Dress Rehearsal

by Jennifer O'Connell

  “They didn’t tell me anything, but from the way the kitchen smells, it was obvious you handled the baking.” Her point made, Maria flipped over the list and continued writing. “Just in case you’ve forgotten how to tell time, too, your date is at seven o’clock. That’s when the big hand is on the twelve and the little hand is on the seven.”

  I left Maria alone in the storage room to enjoy her little joke. I may have forgotten to set the timer, but I could still tell time. In just a few hours I’d be meeting Charlie for dinner, and no matter how much Maria made fun of me, it didn’t change the fact that I was about to go on a date.

  Chapter 7

  I jogged the five blocks to the restaurant, not because I was running late but because the skies opened up and unleashed a freezing downpour as soon as I’d stepped out of the boutique. Of course, there wasn’t a cab in sight, so with my chin tucked under my collar I dashed down Newbury Street, trying to avoid the growing puddles and dollops of rain that poured off the roofs of neighboring buildings.

  I noticed Charlie first, and ducked behind a couple waiting at the hostess stand for a table. The cuffs of my wool pants were dotted with splatters of white from the salt on the sidewalk and my formerly stylish high heeled boots were probably dying my toes black as I stood there. There wasn’t much I could do to turn my blonde matted helmet into the carefully coiffed ‘do I’d had going on in the boutique, but I shook my damp hair anyway and hoped Charlie liked the wet look.

  Charlie was meeting me straight from work and he was already standing at the bar holding a half empty martini glass. His suit jacket hung casually over the back of his barstool, and although he still wore his red striped necktie, it hung loosely around his neck. The bartender, a tall thin guy with a shaved head, was doubled over laughing as Charlie animatedly waved his arms in the air, amusing the bartender with a story. Even in his power lawyer uniform, Charlie looked as comfortable as most men did in a baseball cap and a worn pair of jeans.

  “Hello, counselor,” I greeted him, sidling up to the mahogany bar and taking Charlie by surprise.

  “Hey, Lauren.” Charlie set his cocktail on the bar and turned to face me. Although his navy chalk striped pants were still crisp, Charlie’s brown hair was tossled from his story telling.

  “Got caught in the rain, huh?” he asked, helping me off with my soggy coat and shaking it so the last clinging droplets fell to the floor. “Master of the obvious, one of my more lawerly skills.”

  He turned back toward the bartender. “Mel, this is Lauren, the pastry chef I was telling you about.”

  “Hi, Lauren,” Mel smirked and gave Charlie an approving thumbs up, a gesture he didn’t even attempt to hide from my view. “Charlie was just telling me about some of the clients you’ve shared. Sounds like you two have lots of war stories.”

  Charlie ordered me a drink and then excused himself to go check on our table.

  “He’s a good guy, Charlie,” Mel told me, placing a cocktail napkin on the bar before setting my Merlot on top.

  I nodded. “So far I can’t argue with you.”

  Mel set his elbow against the lip on the bar and leaned in toward me. “So, you’re Lauren Gallagher,” he repeated, sounding curious.

  “That’s me.”

  “A lot of your clients come in here after their appointments at your place. You know, people in your line of work are a guy’s worst nightmare,” Mel stated matter of factly.

  He thought people in my line of work were nightmares? Apparently he’d never heard about lecherous bartenders attempting to masquerade receding hairlines with trendy Kojak sleekness.

  “And what line of work is that?”

  “Table’s ready,” Charlie interrupted, pointing to the hostess waiting for us at the front of the restaurant.

  Before he could clarify his statement for me, Mel moved over to the cash register to close out our tab.

  After paying Mel and grabbing his suit coat, Charlie placed his hand on my back and led me to our table. His touch was firm and familiar, and he navigated us through the restaurant as if he owned the place. Sonsie was buzzing with after work activity, professionals who flocked to the European bistro for its renowned martinis and angled for premium seats at the bar. In the summer, the high French doors lining the front of the restaurant were pushed back, transforming the cozy dining room into a sidewalk café, where the classic tunes of Louis Armstrong and Billie holiday floated outside.

  Sitting across from Charlie, I had a hard time picturing him as a divorce attorney. He didn’t seem threatening enough, and he was way too happy. I always thought men who specialized in broken marriages were slick lotharios who console their distraught female clients all the while scheming how to get them into the bed. But with a small scab on the underside of his chin where he’d probably nicked himself while shaving, and his shirt sleeves rolled up exposing a digital Boston Red Sox watch, he didn’t exactly come across as all that menacing a guy.

  “What are you thinking?” I asked, scanning the specials listed on the menu.

  “The cream of winey mushroom soup looks good, but after the day I had the last thing I need is to listen to my food complain.” Charlie drummed his hands on the table like a vaudeville comedian cueing his audience for a laugh. “Ba dum ba.”

  Despite myself, I followed his prompting.

  “Do you use that line on all your dates?”

  “So far you’re the first one, what do you think?”

  “I think there’s a reason lawyers aren’t known for their sense of humor.”

  Charlie dropped his chin into his chest as if he’d been stabbed, and pretended to pull a sword out of his gut. “Ouch, you’re a tough crowd.”

