stuff, so we started hanging out."

  "How long have you been divorced?"

  "About four years now. Shana and Lori live here in the city. Tracey goes back and forth between us. She likes Shana, and Mark has become like an uncle to her." Shrugging, Cliff admits, "Somehow it all works. But Shana and Lori are fixated on me finding a girlfriend, and since I'm afraid of the women they send my way, I figured I better step up my game and find myself the right girl. That means," he gestures as if pounding piano keys, "duh duh duhhhh…dating sites."

  Stunned, I just gaze at him until another plate slides in front of me, this time filled with French toast stuffed with fresh raspberries and mascarpone cheese. Chocolate drizzles streak across the plate, while powdered sugar stenciled in the shape of small hearts frame the border. Glancing up, I catch Mark's gaze deep inside the kitchen where he converses with one of his staff, flashing a wink at me before moving out of view.

  "I don't quite know what to say." I turn back to Cliff, who has started on his French toast in obvious enjoyment.

  "You don't have to say anything. I just wanted you to know where I was coming from and maybe why I'm a little gun-shy about wanting to know that if I'm with a woman, that she really wants to be with me." His eyes drift to my neck again. "No pressure. I just thought I'd lay everything on the table and get it over with. Feel free to ask me anything."

  I'm charmed by his openness and decide to relax and play along.

  "Anything?"

  At his wary nod, I smile.

  "Can I call you Heath?"

  Chapter 6

  Who's the Vampire?

  There's something about caffeine, bacon, and good conversation that sparks all the pleasure endorphins through my body. It sounds impossibly lame, like I must be truly deprived if that's all it takes to make me happy, but I'm pretty low maintenance. Emma always tells me that I don't expect enough from people or life, but I hate games—and the people who make it their mission to make every relationship a mindfuck. Drama is great for books and movies, but it makes life unnecessarily complicated.

  Heath's openness is refreshing. After breaking the ice, conversation has been lighthearted and pleasant for the rest of the meal. I've enjoyed his funny animal stories, and he got a good laugh over Kenzie's RBF affliction.

  The one thing I haven't brought up is my writing—it's still too new for me to want to open the topic to scrutiny. If we meet again, I might get up the courage, but for now, it's my most closely held secret. No one ever wants to have to justify their lack of success while trying to build an empire…well, maybe more of a niche than an empire… Hell, I'd settle for a burrow at this point.

  My only regret is that I never got to say goodbye to Mark and thank him for the fantastic meal. After eight courses of ridiculously rich and decadent takes on my favorite brunch dishes, I push back from the counter with a contented groan, ready for a long nap.

  Getting back here for dinner one day just moved to the top of my bucket list, and not just because the chef is yummy to look at, although it certainly doesn't hurt. Guiltily pushing that thought aside, I focus on Heath as we emerge into the muggy sunlight to say our goodbyes. Inevitably, this is where it always gets awkward.

  "So, was it worth the hiccup in your day?" Small lines crinkle at the corner of Heath's eyes while his bald scalp shines even brighter in the sunlight.

  "It was. Please thank Mark for the amazing meal, especially since he didn't allow us to pay for it. I'm not used to being spoiled this way." If only he knew how rarely my budget allows any type of splurging these days.

  "He enjoyed showing off for you. Maybe a little too much." A mocking smile accompanies Heath's words. "I might have to take you to a different restaurant when we meet for dinner…if you'd like to try this again sometime?"

  "I believe that I would, although I'm sure that I can restrain myself from flinging my body across the counter at Mark."

  Can I? Of course I can, especially since he didn't indicate any particular interest in me—unless you count mind-blowing foodgasms as flirting. Well, maybe there was a little flirting, but guys like him can't help it. It's their natural default.

  "It was really nice of him to let us sit at the tasting counter. I feel incredibly spoiled by such extravagance. I'm not sure sitting at a regular table will ever suffice again." I continue with a heavy sigh, "Although, I'm sure we'll manage."

  "Ok, then I'll call you to set something up. Josie…" I'm surprised at his hesitation, that's never a good sign. Is this where I get ghosted? Then why did he even ask about dinner? "I have no problem dating multiple people, I just like to be upfront about it. I think it's healthier if everyone goes into a potential relationship with the right expectations. Do you know what I mean?"

  Slightly mystified, I nod, even though I really have no idea where he's going with this.

  "So, you just want me to know that you're testing the waters with other women right now, and that I'm not necessarily the only woman that you're dating?"

  "No!" It's evident by his frustration that I'm missing something here. "I want you to know that you can tell me if you're seeing someone else in addition to me. That I would prefer to know."

  "Oh. Okay, I'll be sure to let you know if I go out on a date with anyone else." Now I'm just amused, since he's been the first date I've had in months since the Peter debacle. "Is that single dates, or if I end up going out with someone more than once, signifying that there's potential interest?"

  "You know what, never mind. Forget that I mentioned it." Leaning down, he drops a quick kiss on my cheek, his thumb brushing over my collarbone lightly as he lifts his hand from my shoulder.

  "I'll call you."

  His lanky body strides down the street in the opposite direction as I admire his long legs. Really, for an average guy, he's got a nice frame. He moves smoothly, his back and shoulders are broad enough to set off his waist, but he doesn't look like he spends hours in the gym. I watch as two women walking my way glance over their shoulders at him, and wonder if they were caught in the net of his friendly smile or just like a tall guy with a bald head the way I do.

  Maybe there's an opportunity here after all. Glancing at m
y phone, I'm shocked to realize three and a half hours have passed. Kicking myself for my lack of discipline, I head home, thinking about how many words didn't get written in that time.

  * * *

  "I thought you were staying in to write last night?" Emma's look of surprise turns suspicious. "Who's the vampire?"

  "What?"

  Damnit, I really need to oil the lock on my front door. I'm too distracted by my harried jiggling of my key in the lock to pay any attention to Emma as I kick at my door in disgust before finally hearing the lock click open.

  "How did you know I was just getting home?" Throwing myself on the couch with a groan, I feel the need to gloat just a little. "I went to brunch with Heath at Lulu's." A smug smile tilts my lips. "I got to sit at the chef's table, and..." Yes, I am that theatrical. "I got to meet Mark Isaacs!"

  Emma's look is pure envy as she flounces down next to me on the couch.

  "Bitch! Get out! How did that happen? And who is Heath? Is he the vampire?"

  "Heath is Cliff. It turns out his full name is Heathcliff."

  "Like the cat? There's really a veterinarian named after a cartoon cat?" A deep eye roll accompanies Emma's words. "His parents must really hate him. Why didn't they just call him Doolittle?"

  "His mother is British. I'm assuming it's a cultural thing. Although, he did seem a little salty about it."

  "Damn, how did you get a seat at the chef's table? He must have really wanted to impress you. Sounds like he could be a keeper. I mean, a girl's gotta eat—it might as well be gourmet. Although, judging by his vampire tendencies, it looks like he was hungry, too. Was that from last night, or did you go back to his place this morning?"

  "What the hell are you talking about? Why are you fixated on vampires today? Have you been reading too much LKH again?"

  "I'm talking about the large love bite on your neck. I'm assuming that if he wasn't the one who gave it to you, you would have at least tried to cover it up with makeup. It's not like you to make quite such a public statement."

  Mystified, I stare at Emma until, aghast, I slap a hand over my collarbone and leap from the couch to the closest mirror over my desk.