One Last First Date

by Kate O'Keeffe

  I smiled at him brightly. “Sure.” Not even that ludicrous nickname could sway me from my new path. I followed his lead and sat down opposite him. I plastered on a smile. “What can I do for you, Will?”

  He eyed me for a moment. This was becoming a habit. “You could explain what that was all about for a start.”

  I knew exactly what he was referring to. I decided to act innocent. “What what was all about?”

  He shook his head. “You know what I’m talking about. Usually you fight me on every point and try to take over.” He shrugged. “Sorry, but it’s true.”

  “You’re right. But that’s now all in the past. I’ve decided you’re not all that bad and maybe I should give you a chance.”

  “‘Not all that bad,’ huh? High praise.” He raised his eyebrows and smirked at me. For the first time in recorded history, I didn’t want to wipe that smile off his face.

  “You know what I mean. I . . . I guess I’ve been a bit tough on you. You have some great ideas, and I don’t really give you a chance. Plus, you’ve been really nice to me with the golf thing. I’m—” The word stuck in my throat. “I’m sorry,” I managed in a croaky voice.

  “You’re sorry?” His eyes got huge.

  I lifted my chin. “Yes. I’m sorry,” I sniffed.

  He watched me for a moment. He narrowed his gaze, crossing his arms as he leaned back in his chair. “Your golf date with what’s-his-name went well, didn’t it?”

  I felt heat in my cheeks. “Yes . . . but that’s not what this is about.” I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. Talking with Will about Parker felt . . . wrong, somehow.

  “How did it go? Did you maim anyone? Or yourself?” He studied my face closely for a moment. Again. It made me want to squirm. “No re-broken nose or anything. Must have gone okay.”

  “No one got hurt. And it went well.” Other than the lack of love.

  “Oh. Well, I’m glad I could help.” He stood up abruptly, rolling his chair out from behind himself. “I’ll see you later. Got a meeting to get to. Keep up the . . . consulting.” He collected his things and put his head down as he headed out the door. He was gone in a flash, without a backward glance.

  I was left, sitting on my own at the oversized table in the empty meeting room, wondering what in the world had just happened.

  Chapter 17

  FOR THE NEXT COUPLE of weeks, life ticked over predictably enough. I continued to meet with clients and work with the team as Consultative Cassie. It was turning out great, and even Will seemed to accept the new, improved me, despite his initial weirdness. I had a much heavier workload now, of course, but it seemed a small price to pay in the pursuit of the Regional Manager’s job. I made sure Melanie the Mole saw me in my teamwork-magnificence whenever possible and tried my best to befriend her to show her what a nice person I was. It seemed to be going well.

  Paige, Marissa, and I kept up our regular Cozy Cottage Café sugar-fests—if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, right?—and Parker and me? Well, once I convinced myself his lack of a declaration of love was a mere speedbump and he would be true to his word and get there in his own time, things got back on track. We were seeing one another a couple of times a week, going out for dinners, going on forest walks, taking picnics to the park in the warm spring air. My Instagram feed was littered with happy couple photos that were probably making my single friends want to vomit. I was in my almost-love-bubble with my future husband, so I didn’t care.

  “Are you ready to go?” Parker adjusted his tie in the mirror, concentrating on creating the perfect Windsor knot.

  “Just give me three more seconds,” I called from the bathroom. I studied myself in the mirror. I was wearing a pale pink dress with white detailing, pearls I’d borrowed from Marissa at my neck, and a pair of Mary Janes on my feet that made me want to break into a fifties Hollywood dance routine. I’d swept my hair up into a relaxed bun, allowing a few strands to hang loose around my face. My makeup was fresh and natural. In short, I looked like the future Mrs. Cassandra Dunhill-Hamilton. Today was the day I was meeting Parker’s parents. And tomorrow, he was meeting mine. It was a big weekend.

  “Cassie? We really should get going,” Parker called, a hint of stress in his voice.

  I switched the light off and stepped out of the bathroom. “Ready.”

  Parker turned and looked at me. Instead of the expected compliment, a cloud crossed over his face.

  “What?” I asked uncertainly, glancing down at my dress.

