“It isn’t. However, you might as well come along with us to the bakery tomorrow to taste wedding cakes. I’m pretty sure your expert sweet tooth will be of value.”
“Yay!” Elliott turned to go back to his desk, then turned back.
“Say, can I bring—”
“No!” I practically shouted.
“What? You didn’t even let me finish!”
“I know exactly what you were going to say. You want to bring your latest bro-mance buddy, Cam Grayson. The last person I want there is him.”
“Sheesh!” Elliott backed away.
Natalie glanced after him, shaking her head.
“Come on, Ali, that was a bit harsh. What difference does it make if Cam comes along?”
“On my date? Seriously? Do you hear how that sounds?”
“But Elliott and I will be there. What’s the diff?”
“It’s a big diff,” I said. Natalie stared at me waiting for more. “I just don’t have to explain it to you two if you can’t understand it.”
I moved off in a huff toward the break room to get a cup of tea.
“Fine.” Natalie called after me. “Just let me say I’m thrilled to have been included on such an exclusive list—TO A PUBLIC VENUE.”
“Well, here we go, daddy-o,” said Natalie, as we descended the stairs into Joe’s Place.
I turned back to her and pointed my finger to admonish her. “Come on, enough with the beatnik references.”
It wasn’t enough that she had dressed head to toe in black and had gone so far as to wind her hair into a coiled braid on top of her head. She had also thrown on a poncho—and that was what she had worn all day, even to the bakery to taste the cakes.
“Can’t help it,” she giggled. “I think I’m still on a sugar high.”
“I know. Those cakes were amazing!” We had tasted every combination, from chocolate truffle espresso layered with rich fudge ganache to vanilla layered with a heavenly violet mousse. Natalie and Sam had finally decided on a towering cake with layers of decadent chocolate filled with hazelnut mousse, alternating with mango sponge filled with orange marmalade, and topped with one final layer of Sam’s favorite red velvet. The cake itself was tiered in such a way that it resembled something out of a Dr. Suess book, with each tier slightly askew and the fondant icing done in bold colors that matched her attendants’ dresses. The entire creation would be topped with the bride’s and groom’s initials in rhinestones in an intricate design done by Elliott on the spot at the bakery. Natalie might have been giving in to her mother’s wish for a “traditional” cake, but the presentation itself was going to scream “Natalie”!
“Elliott, thanks for the idea of having individual cupcakes made for the guests to take home. That was brilliant,” said Natalie.
“No problem. It was just greediness on my part. I wanted more cake!” he grinned. He had refrained from going full beatnik in his attire this evening, settling for a black turtleneck and jeans. I didn’t want either of them to think they had gotten to me, so I compromised my outfit of black leggings and black sweater by finishing with my favorite olive-green boots.
We entered the club, and indeed it felt as if we’d stepped back a few decades. Rich leather banquettes lined the walls. Well-worn, sturdy, small tables set with dim candles filled the center of the room. The bar itself was massive, and was framed with autographed photos and posters of jazz greats.
“See, not beatniks. JAZZ artists,” I pointed out.
“Say what you will,” said Elliott. “My money is on some skinny chick reciting free verse for two hours at some point in the night.”
I swatted him on the back of the head and moved to a small table—tripped over a small table would be more accurate. Wow, it was really dark in here.
We sat, and a server appeared. I looked to see if she seemed preserved in time along with the bar. But when she started to speak, I could tell she was no older than me, probably a grad student working her way through school.
“Like … what do you guys want?”
We placed our beer and wine orders, and Natalie could barely contain herself as the server walked away.
“Like, um, like, you guys …” She started in her best Valley Girl imitation.
“Stop it, Dame Natalie. Not everyone is as sophisticated as you apparently think you are.” I shook my head.
“It’s not that,” said Natalie. “I just mourn for the lost art of language, that’s all.”
“Aww. Tell us about the good old days, Grandma, when you used to write letters in flowing prose on onionskin with a quill pen,” said Elliott.
