“Well, you’ll never get an argument with me. I’ve never been able to feign a birdlike appetite. As I’m sure is not a shock.”
This is true. Even in my limited dating experience, I was not the girl who ordered light fare while on dates. Food is just too important to me, and it was always the thing Teresa and I both thought so weird about Lynne. She is super picky about her food in general, will eat some meat, but not on the bone, so she usually just gets fish or boneless chicken breasts, and always orders things with sauces on the side or no oil or limited salt, and almost always will send things back at least once. On dates, she would order salads with lemon and no oil and then push them around her plate. Teresa and I are both eaters, and our philosophy was always that while we didn’t use dates as a place to pig out, at least we ate like normal people.
“Not a shock, just a very welcome observation. I love good food, and frankly, I hadn’t ever thought it was important as a quality in a date, but then . . .”
“You went out with someone who thought food was fuel?”
“Exactly! The worst. The ones who wish . . .”
“There was just a pill to take!” we say in perfect unison, and laugh. I take a sip of the rich wine, smooth with a hint of red fruits and a smell like old leather.
“Yeah. These days the whole food thing is just a Pandora’s box,” I say, remembering Ethan and his gluten-free vegan admission and how it completely shut me down where he was concerned.
“Exactly! Between people’s sensitivities and preferences and the diet fad of the moment . . . it used to be that politics and religion were the hot-button issues. I’ll be honest, I haven’t really dated that much since my divorce, but now I feel like it is the first thing I should ask a woman . . . because I’m too old to manage someone’s food neuroses. I mean, if you are allergic to something medically, no worries. If you have some preferences? Not a big deal, we all do. But some of this stuff these days? I’d take a Tea Party Republican Christian Scientist if she’ll just eat gluten and bacon.”
“I know, the whole paleo or raw diet or juice cleansing . . . Food shouldn’t be hard. It should be a celebration.”
“What about in your job—do you ever get clients who have those kinds of restrictions? I would imagine that would be really frustrating as a chef.”
This strikes me as a very thoughtful question. “I’m super lucky. My main clients are a wonderful family of normal eaters, with a couple adventurous ones in the mix, and no restrictions or allergies. The usual personal preferences, of course—a couple of them don’t love things too spicy, the dad isn’t a huge fan of puddings or custards, and the smallest girl will not eat any condiment besides ketchup. And they all hate bell peppers.”
“Well, I’m with them on that—bell peppers are not exactly my favorites either.”
This makes me happy. I hate bell peppers. “Mine either. Were you beaten with stuffed peppers as a child?”
“Worse. My dad loved them on and in everything. In meat loaf and hamburgers and meatballs, stuffed, sliced on salads . . . on pizza.”
“Oh, no! Not on pizza! It poisons everything!”
“See? You feel me. It’s like grapefruit in a fruit salad. I love grapefruit, but it makes everything around it taste like grapefruit. I want grapefruit on its own, and I want melon to taste like melon, and I want no bell peppers anywhere near me.”
“I’ll drink to that.” We clink our glasses, as the waiter clears our plates.
We order desserts and decaf espressos.
“So, Eloise Kahn. A gorgeous, smart, native Chicago girl who can cook, is a Bears fan, hates bell peppers, and likes to eat. You know, you make a guy start to believe in unicorns. I have to ask, how it is possible that you haven’t been snapped up by now?”
I can feel the flush start in my neck and move up to my face, and I’m sure I’m now the color of a beetroot. “You are very sweet.”
“I’m just honest. You seem so—I mean, please take this the right way—normal.”
This actually makes me laugh, because it is the adjective most of the guys I have dated have always come up with. “By which you mean not obviously crazy and reasonably not high maintenance.”
“In all the best possible ways. I think I mean that you appear to be a rational grown-up. A rare commodity in the dating world.”
“Thank you, then, for that. I guess I just never really did enough dating to learn all the weird games and things people are supposed to play. I always mostly started as friends with guys, and then at some point something would just nudge us in a more romantic direction, and it never occurred to me to be anyone except myself. And since we were friends first, they already knew me, so it would have been weird to just change all of a sudden. I think you might actually be the first guy to ask me out in a traditional way!” I hadn’t really thought about that, but it is true. All of my dating life has been either ending up in bed with a friend and waking up in a relationship, or blind dates that went nowhere. No middle ground. I’m thirty-nine years old and Shawn Sudberry-Long is the first guy to ever meet me, ask for my number, and ask me on a real date. It’s exhilarating and sad all at once.
“That is an honor I will own happily. Makes me feel smarter than your average bear. I know what you mean about relationships of proximity. I had two girlfriends in high school and a couple in college. Mostly cheerleaders, since that was who was around with all the football. I rarely met many other girls. I dated a couple of fellow med students, out of desperate convenience, and a couple of nurses during my residency. It’s probably why I ended up with my ex, Linda. She was different, not in the medical game; we met at a charity event and hit it off, and that was that.”
I’m dying to know more, but I have to let him share on his own, at his own pace. I want to know what she looked like, what she did for a living, who she was and why it really ended. I realize that I want to know all of this so that I can be everything she wasn’t, because this is a really great guy and I’m liking him. Really liking him.
