The Cinderella Project (A Comedy of Love, #1)

by Crowe, Stan

  “Hey, Els. How are you this morning?”

  “Nicky, did you send me flowers?”

  I smiled. “How’d you guess?”

  I could hear her smile. “Oh, Nicky, you didn’t have to do that.”

  Yes, actually, I did, but I played along. “Yeah, well, I was thinking of you and I know I could have handled things better last night.”

  There was the briefest of pauses. “Let’s just forget about that mess, okay?” Her voice had this faux-cheeriness to it and I knew the topic was officially off-limits.

  “Sure, babe. No problem at all. Anyway, how’s your day?”

  She answered and we resumed our usual “engaged couple” small talk for a few minutes. When she seemed sufficiently primed, I made my move.

  “Hey, Ella. I have a little proposition for you. Interested?”

  “What is it, Nicky?”

  “Well,” I said, “when was the last time we hit a black-tie affair?”

  “What are you talking about, Nick?”

  “I’m talking about a formal dinner. My department is inviting students that are nearing graduation to it. It’s got a ‘plus one’ proviso and there’s no one I’d rather go with.” Unexpectedly, an image of Moiré flashed quickly through my head, but I ignored it.

  “Well,” she said, far too hesitantly, “I’m… not really sure what my schedule is like. You really have no idea how much preparation a wedding takes, do you?”

  I grimaced, glad I wasn’t asking her this in person. “Honestly, Els, I can help with the arrangements.”

  “No, no, you’ll just get in the way. Men always do. You just stay put and be sweet and I’ll tell you what to do when I need you, okay?”

  “Fair enough. In any case, I need to R.S.V.P. by Tuesday night. I’ve heard these Department dinners use one of the best catering services around. I’m sure they don’t beat your food, but think of it this way—you’ll still get a good meal and you won’t have to spend a second in the kitchen.”

  “Hmm,” I heard her say.

  “And,” I continued, “there will be a live band and a place for us to cut a rug. Just like when we first met, eh?”

  “Hmmm,” she said again, but I could tell she was teetering towards going.

  “C’mon, Ella—free hot date with your Prince Charming? You’ll even have the chance to doll yourself up. You know how much I enjoy seeing you at your most beautiful. I mean, you almost put me into cardiac arrest that first night we met.”

  I heard a little purr on the line and knew I’d hit the right chord.

  “Which dress should I wear, Nicky?”

  I sighed inside myself. I hated this tactic—corner a guy with unwinnable questions. At least she wasn’t asking me if the dress made her look fat. I could just say, “Wear whatever you think matches your eyes best,” but then she’d accuse me of not caring. If I did name a dress, she’d find all sorts of reasons not to wear it. Either way, it’d be all my fault.

  I thought outside the box. “Go in the buff,” I said, managing not to laugh.

  “NICKY!” She sounded positively appalled and I knew exactly what kind of furious blush would be on her face. It never ceased to amaze me, though, how she could waltz around in next to nothing while at the pool—and in not much more during so many daily activities—and yet she still made a show of being sensitive about her modesty. I knew very well that she was quite aware of how attractive she was. I also knew very well that she had no problem flaunting that attractiveness, especially now that she was “off-limits,” thanks to that fat ring on her left hand. I’d usually just look away from her little sideshows and try to remind myself just how lucky I was that I was the one who had her and leave my thoughts at that.

  When Ella recovered from her shock, she made some quick quip about just choosing her dress herself and that I’d just have to wait for the surprise. To me, that meant she was most likely to just go out and buy another dress so she would have one I hadn’t seen yet. I didn’t tell her how glad I was that she wasn’t spending my money. Then again, I had almost nothing to spend.

  Thus, the date was on and I was in safe territory again. Mission accomplished.

  The work week played out as usual and by the time Friday rolled around I was itching to be back in the field. Monday’s outing in the park had reminded me of how nice it was to work outside the lab. Moiré and I made arrangements to meet at an upscale Italian place early that evening; prime dating time. We would arrive separately, but share a table to make it easy to compare notes.