Natalie was relentless in her critique of grammar, going so far as, on occasion, to pull a Sharpie out of her purse to correct signage.
“I’m sorry, but you know there is no excuse for putting an apostrophe in the word its when used as a possessive—” she began, jumping to one of her well- worn complaints, before Elliott cut her off.
“Stop! We’re not here for a grammar lesson! We’re here for bigger things. We’re here to pick Alexandria’s date apart, for example.” He looked at me with a sidewise glance.
“Fine,” Natalie sniffed.
“By the way, what music is your man playing?” asked Elliott, looking at the stage set with just a piano at that point. Background music filled the club, old standards of the sort one heard when waiting for a club act.
“I don’t know,” I said looking around. “He didn’t say. He just said he jammed with—” I stopped. “Elliott.”
“What? His friend is named Elliott? That’s funny, I want to meet him, because I don’t know too many people with my name, and I wonder how he dealt with it growing up and all. What?”
He stopped chattering when he noticed that I was not paying attention to him. I turned him to face the bar.
“Your friend, Cameron, is what. I thought I asked you not to invite him here tonight.”
Elliott swiveled back to me.
“But I swear I didn’t! I don’t know how he came here. Maybe he overheard us making plans.”
I searched his face by the light of the candle. Elliott was a prankster, but even he knew when enough was enough. I believed him. But how to explain the presence of the one man who got under my skin so much? Oh rats. He saw us and was coming over to the table.
“Hey guys! What are you doing here?” he asked with a jovial tone, sitting himself next to Elliott.
“Hey, Cam,” Natalie said. “Actually what are YOU doing here? Did someone tell you that we’d be here?”
Cam looked puzzled. “Noo. The owner is a friend of mine. Why, did you think I was following you guys or something?”
He looked at me and could read that I thought exactly that, and stiffened his shoulders.
“I do actually do things that don’t revolve around some of you, you know,” meaning me. “Let me leave you to it. See you in the office.” He stood up and moved to the bar, keeping his back to us.
Elliott and Natalie both looked pointedly at me.
“So where do you think our drinks are?” I wondered aloud.
No answer.
“What? Come on, you guys. Why are you giving me the stinkeye?”
“Oh, no reason,” said Natalie. “It’s just that we think that Cam is a perfectly reasonable person, and we can’t figure out why you treat him like he’s got the plague or something.”
I squirmed in my seat, not really knowing how to answer. Then inspiration struck.
“It’s just that I’m here on a date, if you will, and I don’t want …” Then I faltered.
“Don’t want what?” Their eyes bored into me.
Hmm. What was it that I didn’t want? Was I afraid that he would pick on me? I had grown up with two relentless brothers, so I was immune to being picked on. Plus if I didn’t want a critique of this new fellow, then I certainly didn’t need to bring my surrogate family—Natalie and Elliott—with me tonight. No something was different, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
I gave a surrepti
tious glance toward the bar where he was sitting. He wasn’t in his usual button-down shirt and slacks, but had on a trendy hooded sweater cut on an asymmetric line—looking straight from the runway of Milan—over jeans. It was dark, but when he had been at the table, I saw it closely enough to know that it was the shade of green that brought out the emerald hue of his eyes.
I was starting to give him more thought than I cared to when our server brought our drinks.
“Um, yeah, these are paid for, by, um, that guy, um, Cam?” she said in that way some young women have of making every statement into a question.
“What?” I said, looking directly at him. He raised his glass toward us and turned to talk to the bartender.
“Why?” asked Natalie.
“Um, he, um, like said he was apologizing or something? Um, I don’t, like, know? So, um, I’ll be back later to check on you?” She was off to another table.
“Hmm,” said Elliott.
“Well,” said Natalie.
I tried to focus on my glass of wine, but felt their eyes on me and looked up. “What? Oh, I suppose you guys think I should go invite him over here now.”
“I’m not saying anything,” Natalie became very interested in her glass of wine.