“That would make sense. My history is much the same; substitute fellow track-and-field guys for cheerleaders and culinary students and chefs for doctors and nurses and you’ve got it in a nutshell.”
“And the last ex? The idiot that let you leave and didn’t come with you?”
“The chef-owner of the last restaurant I worked at in France.”
“Hmmm, maybe I shouldn’t have gone for French food after all . . .” He has a twinkle in his eye.
“Oh, no, I still love all things French. Can’t let one bad apple spoil the most glorious country and cuisine—that would be a much bigger tragedy.”
“I’ve never been.”
“To France?”
“Nope. Spent a bunch of time in Italy, some vacations in Spain, Germany, Austria, and a great trip to Amsterdam once, but never made it to France. Yet.” There is something about the way he makes eye contact with me when he says “yet” that makes my heart skip a beat.
“You’ll love it.”
He doesn’t break the gaze. “I believe I will.”
I’m grateful for the arrival of our desserts and coffees. We place both plates in the middle and share them equally, a tangy lemon tart and a deeply flavored hazelnut cake.
When dinner is finished, he helps me with my coat and we head out to where another car is waiting for us. Shawn opens the door for me and then walks around to the other side and gets in. As soon as he sits down he takes my hand in his and I love how my fingers, always large and, to my mind, somewhat manly, feel dwarfed and delicate. His hand is huge and strong, and I can immediately feel my heart race and every nerve in my body is suddenly alive. The best way I can describe it is to say that I feel electric. As if he could touch me anywhere on my body and see visible sparks. He turns to look at me and gives a small tug on my hand, and I take his cue and shift toward him as he lifts his arm and slides it around me, p
ulling me close against his side. The warm length of him next to me is exquisite, and his arm around me makes me feel so safe. He leans over and kisses my temple as the car drives through Lincoln Park.
I turn to look at him and he kisses my mouth, very gently, like he is savoring me. It is so different from any first kiss I’ve ever had. There is no driving urgency, no devouring need behind it, and not a hint of insecurity or tentativeness. He kisses me as if kissing me is what we were made for, as if he knows that he has all the time in the world to just kiss. It isn’t the fumbling, curious kiss of high school or college, where the kiss itself is a question. It isn’t the kiss of two exhausted culinary students or chefs half-drunk and falling together to scratch an itch. And it certainly isn’t the all-consuming kiss that started my affair with Bernard, who grabbed me with force and determination and kissed me like he was staking a claim. Shawn kisses me like kissing me is his most favorite thing to do, and the kissing is for its own sake and not a part of something else. Then he stops, just as gently as he started.
“My goodness,” he says, his voice low. “I hope that wasn’t too . . . I mean, I don’t want you to feel . . .”
“It was lovely, thank you.”
“Eloise, I hope it isn’t too soon to say that tonight was maybe one of the most enjoyable nights I’ve had in recent memory, and I would very much like to do it again.”
“For me too. And yes, I would love to see you again.” I love that he is doing this now, here, in the car. It is almost as if he is assuring me that he isn’t going to pressure me to continue the evening, to go further. It is a gentleman’s ask and I’m enormously grateful. Because, as much as my body is responding to him in all sorts of flashy ways, I know I’m not ready for more. Not yet.
“I’ve got some family obligations the rest of this weekend, but maybe Monday or Tuesday night?”
I think quickly. Monday will be chaos with the Farbers just getting back. But Tuesday I have Lawrence, which is pretty easy, so I can use the rest of that day to prep some stuff for Wednesday so that I won’t have to get up quite as early.
“Tuesday would be perfect.”
He smiles. “Wonderful. Can we keep the time a little flexible? I have an afternoon surgery that should be done by five, and I should be able to do the paperwork quickly, but just in case, can we say I will pick you up somewhere in the six-thirty-to-seven-thirty range? I’ll text you when I am out of surgery with something more precise.”
“Of course. That would be fine.”
The car pulls up in front of my house. Shawn holds up a finger to me to indicate that I should wait for him to come open my door. He gets out of the car and walks around to get me, then escorts me up my front steps.
“Thank you again for a wonderful night,” I say.
“Thank you. I’ll give you a call tomorrow, and look forward to seeing you Tuesday.” He leans down and kisses me one more time, his hands in my hair, holding my head to his. Then he takes my key from me to open my door, kisses my hand when he gives me the key back, and heads back to the car.
I head inside, drop my bag on the console table by the door, and, with my feet barely touching the ground, go over to the couch in the living room. I flop down, and Simca hops up beside me. She looks at me with her head tilted like she doesn’t recognize me at all. I can’t blame her, I barely recognize me either. Unable to wipe the grin off my face, I reach for my laptop. There are several e-mails from Teresa and Lynne.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]; [email protected]
Subject: Sunday is the big day!
Hope you girls are ready for our burlesque class! El—how was date #3? Horror show? Joey says Angelo will be in touch soon . . .
T
Lynne has already replied.
I am only doing this for moral support.
Yeah, El . . . how did it go tonight? Short? Comb-over? Milo is out of town this week, but I know he will be in touch when he gets back.