  “Were you expecting a standing ovation?”

  “Nah, maybe just a little audience appreciation.”

  I reached for the small candle in the center of the table and held it in the air like a lighter at a rock concert. Charlie seemed pleased.

  “I’ve got to be honest with you. I’m not even that hungry. I had dinner meetings all last week, and after my carnivorous display at 75 Chestnut last night, I don’t know if I can handle another big meal.”

  I loved 75 Chestnut. Okay, so I’ve never actually been to 75 Chestnut, but I knew I’d love it. A converted townhouse tucked away among the brownstones of Beacon Hill, 75 Chestnut was the perfect romantic restaurant, the kind of intimate setting where a man got on bended knee and a woman said yes. I’ve peeked in the large paned front window, my nose close enough to glimpse the small marigold and jasmine-colored dining room but not so close that they’d chase me away with a bottle of Windex.

  “That’s a pretty nice place to go for a business dinner,” I commented, wondering if the dinner had in fact been business or pleasure.

  “A lot of our client’s like to go there – of course, as long as the firm is paying, any four star restaurant will do. Ever been there?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “You should go, it’s great.”

  “It just doesn’t seem like the kind of place you’d go for an ordinary dinner.”

  “It’s just a meal, Lauren, not a state dinner. Take my advice, don’t wait too long to try it.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “I’m going with the warm pineapple foster,” Charlie declared, replacing the menu in his hand with a full wineglass.

  “Pineapple foster isn’t a meal.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says the people who put it on the dessert section of the menu.”

  Charlie lean in over the table and checked over his shoulders to make sure no one was listening. “If you won’t tell, I won’t tell,” he whispered.

  During my dinner, and Charlie’s dessert, the conversation was easy and rambling. One topic blended into another effortlessly and seamlessly, as if we knew we’d have plenty of time to go back and cover what we’d missed. The first sixty minutes with Charlie were already worlds apart from my last date seven months ago, when a management co
nsultant named Matt spent our entire meal trying to convince me that six sigma quality processes would revolutionize the manufacturing of electrical components. I didn’t bother telling him that the only sigma I was familiar with was a fraternity guy from Dartmouth.

  “So any premarital premonitions today? Clients whose choice of whipped cream ensures an early demise and the filing of joint petitions for dissolution?”

  “No, it was pretty run of the mill. A few brides, a wedding planner who came by to scout some cakes for her clients, that sort of thing. The beginning of the week is usually kind of slow.”

  “Wedding planners – the five star generals in the war between the sexes.”

  “Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. Lots of couples use wedding planners these days, and it makes my life a hell of a lot easier dealing with pros who know the inside scoop on how to get things done.”

  “You’re all like a little secret society, aren’t you?”

  “Being a secret wouldn’t be so good for business, now would it?”

  “Right you are, Ms. Gallagher. And exhibit A would have to be that article in Boston Magazine. Very impressive.”

  “Why thank you Mister Banks, but most of the credit goes to my friend Paige, she knows the publisher.”

  “I never would have thought a bakery was newsworthy. Not that I haven’t been known to have a deep appreciation for a really good Boston Cream Pie”

  “It’s a boutique,” I corrected him.

  “Po-tay-to, po-ta-to – either way they’re still spuds.”

  For a minute Charlie sounded like Maria, and come to think of it they almost shared the same amount of facial hair even if he was much easier on the eyes. Although I always defended our “boutique” status to Maria, the way Charlie put it, I almost agreed with him. I didn’t bother trying to explain the difference. What started out as a marketing concept had mushroomed into a new vocabulary that was quickly picked up by our trendy clients and abhorred by Maria.

  As I sat across from Charlie spooning warm pineapple foster from a deep dished bowl, I was reminded of my dinners with Neil. The dates in between Neil and Charlie had felt more like meetings between prisoners of war, where we shared name, rank and serial number, but not much else during two hours punctuated by uncomfortable pauses and polite murmers of agreement – conversations that moved along barely creating a ripple, like the stones kids skip across the surface of a calm lake.

  Charlie didn’t seem to notice whether or not the waiter approved of his main course of pineapples flambéed with brown sugar and rum, and when he ordered our wine he simply pointed to the wine list and said, “We’ll have a bottle of this,” instead of making a big deal out of perfectly annunciating every syllabol with the appropriate accent. As much as I was enjoying our evening, Charlie’s warm smile and quick laughter made me think I wasn’t the only one.

  “How are thing going for Gwen?” I asked.

  “She’s working through her grief – mostly by working her way through David’s bank account.” Charlie gave me a conspiring wink. “I think she’ll pull through.”

  “So what makes someone become a divorce attorney?”

  “Mostly the glamour, the public adoration and the look of respect on people’s faces when they hear what you do for a living – not to mention the prestige of being on everyone’s most hated list.”

  I laughed. “Divorce attorney’s are right up there with foreign dictators, aren’t they?”

  “On good days,” he pointed out, smiling. “Seriously, my grandfather left my grandmother with four kids to raise, a house that was about to be foreclosed on and forty dollars in the bank. He left a note that said he was going to Texas to seek his fame and fortune as a rodeo star and my grandmother couldn’t do a damn thing about it.”