At that moment, Kirk and another man appeared onstage, and I was saved from a response.
“Hey, folks,” he spoke into the microphone as he sat at the piano. “Welcome to Joe’s Place. I’m Kirk, and on the guitar is Duncan, and together we’re DunKirk.”
How corny was that name? Oh well, if that was the worst, then I could deal with it.
It wasn’t.
“We’re going to start with a little tune that I’d like to dedicate to a hot little lady in my life.” I slunk down in my chair. “This reminds me of her.” He put his hand over his brow, searching. Oh no.
“I know she’s out there. So, Alexandria, my lady, this is for you.” My lady? Eek.
They proceeded to “jam,” or what my dad would have called “made a racket,” for fifteen minutes. Now, as I’ve said before, I am open to new forms of music, but this was just plain BAD. At several points, I wanted to walk away, but I was afraid he would quiz me about it later, so I stayed glued to my chair.
Elliott closed his eyes, leaned back his head, and snapped his fingers.
“What are you doing, you oaf?” I yelled in his ear.
“Just gettin’ into it, man.”
I moved my chair a little further from his and turned away. In doing so, I saw that Cam had moved over and was standing behind me. At that moment, I was glad he couldn’t see my face redden. He finished his drink with a smirk on his face, dropped his glass on our table, gave a mock salute, then turned to walk out of the club.
At that moment, I would have so preferred him to have been sitting with us and picking on me. Now I didn’t know what he thought. Or why I cared so much, for that matter.
“Wow.”
“Was that a good ‘wow’ or a bad ‘wow,’ Keira?”
I had recounted the evening in all of its excruciating detail to my best friend the minute I got home. Well, first I kicked off my boots and heated up some leftover Pasta Amatriciana, settled into my comfy chair, and then Skype’d her.
“Just … wow.”
“Thanks so much, Ms. Graham. No wonder you get paid so much for your consulting expertise.”
“Are you through?” Keira asked. “Because I do have a thought about this.”
“Go on.” I chewed.
“Well, I think it was very sweet that he dedicated his, um, music?”—she hesitated—“to you. How do you feel?”
“I feel like an idiot, Keira! Didn’t you hear the end of the story? Not only did that caterwauling go on for what seemed like an eternity, after it was over, he dragged me to my feet.”
“Well, you always have liked to be in the spotlight,” she began.
“Nice try. There’s a difference between being in the spotlight for a … a job well done, or something, and being, oh I don’t know, the proverbial deer in the headlights.”
“You have a point. So what did you do then? What did you say?”
“What could I say? I thanked him, politely of course, and said I had to leave because I had to get up early in the morning, and grabbed Natalie and Elliott and ran.” I dropped my head in my hands and relived it yet again.
“What! Without paying for your drinks?”
“Oh.” My head popped up. “That was handled.”
“Good. At least you didn’t stiff the waitress. Wait a minute, that sounded odd. What do you mean ‘that was handled’?”
I became uncomfortable. “I mean it was handled. We dealt with it. It was paid.”
“What’s up? You know you are so pathetic when you try to hide something. And I can see you, you know. What was it about paying for your drinks? Spill.”
I closed my eyes and told her as quickly as possible.
“CamGraysonwasthereandboughtourdrinks. No big deal, see?”
“What!” she exclaimed. “You didn’t say that Super IT Man was there with you! What did he think of your troubadour?”
“He wasn’t ‘with’ us, Keira. He just happened to be there because his friend owns the club.” How does he have a friend that owns such an eclectic venue, anyway? “And, anyway, Kirk isn’t my troubadour. Stop making him sound like he was dressed in pantaloons and playing a lute.”
“Ooohh. This is more interesting. So your secret crush now knows you have someone in your life.” Keira leaned back on her hotel bed, propped her feet on her desk, ready to dish.