  Parker blinked and shook his head. “Nothing. You just . . . nothing. You look wonderful.”

  I did a little twirl, feeling—and I hoped looking—like Kate Middleton’s red-headed sister. Equally classy, equally gorgeous.

  “They’re going to love you.”

  I smiled weakly. Not like you . . . yet.

  He glanced at his watch. “We’d better go or we’ll be late.”

  Twenty-seven minutes later, we were still sitting in Auckland’s legendary traffic, a good handful of miles from the swanky country club where we were due to meet Parker’s parents for lunch. He had told me his parents were Annette and Dickie—no, seriously—although he advised I call them Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton for starters, that they were keen golfers, and that they were active patrons of the arts. His dad was a retired surgeon and his mother a former nurse who spent most of her time either playing golf or attending lunches with similarly well-heeled society ladies. Although he didn’t say so, it was clear to me they had more money than God and lived the life of Riley—who, by all accounts, had a pretty good time of it.

  “Got it.” I smiled at him and glanced down at my dress. They’re going to love me. God, I hoped Parker was right.

  For the past few minutes, we’d been sitting in silence since Parker had yelled at a driver in front of us who had failed to notice the lights turning green, causing us to miss the light all together. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in agitation as he stared at the red, unchanging light. I reached across and placed my hand on his arm to try to comfort him. He jumped in his seat, and I instantly pulled it back.

  He turned to look at me. His face was tense and drawn. “Sorry. It’s just my parents are very punctual and they expect the same of me.”

  I softened my voice. “We’re only a few minutes late. They live in Auckland, they know all about the traffic. They’ll understand. Plus, they’ll be really happy to see you. They’ve been away for a month.”

  “Sure.” He sounded as convinced as Sully’s copilot probably did when his captain announced he was going to land their plane on the Hudson. I watched in concerned silence as he gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles turning an unnatural white.

  His obvious nerves permeated my skin. I began to tap my foot, worrying exactly why he was so uptight. Sure, meeting your partner’s parents for the first time can be nerve-wracking, but we were right for each other. I was his future wife. And he had already said they were going to love me. Where was the problem?

  Sixteen silent, uptight minutes navigating traffic later, Parker parked the car at the country club. As he bounded out and slammed his door, I did a final check in the mirror, decided to apply some more lipstick, and zipped open my purse. Mid-application—a crucial moment, as any woman could attest—Parker flung my door open, making me jump. I snapped my head in his direction, drawing a line of lipstick on my upper lip.

  “Argh!” I peered in the mirror. Great. I looked like I had a five-year-old child with an unsteady hand for a makeup artist. I rummaged around in my purse, looking for a tissue.

  “What are you doing?” Parker demanded, still holding the car door open.

  Hadn’t he ever seen a woman put on makeup? “I was trying to apply some lipstick. Have you got a tissue?”

  Parker pursed his lips. “You’ve had all trip to apply lipstick, Cassie. You look fine. Let’s go.” He offered me his hand.

  “But it’s smeared over my top lip,” I protested, taking his hand nonetheless.

  �
�No one will notice.” He walked off with speed toward the entrance to the country club, pulling me by the hand behind him. With my free hand, I rubbed frantically at my top lip. I suspected I looked like I’d just lost a bar brawl—not the look I was going for right now.

  We virtually ran up the steps, through the large wooden doors, and into the reception area. The contrast between the blazing sun outdoors and the dark interior had me blinking like I was in a dust storm.

  “Mr. Hamilton! How nice to see you,” said an attractive young woman with a chic blonde pixie cut and a thousand-watt smile at reception.

  “Hello, Angelica. How are you?” Parker said in a tone he hadn’t used with me since before we got in the car.

  I couldn’t help but shoot him an annoyed look.

  “Very well, thank you.” Her smile didn’t drop. “Are you here to meet your parents? They’re sitting out on the terrace.”

  “Yes, thank you. Lovely day for it.”

  As Parker and Angelica shared pleasantries, I scanned the room for a mirror. I spotted one, walked over to it, and peered at my lip in the half-light. There was a definite lipstick-on-upper-lip situation going on. Why did I decide to wear my ruby red permanent lipstick today? I licked my index finger and rubbed. Better. Not great, but better.