  Moiré was right on time, as always, dressed much the same as the first time I’d met her. As soon as she noticed me, I nodded and we headed for our “test site.”

  “The trick is,” I said as we approached the restaurant, “we don’t act like we’re on a first date, or like we’re engaged. We act as though we’ve been on a few dates—still a touch nervous or giddy maybe, but not obviously so. Otherwise, we’ll be the ones people are watching, laughing at us behind our backs, making ‘they’re on a first date’ or ‘the honeymoon is right around the corner,’ jokes. Think you can handle that?”

  She grinned wickedly at me. “Nick, I could handle acting like we were an old married couple if you needed me to, but I doubt you’d like the nagging. And I’m sure you don’t want me to stop you from checking out, er, excuse me, ‘observing’ the waitresses.”

  I winced at her directness. I suppose it really was my fault for never bothering to mention I was in committed relationship, just weeks from marriage. I decided that now was not the time to violate the Researcher’s Code, so I let the remark go uncontested.

  I held the door for Moiré. The place awed me with its class every time I came: the wrought, bronze door handles; the imported tile flooring; the rustic Mediterranean chandeliers; full length mirrors in the lobby; the myriad of tasteful accents adorning the place. My nostrils flared automatically at the symphony of smells. I could pick out the fragrance of the fettuccini, the scent of sourdough and the smell of spaghetti bolognese. My mouth watered as I remembered the tastes attached to those smells. This was the kind of place a guy took his girl when he was pretty serious. It was perfect as an observation spot.

  “Nice place,” Moiré murmured as I came up beside her. “I’m not sure my pocket book can take this level of high society.”

  “It’s being covered by the research budget,” I said quietly, not mentioning just how strained that budget was. Three figures for a savings account was never comforting.

  The hostess greeted us. “Two for dinner,” I said. She gestured for us to follow. Getting in character, I placed my hand on the small of Moiré’s back as we were escorted to a small, round table near the far wall of the room. The spot was inconspicuous but had a clear line of sight on the rest of the dining area, perfect for what we were doing. The mountain panorama was breathtaking; we’d be here long enough to catch a good sunset.

  I held Moiré’s chair and she slid in with tremendous grace. It hit me that she may be good at dancing. We started with an asparagus dip that showed up in minutes. We selected entrées and then dug in.

  “So, where are you from,” I began, as I tried making mental notes of the surrounding couples.

  “Slovenia,” she replied simply.

  This is me blinking wordlessly.

  This is her beginning to laugh. “Actually, I’m from a little desert town in southern Nevada,” she said.

  “Oh?” I asked, trying to recover some dignity. “What’s it called?”

  “Las Vegas,” she said, before taking a bite of her dip-covered bread.

  “Yeah… small town,” I muttered.

  “So, how about you,” she asked, when she finished her bite, grinning at me.

  I told her and we took turns laying out our bios for the next in fifteen minutes. We discussed hobbies, favorite books, movies and music, notable experiences, et cetera, until our waitress appeared with our food. We took it gratefully.

  Moiré bit into her angel hair pomodoro and her e
yes grew. “Wow. This is so much better than Jessica had told me. It’s amazing they can get something so simple to taste this good.”

  Fortunately, my crab ravioli was good enough to stall my case of pomodoro envy.

  “Oh, before I forget,” Moiré added, “did I tell you I put in for a department scholarship?”

  “Really? Well, you’re certainly deserving of it. When do you expect to hear back about it?”

  Moiré quirked her mouth. “They weren’t sure. Could be a week, could be a month. Something about determining how many scholarships they could afford.”

  I snorted. “Good luck with that. The department chairs make Ebenezer Scrooge look like a philanthropist.”

  She shook her head. “That’s being a bit harsh. I’ve met some of the chairs and they’re not all terrible.”