“Keir, we’ve been over this. There is no crush, either way. And he just bought us the drinks because—” Suddenly I didn’t want to share with Keira that I had been a little snippy with Cam because that would just fuel her speculation and, since she could see me, I couldn’t hide my expressions. “Because he wanted to, I guess. In any case, he left before the concert reached its ear-splitting apex and before I had to take a bow, so hopefully I don’t have to avoid him in the hallway at the office to relive my mortification in his eyes.”
“Hmm.” “What?”
“Nothing. Just storing all this knowledge away. Anyway, let’s get back to you and Kirk. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” I scraped the last of the pasta from the bowl and chewed it thoughtfully. “Do you think I should see him again?”
“Oh no. You’re not going to get me to make that decision for you.”
“When have I ever done that? I just want an opinion.”
“I know, sweetie. But I think you know what you’re going to do already, don’t you?”
I sighed. “I’m going to give him another chance. I mean, nothing he’s done has been really bad, right? A girl could do worse than have a guy dedicate a song to her, right?”
“Well, depends on the song. I personally would not want anyone to dedicate ‘The Bitch Is Back’ to me. Sends sort of the wrong message. But I know what you mean,” she finished soothingly.
No, I was not a shallow girl. I would give this guy at least one more shot.
I didn’t have to wait very long before giving Kirk another chance. He called me the next morning.
“So how did you like the jam session, Alexandria?” he asked.
“Well, Kirk, I have to say, I’m thankful that you invited me.” Nonna always said to find the positive in any situation.
“Great! I’m just sorry we couldn’t talk afterward. I’d like to get together soon. Listen, are you busy Friday?”
Unconsciously I looked to see who was around the hallway. Who was I looking for, anyway?
“No. No plans. What are you thinking?”
“Do you like movies?”
A movie. That was always a good judge of compatibility. “That sounds great, Kirk. What should we see?” I pulled up the theater listings on my computer, remembering a new film I had read reviews about in Sunday’s Post that was playing at the Mayan on Broadway. We could have a meal afterward downtown.
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“I was thinking we could go to the Cinema Café over in Lakeview. Have you been there?” He mentioned the name of a popular movie that was playing there.
The Cinema Café? I had gone there with a group from the office many times. The concept was a fun one. Instead of rows of theater seats, there were small tables, and a waitstaff brought pub food—burgers, chicken sandwiches, and the like—right to the tables for patrons to enjoy, in addition to the normal popcorn. It was usually a great time, but one that was more suited to an evening with a crowd of friends than a date. Besides, the food was just average.
Wait. I said I was going to be a little less judgmental, didn’t I? Maybe Kirk just didn’t have the scratch to spring for a nice dinner.
“Alexandria, are you still there?”
“What? Oh yes, just looking at the times.” It wasn’t my ideal date, but maybe I needed to compromise just a bit. One more chance, right? “How about the 7 p.m. show? I’ll meet you in the lobby?”
“Sounds perfect. See you then.”
I hung up and leaned back in my desk chair. Natalie walked into my cubicle and prodded me.
“Come on, girlfriend, time for Making Marketing Magic.”
“What?” I groaned. “Didn’t we just have a 3M meeting two days ago?”
“Yes, but Felicia has increased them to twice weekly, remember?” That was Elliott, kicking my chair.
“What is going on?” I stood and gathered my notepad and pen. “It feels like we’re in trade show mode.”
Something didn’t quite feel right. While we were used to the need to be nimble—after all, high-tech marketing was by definition a moving target—lately we were scrambling even more.
“I dunno,” said Elliott as we reached the conference room and plopped into seats around the large oak table. He glanced out of the floor-to-ceiling windows into the hallway to check for Felicia’s arrival. “Lots of hush-hush meetings down at the other end of the hall,” meaning the executive offices.
“Maybe we’re being bought?” asked Natalie.
“Oh, man, don’t even think it,” Elliott said, shaking his head. A potential buyout last year had sent the entire company into a frenzy. We would never know what caused the negotiations to cease, but the two months during those negotiations were a blur of paperwork and late nights.
Love on the Back Burner Page 10