L
________________
Yeah, well, Milo might be out of luck if Angelo gets there first . . .
T
________________
Cousin Joey’s bestie? Doubtful.
L
It is sort of annoying that they both appear to be assuming my date would be a disaster. But now I have a problem. Because for some reason, I don’t want them to know about Shawn. I don’t want to hear their opinions; I don’t want to solicit their information. I weirdly don’t even want to tell Marcy quite yet. He feels like a delicious secret that is just for me. Like the little treat chefs hide in the kitchen for themselves for after the party is over . . . the oysters of the chicken, the ends of the brisket, the last piece of bacon, the corner brownie. Kissing Shawn feels like licking the bowl of frosting once the cake is finished, or eating the last spoonfuls of still-warm risotto in the pan while you are cleaning up. Extra special, private, the littlest bit naughty.
I hit reply all.
Date was fine, not horror show, neither short nor bald nor unpleasant, nothing much to report, dinner was good. I feel like I am going to get the hang of this dating thing. Will look forward to hearing from Angelo and Milo to see which of them can win my love.
Speaking of which . . .
T—Anything heating up at your house besides lasagna?
L—How did the meeting with the matchmaker go?
Oh, and by the way, signing you guys up to come to a glassblowing class with me as part of my list.
XOE
I shut the computer down and let Simca out into the backyard for her nightly business. My phone pings. I have a text from Shawn.
It’s going to be really hard for me to fall asleep with this grin on my face. You are delicious. I hope that is okay to say. Sleep tight.
I type quickly.
It is very okay to say. Thank you for such a great evening. Sleep tight yourself.
I head upstairs, get ready for bed, let Simca come cuddle up beside me, and find that despite Shawn’s worry, you can actually fall asleep smiling after all.
Ten
I pull into the parking lot behind the nondescript building on Diversey with the discreet signage: L’Amour Dance Studio. Good Lord. I’m wearing a new workout outfit: black leggings and a black fitted tank with built-in bra, a zip-up fleece jacket, a new pair of trainers on my feet. My recent bet-related embracing of a fitness regimen required the acquisition of some gear, since, while chefwear is comfortable for a lot of things, working out isn’t on the list. I’ve been testing the options at various facilities around town, and so far I enjoy the water classes best because they are easiest on my joints. I’ve also had a test session with a personal trainer who specializes in sports injury recovery, working on building muscle mass specifically around supporting old injuries and protecting the body from future reinjury. It was strange to be back in a gym, lifting weights again after over thirty years. But the trainer seemed impressed. “The body remembers form and breathing and technique.” She said I wouldn’t have as far to go as I think to get my body back into better condition. Pilates and yoga have both been recommended to me, but I’m hesitant. They feel a little too earthy-crunchy to me, but I haven’t ruled them out yet.
The studio is dimly lit with pink and lavender lighting, and the walls are upholstered in tufted magenta velvet. There is a vague scent of gardenia in the air, which I’m presuming is meant to be romantic but reminds me vaguely of a perfume my grandmother wore. There are some other women milling around, looking at photos on the walls, cases of costume items, feather boas, corsets . . . I look around and spot Lynne across the room in a quiet corner sitting on a huge antique settee, immersed in her phone. When I step toward her she holds up a finger to let me know that she wants to finish what she is doing. The gesture is a little self-important and more than a little dismissive, and it lands badly with me. It reminds me of when we were kids and if
anyone ever said anything she disagreed with, she would hold up her hand in front of their face. She did it with a smile, like it was a joke, but it never felt like much of a joke on the receiving end, and it always took most of my willpower not to swat her hand away. Teresa and I used to call it the Edicts of Lewiston, the way Lynne always presented her opinions as if they were indisputable facts, in a tone that indicated that if your opinions differed, not only were you wrong, but you were also an idiot. It makes me think about me and Lynne making fun of Teresa’s constant lateness, and I wonder what the two of them as a duo find annoying about me.
Lynne finally looks up from her phone and smiles at me. She pats the seat next to her, and I plop down into the deep cushions. “That crazy woman has precisely six minutes to show up to her own stupid dance class, or you and I are getting out of here and finding the nearest Bloody Mary.”
“No argument from me.”
A scantily clad trio of women appear in the lobby, opening a large set of double doors into the studio space. The other women start to head inside. Lynne checks her watch again and raises an eyebrow at me. “Four minutes.”
“I’m sure she’ll be here.”
“We shall see.” She turns back to her phone just as Teresa comes flying through the door.
“Hi, hi, I’m here . . .” she says breathily. “Traffic, and just, crazy at home with the kids . . . and you know, me!”
“Whatever,” Lynne says. “Let’s get this fiasco over with, shall we? I feel a thousand years old. All the girls that just went in there look about twelve.”
We head into the studio space and drop our bags on some chairs in the corner of the room.
A heavily made-up woman in a black brocade corset, platform stilettos in red satin, and a long purple feather boa strides to the front of the room.
“Hello, goddesses! Can everyone gather around, please?”
Lynne looks at me with pure disdain on her face as Teresa grabs our hands and pulls us toward the front of the room.
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