by Carol Snow
“What if he came with you?”
“Then I’d . . . I’d think about it.”
The waitress came and opened the champagne. Jimmy kept his eyes on me. My whole body felt hot. My heart raced.
When the waitress left, Jimmy held up his glass. “To the future. Whatever it holds.”
I gulped some champagne to give me courage. “Could you move your business to Maui?” I asked as casually as I could manage.
He shrugged. “Probably. Or maybe I’d just—I don’t know. The business takes so much out of me, I’m starting to wonder if it’s worth it.”
“But it’s your dream,” I said, feeling oddly alarmed.
He shrugged. “It was. But . . . what’s wrong with just being a waiter? With just enjoying every day as it comes?”
“Nothing,” I said, my voice cracking slightly.
“And you could get a job in a kitchen,” he said, leaning forward. “I mean, you’re a really good cook.”
“I—couldn’t see that.” I drained my champagne.
“Why not?”
I poured myself another glass of champagne and topped off Jimmy’s. “The hours would get to me. The pace. I like quiet evenings.” Wow: could I sound any more boring? The real reason I liked quiet evenings was that I had such busy days. In my job. My real job. That I had worked ten years to achieve.
“You could open a bakery, then,” he said. “Hasn’t that always been your dream?”
“No,” I said. “But it’s something to think about.” I thought about it: it sounded awful.
We ordered our food: scallop ceviche, pork with pineapple, mahimahi. The sun turned red and slipped below the horizon. The cruise ship lit up like a Christmas tree. Jimmy and I stopped talking about moving to Maui—but I didn’t stop thinking about it. Maybe Jimmy was right. Maybe we should forget ambition, seize the day, catch the wave. We could live in a little house and have children who ran naked on the beach. The more champagne I drank, the better I liked the idea. I could work in a restaurant kitchen, chopping lettuce, breading fish. Sure, why not?
By the end of the meal, Jimmy and I had scooted our chairs next to each other so that we were both staring out at the ocean. I leaned my head against his shoulder. I felt pleasantly fuzzy all over. We drank coffee, trying to sober up for the drive back to the condo.
When the waitress brought the bill, I reached for it out of habit, but Jimmy stopped my hand. “This one’s on me.”
“You sure?”
“Business has been good lately. Really good. Plus, I think I just got a new account today.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his worn blue canvas wallet. He slipped out a credit card and dropped it on the bill without even checking the total. “From now on, I pay the bills.”
I blinked at him and smiled, not knowing what to say. An hour earlier, he was ready to ditch his career and become a waiter on Maui. Now he was embracing the idea of himself as a thriving businessman. I wanted to love him either way, to say that I’d follow him to the ends of the earth no matter what path he chose, but I had to admit: I liked the ambitious Jimmy better than the slacker Jimmy.
The waitress whisked away the bill. Jimmy put his arm around me. He smelled like coconut mixed with lemon.
“I could get used to this,” I said.
“I’m already used to it,” he said.
The waitress reappeared. She cleared her throat. “Uh, sir?”
“Mm?” Jimmy turned around. The waitress looked apprehensive.
“Your Visa? It, uh, wasn’t accepted. Do you have another card I could put this on?”
Suddenly we were both sober. Jimmy reached for his wallet and then stopped. “I don’t—I mean, not with me. It’s back at the hotel. I’ve got some cash but probably not enough.” His voice cracked. He blinked furiously.
“It’s okay,” I said, reaching behind my chair for my purse. “I’ve got it.”
“I didn’t want you to,” Jimmy said.
“It’s no big deal,” I said. “You get the next one.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled.
We were quiet on the ride back to the condo—not a comfortable silence, but an awkward “are we still friends?” stillness.
“I’ve been putting a lot of business expenses on my card,” Jimmy said, his eyes on the road. “Must have exceeded my limit.”
“It happens,” I said casually. “No biggie. You’ve got another card, you said.”