  Charlie Banks – avenger of assholes and savior to divorced grandmothers everywhere. I loved it.

  “Have I ever heard of him?”

  “Not unless you stopped at his trailer park on your way through Abilene. What about you? Were you one of those little girls who spent hours with her Easy Bake Oven?”

  “I was more into my Snoopy SnoCone machine.”

  “So you didn’t dream of being a pastry chef?”

  I had to think about that one for a minute. The last time I remembered dreaming about being a pastry chef I was signing the lease for the boutique, when I thought my dream was coming true. Funny how a dream can become reality and go from being something you aspired to something that was more like a restless night’s sleep.

  “When I was a kid, I wanted to be a ballerina. You don’t want to be with me at Christmas time when Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker comes over the sound system at Star Market. It’s not pretty.”

  Charlie threw his head back and squinted at me. “Ah, some dreams die hard.”

  When the waiter cleared our plates, Charlie and I ordered some coffee.

  “Dessert?” He offered.

  The lemon crème brulee sounded tempting, but I decided to pass. “I’m stuffed.”

  I almost wished Charlie would order a piece of cake. I wanted to see what he’d choose so I could put my frosting forecasting talent to the ultimate test – my own.

  “Maybe next time,” Charlie suggested.

  “Maybe,” I agreed, not missing the subtle suggestion that there’d be a next time. I couldn’t help smiling as a warm flush spread through my body – or maybe it was the bottle of red we’d finished off.

  “I think it’s only fair to be upfront with you,” Charlie said, taking a sip of his espresso.

  All I could think was oh, no, here it comes. I knew it was too good to be true. This was where he told me that he had a girlfriend or some incurable disease that renders him impotent, or maybe he still lived with his parents and collected Beanie Babies. I knew there had to be a reason Charlie was still single.

  “I know a lot of women see every man as potential marriage material, and I just want you to know that I’m not.”

  “Not what?”

  “Marriage material, at least not any time soon. It’s not that I’m afraid of commitment or anything, but I’ve just seen it go wrong so many times. So, if that’s what you’re looking for, I’m not your man.” Charlie watched me, waiting for a reaction. “Does that bother you?”

  Was he kidding me? I was a college-educated woman, a successful entrepreneur, someone who’d lived on her own for ten years, quite well I might add. Did it bother me? Of course it did!

  I may not buy into the myth of the wedding, but I wasn’t ready to write-off men and marriage like Robin. I’d had a Barbie doll, too. And if Barbie didn’t have Ken, she was simply a camper-driving, ballroom dress-wearing stewardess who came home to an empty townhouse. Even though it was a really cool townhouse, and when Barbie wasn’t tooling around town in her convertible Corvette, she could have Skipper over for an afternoon of hanging out by the pool. When I thought about it in those terms, Barbie actually had it pretty good without Ken, if you didn’t count the small issue of her breasts out-sizing her waist two to one, making it nearly impossible for her to stand up in real life without keeling over.

  I hesitated before answering, taking a sip of my coffee to buy time. If I told Charlie it bothered me, then I’d be as bad as all those women I made fun of, the ones who were taping Tiffany ads to their boyfriends’ bathroom mirrors after the first date. But if I said it didn’t bother me, would I really be telling the truth?

  Years of experience had taught me how to read someone’s choice of cake, but how did I interpret the choice to not have a cake, period? If I had any question about what Charlie saw when he gazed into his own magic eight ball, I’d just received my answer. He saw a lifetime of dating.

  “You’re assuming a lot on a first date. One, that I just want to get married, and two, that I’d even consider you for the position.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Charlie seemed surprised that I’d turned the tables on him, but I also got the feeling that he was glad I didn’t fold ea
sily. “It’s just that I’ve been out with women I really enjoyed and when I wasn’t talking about our joint retirement account on the third date, they acted like I’d led them on or something. I don’t want to chase you away, but I want to be fair with you.” Charlie set his espresso cup on the table and waited for my answer.

  He wanted to be fair with me? His fair was like the warning on a cigarette pack – caution, this relationship may be dangerous to your mental health. And like all those people walking around coughing up their lungs, I was about to throw caution to the wind.

  “I stand forewarned.” I sipped my coffee and let the warm bitter liquid slide down my throat. “So can you elaborate for me? If it’s not commitment you’re afraid of, then why write off every relationship?”

  “It’s just the opposite. I’m not writing off a relationship, I’d love to meet the right person. I just want the relationship to be based on more than just an arbitrary time line we have to meet because the Caribbean is offering great deals on honeymoon packages.”

  I must not have looked convinced.

  Charlie sat back in his chair, clasped his hands together on the table, and tried to put it in terms I could understand.

  “You and I meet two entirely different couples in the course of our day. You see couples on their way into the tunnel, I see them on their way out.”

  “You make it sound like an amusement park ride.”

  “It is in a way, isn’t it? You wait in line together for a roller coaster ride with twists and turns you can only imagine and long straight-aways that can drop off into oblivion before you realize it.”