  “Cassie?” Parker enquired.

  I gave my lip one further surreptitious rub, turned, and faced him and the ever-smiling Angelica. Parker stretched his hand out to me. I took it, and we walked out onto the terrace together, as ready as I’d ever be to meet the parents who make my boyfriend so uptight. There were a smattering of tables on the terrace, shaded by large, cream umbrellas. The view down the lawn to the golf course below was breathtaking. Parker scanned for his parents. Nervous, I concentrated on my breathing.

  You can do this, Cassie.

  He spotted them sitting under one of the umbrellas at the edge of the terrace. I sized them up in record-breaking speed. Father: late-fifties, recently cut gray hair, perfectly pressed polo shirt, the sort of tan you get from having enough time to spend in the sun across the hemispheres each year. I thought of my own dad, his year-round pasty Irish complexion, his rapidly receding hairline, his slight paunch, his ready laugh and twinkling eyes. I swallowed.

  So far so intimidating.

  I turned my attention to his mother: probably also late-fifties but harder to tell, thanks to probable “work”; short, perfectly coiffed brunette bob cut; large, dark glasses in sharp contrast with her diminutive frame; crisp white shirt, red cardigan, and pearls at her throat. Her resemblance to Anna Wintour, the Vogue editor with the fearsome, cool-as-a-cucumber reputation, was not lost on me.

  I was beginning to understand why Parker had been so edgy.

  I gave his hand a quick squeeze. He snapped his head in my direction, shot me a slightly feverish look, and pulled me along faster in their direction. I plastered on my best “I’m your future daughter-in-law and I know you will just love me” smile and walked with as much confidence as I could muster at Parker’s side. I may have been dressed like I belonged here, but Parker’s nerves, his scary-looking parents, and the plush surrounds had me feeling like a country bumpkin on her very first visit to the big smoke.

  We reached their table.

  “Mother, Father. How are you both today?”

  I narrowed my eyes at Parker. He called his parents “Mother” and “Father”? What was this, a Dickens novel? Had we been transported to nineteenth century Britain and I had somehow failed to notice?

  Parker leaned down and kissed his mother on the cheek. “You look wonderful, Mother. As always.”

  “Oh, thank you, darling,” she simpered.

  Parker’s father sprang up, pushing his wicker chair back. “Parker! Good to see you, lad.”

  I watched as they shook hands. Not hugged. It felt . . . odd. But then, it must be refreshing not to have to endure endless hugs like I do with my family. Hug Mom, hug Dad, hug Granny and Pop, hug Bella. Frankly, it’s exhausting. A handshake is probably much more civilized. Perhaps we’ll teach our children to shake our hands once they’re adults? I wouldn’t need to worry about creasing the linen slip dresses I’m sure to be wearing then when Parker and I host family lunches in our gracious home.

  “Father” turned to me, his teeth standing out against his tan so clearly the coast guard could use him in their arsenal. “How are you, Sara?”

  I opened my mouth to speak. Sara? Who the heck is Sara? I closed it again, not knowing exactly what to say.

  Parker’s dad took me by the shoulders, grinning down at me. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

  What? Before I had the chance to correct him, he leaned in toward me, puckering up. I turned my cheek so he could kiss it and began to pull back, but he was going in for another, European style—naturally—so I turned the other cheek, only to meet him in the middle. Our lips locked. My eyes sprung open in astonishment as his crinkled into a smile. He pulled away and let go of my shoulders.

  My cheeks flushed red hot. “Mr. Hamilton. I, err, I’m . . . I’m sorry about that,” I stammered.

  “Don’t be, Sara.” He turned to Parker, and said in a deeper tone, “I do like this one.”

  Mortification crept across my chest. I shifted my weight.

  “Oh, Dickie. You are an old goat sometimes. This is Cassie, Parker’s new girlfriend,” Parker’s mother responded on my behalf from her seat at the table. If she’d noticed the big smacker her husband had just planted on me, she didn’t let on. “Sara is someone else entirely.”