“Right,” he said. “Except the thing is, that one . . . I know I’ve already hit my limit. I just got some new office furniture—Ana’s desk was a piece of crap, and Scott’s got a bad back, he needed one of those ergonomic chairs. I probably should have waited, but I like to treat my employees right.”
“You’re better to your employees than you are to yourself,” I murmured.
“Is that bad?”
“No, it’s good. It’s why I—it’s what makes you the person you are.” Suddenly I wanted to make him feel better. “Tell you what. Tomorrow I’ll cook dinner. Fish, maybe. We don’t need any fancy restaurants. I mean, we’re in Maui. What else could we possibly need?”
Chapter 6
As I once told anyone who would listen, I met Jimmy on a blind date . . . with someone else. That is the punch line. Let us now pause to chuckle.
Technically, it wasn’t really a blind date, at least not in the traditional sense. I met Geoffrey on MySpace. And yes, that’s Geoffrey with a G. His MySpace tagline was “Geoffrey with a G!” The first time he called me, he said, “Hi, this is Geoffrey with a G.” Actually, that’s what he said every time we talked.
I posted a MySpace profile because it seemed less desperate than joining any of the traditional Internet dating services. Designing my profile was kind of fun. I chose a background picture of a tropical island (ironic, in retrospect) and uploaded a fuzzy photo of myself laughing at the company picnic.
The lead-up to my date with Geoffrey started as these things do: with a friend request (from him) and a few perky messages.
Hey, neighbor! I saw you live in Brea. I’m down here in Orange. I love the beach, too. Don’t get down there enough, though. Maybe we can go together some time. LOL. Drop me a line.
-- Geoffrey w/a G.
Hi, Geoffrey with a G!
Thanks for the friend request.
-- Jane with a J
Jane with a J—LOL, that’s really funny. Do you like living in Brea? I go to the Improv there sometimes.
-- G. w/a G
GG,
Love the Improv. The Square in Orange is nice, too.
-- JJ
Inspired? Hardly. But you have to appreciate the context. The only other guys who contacted me wrote stuff like, Hey their pretty lady, I’m Dan 36 Riverside, new in town and looking to make friends, Id like meet you sometime, lets talk.
Geoffrey’s profile photo looked like a passport picture (and maybe was): button-up white shirt; short, dark hair combed a little too severely; an awkward, squinty smile. He was thirty-five years old, a college-educated Californian, an IT manager. Status: single. Children: someday. Here for: friends.
After a week of witty MySpace repartee (The Office is good, but nothing compares to early Seinfeld), we progressed to the next stage of modern relationships: we exchanged e-mail addresses. Things moved quickly from there: work, cell, and home numbers; last names.
I suggested meeting at a restaurant in Laguna Beach. The traffic was minimal for once, leaving me forty-five minutes to kill before our seven o’clock reservation. After handing my car over to the valet, I wandered down the street before pulling off my sandals and stepping onto the beach. The air was cooling down, but the sand still held some of the day’s warmth. A little girl with blond pigtails chased the waves like a sandpiper. The sun was slipping in the sky, giving everything this golden glow.
When I checked my watch, I was amazed to see that it was seven o’clock: time for our dinner reservation. It was one of the few times in my life when I actually lost track of ti
me.
I raced back toward the street, hastily rubbed the sand off my feet, and slipped on my sandals. If I’d had a few extra minutes, I would have darted into the ladies’ room to comb my hair. Instead, I just ran a few fingers through it, enjoying the feeling of being sandy and windblown.
Had Geoffrey been the first man I’d come across in that sunset-addled state, I might very well have fallen in love with him. But the first man I saw was the waiter. He had shaggy, streaky blond hair, slim hips, a cat’s grace. A white scar, around an inch long, ran along his jawline. Like the rest of the staff, he wore a white button-down shirt and black trousers.
The hostess was away from the stand, so I gave the waiter my name. He smiled in delight as if I had said “Cinderella” instead of “Jane” and led me to my table. Just when I should have been thinking, I can’t wait to meet Geoffrey, my eyes wandered down the waiter’s body and I thought, Nice butt.