  “Maybe I just got lucky.” I only managed half a grin. “Well, again, good luck all the same. I hope you get your money. I know you deserve it if anyone does.”

  A rising murmur from the crowd interrupted my thoughts. Moiré and I glanced over, curious. I realized at once what was happening. A dozen red roses on the table. A bottle of something bubbly and expensive. A guy positioning himself on one knee in front of a girl who looked like she’d just been told it was her turn to leap from the aircraft. His face was plastered with that “I-really-hope-she-says-yes-because-I-already-bought-the-ring,” look. “Start taking notes,” I whispered.

  Moiré nodded, already one step ahead of me. Her countenance radiated that, “Oh my gosh, this is so great!” light that women get during moments like this.

  Like a flock of birds that flies in subconscious coordination, the whole room quieted as the guy dug into the pocket of his suit coat. In a blink, I was a few months in the past. Ella was there on that bench in the garden spot on campus. She had the moon as her halo and the stars in her eyes. We hadn’t known each other long enough for me to know how she liked her toast, but my heart was compelled by a sense of, well, destiny in a way that defied logic. I just knew I wanted to marry her.

  There I was, lifting the little velvet box, opening it with anticipation. She was smiling. So close! I called her by name and asked that timeless question, “Will you marry me?” Without warning, I realized I was staring at Moiré.

  “I’m sorry, Andrew,” I heard. Wait… Andrew? Who? That wasn’t a voice I knew.

  Then I was back in the present, gasping with the rest of the room. Moiré’s hand found my shoulder, but I forced myself to ignore it, instead re-focusing on the unfolding drama.

  “W-what?” the guy asked. He was starting to shake. “You’re sorry for… for what?”

  The girl wore her pain openly. “Andrew, I’m sorry, but… this… all these people?”

  He just knelt there, jaw on the floor.

  “I’m sorry, Andrew,” she said a final time before hurrying out of the room.

  Three, stretched seconds of silence and then he was off after her. “Amanda! Wait!”

  The whole room gawked like idiots, watching his dash for the door. When he was gone, the silence lingered just long enough to come to a boil. Thereupon erupted a hundred hurried whispers.

  “That poor thing,” Moiré said, turning a shocked but sympathetic expression my way.

  I nodded. “Yeah. I feel his pain. It’s like a kick in the crotch.”

  Moiré’s eye showed surprise, but she smiled. “I’ll take your word on that, but I was talking about her.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  Moiré sighed. “But yes, I feel bad for him, too. It’s so hard to come that close to love, only to be blindsided by losing it.” She gazed off at the mountains, a strange sense of longing in her eyes. There was something more behind her words.

  “You’re telling me.” There was more behind my words too. We were both gracious enough not to ask.

  I stole another glance at Moiré. The memory of proposing to Ella played through my mind once more. This time, though, my stupid brain pasted Moiré’s face right over Ella’s. I stopped myself. I didn’t want to even think something unfaithful.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m going to hit the men’s room real quick.”

  I reached for the napkin on my lap, wiped my mouth and stood. As I dropped my napkin behind me, my hand clipped the top of my water glass. It poured its guts all over the table. Instant-fix mode kicked in.

  Grab for my glass.

  Get foot tangled in chair.

  Fall on my own dinner.

  Watch a second glass make a quick dive for the floor.

  Involuntarily (ahem) dive after the glass.

  Yank the tablecloth halfway off the table while Moiré yelps again in surprise.

  It was like living out a really bad screenplay designed to erase a man’s dignity in four seconds flat.

  The restaurant patrons paused for a moment of silence to honor my fallen ego, before breaking into half-muted chuckles. Moiré was hiding her laughter behind her napkin and part of me wanted to go hide somewhere. Life had taught me differently, though.

  “Thank you, folks,” I said, bowing in my most overblown fashion. “I’m here ’til six. I’ll sign your five-by-eight glossies if you’ve got them.” And with that, I walked away to the men’s room with the swagger of a peacock during mating season.