  Parker’s dad smiled at me. “Of course it is. My mistake. Although, you do look a lot like Sara, doesn’t she, eh, Parker? You clearly have a type, lad.”

  I watched, agog, as Parker’s dad elbowed him in the ribs, as though me looking like Sara—and I was still utterly in the dark as to who she was—had somehow become quite the joke of the day.

  Parker slipped his arm protectively around my waist. “Yes, I suppose. I hadn’t thought about it actually, Father.” He gave me a little squeeze, instantly assuring me.

  “Well, Cassie,” Parker’s mother said, emphasizing my name for Mr. Hamilton’s benefit, “it’s very nice to meet you. Parker’s told us very little about you, of course. It’s nice to see you actually exist and you’re not just some sort of online girlfriend or something.”

  I blinked at her. He hasn’t told them much about me? Panic seared through me in a flash. “Well, I do! I exist! Cassie exists! And she’s not Sara, she’s Cassie! Yay for Cassie!” I blurted loudly, as though I was headlining a pep rally to a cast of thousands. I looked from Parker to his parents. They all had inquisitive, puzzled looks on their faces—yeah, like I was the weird one here.

  “Well, that’s just great. Good for you for . . . existing,” Mrs. Hamilton said. “Why don’t you both take a seat? You are rather late.”

  “Yes, we’re sorry about that. Traffic,” Parker replied.

  “We managed to arrive on time,” she replied with a smile.

  Still grinning like a lunatic off her meds, I sat down in a wicker chair Parker pulled out for me. He sat opposite me and shot me a look that asked whether I was okay. Either that or he was determining whether he needed to call the men in the white coats to take me away before we ordered our appetizers.

  I took a deep breath and nodded at him, hoping to reassure him that I’d not flicked the lid on my brain and certainly didn’t require any sort of medical intervention. Normal, calm, in-control Cassie was back. And sitting in silence. No one was talking. I watched as Parker smiled, his mother nodded and smiled, his dad smiled and winked at me. Back up the bus! Parker’s dad winked at me?

  “So, Cassie. Tell us about yourself,” Mrs. Hamilton said, breaking the awkward silence at the table.

  “Oh, well, where to start?” I managed.

  “How about you tell us about your family?” Mrs. Hamilton blinked as she smiled.

  “Sure. Well, my parents live in Auckland, which is where I grew up with my—”


  “Where?” Mrs. Hamilton enquired, cutting me off mid-sentence.

  “I’m sorry, what?” Remembering the sort of manners one would expect at a country club, I said, “I mean, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Hamilton?”

  “Where exactly did you grow up?”

  “In Onehunga.” I thought of my middle-of-the-road childhood suburb, with its strong community spirit and affordable housing—a far cry from the city’s chi chi streets Parker and his family inhabited.

  “Onehunga? Been there a few times over the years,” Mr. Hamilton said.

  I perked up. “You have?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Mrs. Hamilton replied, nodding at her husband. “We had that place there.”

  “Really? How long ago did you live there? You may know my parents. My dad’s a bit of a bigwig locally. He runs the pharmacy on Rocket Road. You’ve probably met him.” I thought of my dad’s big, booming laugh as he shared a joke with his regulars, advising on treating itchy bites and rashes, selling hot water bottles in the winter months, sun hats and sunscreen in summer.

  Mrs. Hamilton looked incredulous. “Live there? Oh, heavens, no. We owned a building there, as an investment. We’ve lived in central Auckland for many, many years.”

  Chastised, I replied, “Oh. I see.”

  “Cassie doesn’t live there anymore, do you, Cassie?” Parker said, his face bright. “She bought her own place closer to the city. Right?”

  “Is it one of those high-rise blocks?” Mr. Hamilton asked, a scowl on his face.

  “No, it’s not. It’s a townhouse, actually.”

  “Good, good. Don’t want to touch some of those towers. Not a good investment right now.”

  “Okay. I’ll . . . ah, bear that in mind.” You know, when I’m next investing in property, that is. “Thank you, Mr. Hamilton.”

  “No, it’s a great place. And really handy for everything. Cassie’s up for a promotion at work actually, aren’t you?”