Geoffrey didn’t stand up when I got to the table. I’m hardly old-fashioned, but it bugged me. It was basic manners. Besides, I wanted to see how tall he was.
“Geoffrey,” I said.
“With a G.” He smiled. Sort of. I mean, his mouth turned up and his eyes scrunched, but more like he was squinting than smiling.
“Yes,” I said. “Always with a G.” Without thinking, I glanced around for our waiter. He was taking an order at the next table, his back to us. Nice butt.
I pulled out my chair. Geoffrey had taken the seat with the better view. The sun hung near the edge of the horizon like an orange balloon.
“This is gorgeous,” I said.
“Long drive,” Geoffrey said.
I took a deep breath and turned my full attention to him. There were no terrible surprises here, really. Unlike some other guys I’d gone out with, Geoffrey looked like his picture. Actually, he looked exactly like his picture, down to the white shirt and the squint.
“Can I get you folks something to drink?” I looked up to find the waiter smiling at me—just me, as if Geoffrey weren’t even there. The sunset cast its glow on his tanned skin.
A smile spread over my face. “Yes,” I said. “Please.”
“I’ll just have water,” Geoffrey said.
“And for you?” The waiter’s eyes never left my face.
“Wine,” I said. “Chardonnay.”
“Small, medium, or large?”
I laughed. “Extra large. Super Gulp.”
At the next table, a man and woman were so intent on their conversation that their foreheads practically touched over their place settings. The man was silver-haired, fit but weathered, wearing a coat and tie. She had voluminous blond tresses and impossibly large breasts on a ridiculously skinny frame: an Orange County chiropractor’s dream. I wanted to catch Geoffrey’s eye, to whisper, “Isn’t it nice of that man to take his niece out to dinner?” But he was busy studying his menu.
“Anything look good?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Expensive.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, you pay for the view.” Outside, the sun had finally slipped beyond the edge of the earth, casting a rosy glow over the clouds and the sea. (I’ll say this for the California smog: it really pumps up the pinks and purples.)
“How’s work?” I asked.
“Okay,” he said without looking up.
At the next table, the waiter (my waiter) brought over a champagne bottle and silver bucket for the May-December (March-December?) couple.
“Did you finish that project you were telling me about?” I asked.
His head still bent down, he held up an index finger as if to say, Wait a minute. Next to us, the champagne cork came out with a satisfying pop.
“Because you said that there might be an extension,” I blabbered on. “Though an extension can be good or bad. I mean, sometimes a deadline is nice, even if you’re buried for a while, because it just forces you to finish what you’re doing.”
His head popped up from the menu. “I can’t read and talk at the same time.”
I smiled, thinking he meant that as an apology, expecting him to give me his full attention. Instead, he tightened his lips and resumed his menu meditation.
On the beach, there was no sign of the little girl with the blond pigtails. A couple strolled by, holding hands. How nice it must be to enjoy this setting with someone you loved. Or even liked.
“Chardonnay?” The waiter was standing over me. Looking at me. He placed a balloon glass, filled high, on the table.
“Wow, you really did bring me the Super Gulp.”
“I asked for water?” Geoffrey said.
“The busboy will bring waters,” the waiter said. He pulled a pen from behind his ear and did a quick flick of the head to get his streaky blond hair out of his light eyes. It was hard not to stare at him.
“I’ll have the strip steak. Medium well.” Geoffrey closed his menu with a snap and held it out.
“Anything to start? Salad, appetizer?”
“No.”
The waiter turned to me, his eyes crinkling. “What would you like?”
I looked at him helplessly. “I haven’t even looked at the menu.”
“You want me to come back?”
“No!” I didn’t know what seemed more unbearable: the thought of him walking away or the idea of spending that much more time alone with Geoffrey. “Do you have any suggestions?”
“You mean—for food?”