  When I returned to the table, my blood went cold at the sight of a manager who was assisting Moiré in clean up.

  How could I forget that she worked here?

  Vera was flopping my dead ravioli into a limp bag that probably held the rest of my little catastrophe. Moiré was busy wiping water up with one hand, while straightening the tablecloth with her other. They were chatting happily, as if they knew each other.

  I groaned and paced. The best option now was to just wait this out and let Vera walk away. Ella would flay me alive if she even caught a whiff of me being at dinner with another girl. She never understood the fact that my research involved such things, nor did she seem to comprehend that dinner does not equal a date, let alone a proposal of marriage. I scooted quickly back around the corner to the hall for the restrooms and waited. When Vera was out of sight, I waited a few more ticks and then sauntered back to my table. I got a few glances and giggles, but for the most part, the moment had past and people went about dinner as usual.

  “Welcome back, Doctor Cairn.”

  “Thanks.” I smiled. “I just had to wash up after surgery.”

  Moiré frowned. “Well, Doctor, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but… the ravioli didn’t survive the operation.”

  I flipped my smile. “Joy. Time to find a lawyer.”

  A new voice chimed in. “Oh, hey, Nick.”

  Vera. Please no.

  Faking a sudden interest in what was left of my water, I greeted Vera. “Sorry about the mess.”

  Vera’s smile came through in her voice. “No problem. We got it on film; that totally made up for the spill. One of the bus boys was quick enough to get his phone camera out for that, um, proposal thing and I guess it was still running when you decided to put on your own show.” She giggled. “We’ll be laughing about this for a while.”

  I whirled on Vera, “Don’t you dare post that to YouTube!”

  Vera started, “Okay, Nick. I didn’t think you were that sensitive about it. I mean, I could tell Greg to just blur your face out.”

  I sighed. “I’m sorry, Vera. I just don’t want to… upset… anyone who might see that video. You know… um… appearances and, ah, humiliation and all that.”

  Vera’s eyes flitted from me to Moiré and back again and her eyebrows lifted with understanding. “Ah. Gotcha,” she said and made a little zipping motion across her lips. “Trust me, I know what you mean.”

  I exhaled relief. “Thanks, Vera.”

  She patted my shoulder. “So how do you know Moiré?”

  My eyes came up. “You know Moiré?”

  Vera’s mouth opened, but she looked past me and a strange look crossed her face, followed by something resembling compre
hension. She fumbled over a couple of words. I glanced back at Moiré who was sitting there nonchalantly, obviously waiting for an answer. My “suspicious meter” chirped, but I let it go.

  “Moiré and I have a… mutual acquaintance,” Vera drawled. “Friend of a friend thing.”

  “Ah.” She was going to keep my secret, so I wouldn’t press her about hers.

  “Anyway, I’ll have a new bowl of ravioli brought out in a minute. It’s on the house. Enjoy your dinner! I’ll see you later!”

  We waved in parting and Vera was gone. Bullet dodged.

  Moiré touched my arm. “I’ll keep your dirty little secrets safe too, Doctor.”

  That’s right—Moiré had seen the whole thing. And she knew Vera. The odds that this whole evening would blow up in my face were far higher than I was comfortable with. The girls had given me promises; I’d have to trust that was enough. Then again….

  “Not good enough. I need a blood oath,” I said, pasting on my “deathly serious” look. “You’ll need to give me your first child.”

  Bemused, surprise played across her face. “Well, Doctor, I wasn’t taking applicants, but I suppose you’re not sufficiently hideous to turn away without consideration.”

  She couldn’t have stopped me any better with a Taser.

  “But you know, that’s moving a bit fast for a first, excuse me, third date, isn’t it?”

  This chick needed to do Hollywood.

  “Suddenly, I’m not so hungry anymore,” I said. “We can get you some dessert if you want it.”

  She smiled. “No thanks. I can pick up a tiramisu any time. We should probably give you the chance to properly clean up. I don’t think we’re going to get too many more notes tonight.”