I stared at him (which was acceptable because he was talking to me). Did he mean—? His blue eyes twinkled. Yes, of course that’s what he meant. “What do you think I’d like?” I asked.
He tilted his head to one side, studying me. I looked good that night, which is to say I didn’t look like my usual self. I wore a blue batik-print halter dress and long dangling earrings. Bronzing powder gave the illusion that I spent my days outside rather than under fluorescent lights. My lip gloss was fresh and shiny. And my hair, of course, was windblown.
“How about if I just surprise you?” he said finally.
I nodded and made an embarrassing little mewing sound.
A short while later, as I was silently finishing up an ahi appetizer (Geoffrey and I had given up on conversation), the waiter came over, looking concerned. “Sir, what kind of automobile do you drive?”
Geoffrey paused for a moment, as if this were a trick question, before answering. “Ford Explorer.”
“What color is it?”
“Dark blue.”
The waiter nodded. “You left your lights on. The valet wanted us to ask around.”
“The lights turn on and off automatically,” Geoffrey said.
The waiter shrugged. “All I know is what they tell me.”
Geoffrey stood up with an irritated grunt and dropped his napkin on the table. (He was about five foot ten, I was finally able to discern, with a small roll of fat near his belt.) “Do you mind?” he asked me.
“No, of course not!” I said, astonished that he had finally shown some manners.
“Can I take your plate?” the waiter asked me as Geoffrey walked out the door.
“Sure.” I leaned back to allow him more room.
He stood there for a moment, just holding the plate. “Do you have any plans later?” he asked.
“Later—when?”
“After I get off of work. Say, ten o’clock?”
I checked the doorway: no sign of Geoffrey. “Where should I meet you?”
“How about the beach out front.” He gestured outside with his chin.
We locked eyes. “There wasn’t really a problem with his car, was there?”
“What car?” he asked.
It was almost ten-thirty by the time he showed up, sauntering down the beach with a bottle in his hand. He plopped down on the sand, handed me the open bottle, and reached forward to roll up his black trouser legs. “We’re going to have to make this quick. I’ve got another customer meeting me here at eleven.”
“It’s just as well,” I said. “I had another waiter here
at nine-thirty, and I’m beat.”
He looked up at me, surprised, and laughed. Then he leaned over and kissed me. He tasted like dinner mints.
“I don’t even know your name,” I said.
“Jimmy. Jimmy James.”
“Your parents named you James James?”
He grinned. “My first name is really Michael. But no one calls me that except my mother.”
“I’m Jane Shea,” I said, holding out a hand.
“Yes, I know.” The reservation had been under my name. He took my hand and pulled me close for another, longer kiss.
When he released me, I peered at the champagne bottle. “Dom Pérignon? Nice.”
“Mr. Robertson’s date didn’t like champagne,” he said. “But she didn’t say so until after I’d opened the bottle. They were at the table next to you—old dude, young chick.”
“Oh, yes.” Now I could say the thing I’d thought while sitting across from humorless Geoffrey. “I figured she was his niece. His very favorite niece.”
In the middle of a swig, Jimmy choked on the champagne and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Mr. Robertson has a lot of favorite nieces.” He passed me the bottle.
I held it up. “Here’s to Mr. Robertson’s latest niece.” I took a long drink. It tickled my nose. “Are all of them that well-endowed?”
“Oh, yeah. The more silicon, the better,” he said.
He meant silicone. For some reason, the error seemed cute.
“You probably see a lot of interesting stuff in your job,” I said.
He made a dismissive wave with his hand. “Oh, this isn’t my real job.”
“It isn’t?” I tried not to sound hopeful. (I sounded hopeful.)
He leaned back on his elbows. “I’ve got my own business—designer wetsuits. It’s still in the start-up phase, though, so I took this restaurant gig to make ends meet.”
I checked his face in the moonlight, tried to guess his age. Twenty-seven? Thirty-seven? Either would put him within five years of me, a respectable age difference. Not that it mattered, I reminded myself: I was only having a fun conversation on the beach with a very handsome stranger.