One Last First Date

by Kate O'Keeffe

  I shot Parker a puzzled look. He was rapidly taking on the guise of Public Relations Manager for Cassandra Dunhill. I kinda liked it. “Yes. I’m hoping to become Regional Manager at the technology company I work for.”

  “Good for you,” Mrs. Hamilton commented. “Now, tell me more about your family. Your father is a pharmacist, correct?”

  I nodded.

  “And your mother?”

  “She works in the pharmacy, too.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Two pharmacists in one family? My, my.”

  “No, she just helps out in the store. You know, serving customers, ordering stock, that kind of thing.”

  “I see.” Mrs. Hamilton seemed singularly unimpressed.

  To my relief, a waiter in a white shirt and black pants materialized at the table. I’d been so busy dealing with Parker’s family—the accidental lip kissing, the interrogation, the consequent looking down their noses at me—I hadn’t even opened my menu. Luckily, Parker stepped in, saving my butt.

  “I know the menu pretty well here. How about I order for you? Smoked salmon followed by a Caesar Salad sound good to you?”

  My heart filled up as I smiled at him across the table. “Yes, that’d be great, thanks.”

  No sooner had the waiter departed with our order when, much to my dismay, the interrogation resumed.

  “How old are your parents?”

  “How many brothers and sisters do you have?”

  “Are your grandparents still alive?”

  “Are there any serious medical issues in your family, such as heart disease or diabetes?”

  I felt thoroughly sociologically and biologically vetted. I tried to look at the bright side, all these questions suggested she wanted to ensure I was good enough for her son to breed with, which must mean Parker was inching closer to “I love you.” At least, that’s what I was hoping. If not, his mother was lousy at small talk for a lady-who-lunches.

  “What about herpes?”

  “Herpes?!” I guffawed, almost choking on my Caesar Salad.

  “Well.” Mrs. Hamilton gestured toward my upper lip.

  My hand flew to my mouth, half expecting to find a large, crusty cold sore, despite never having had one in my life. I patted my face, felt nothing. The smudged lipstick, of course! I rubbed frantically at it, shielding my mouth with my other hand.

  “That’s just some lipstick, Mother. Cassie doesn’t have herpes, or anything else for that matter,” Parker said, springing to my defense.

  “Smudged lipstick, eh, lad?” Mr. Hamilton waggled his eyebrows suggestively at Parker.

  Meanwhile, I was totally mortified.

  Mrs. Hamilton fell short of giving me a physical examination, but I wouldn’t have put it past her to offer up a syringe for a blood sample. Eventually, after it was clear to everyone I was beginning to crack under the harsh light of interrogation, Parker jumped in to help me. “Mother, don’t you think that’s enough questions for now? You’ll tire poor Cassie out.”

  Mrs. Hamilton looked alarmed. “Why? Does she tire easily?”

  “Mother!”

  Mrs. Hamilton sat back in her seat, raising her hands in surrender. “I’m only taking an interest in your new girlfriend, darling. Any mother would ask these sorts of questions.”

  “It’s fine, Mrs. Hamilton. I don’t mind,” I said. My eye began to twitch.

  “That’s right, Sara was that excellent golfer. Shot a six handicap,” Mr. Hamilton commented from out of the blue, looking impressed.

  I turned to look at him. Sara? Again?

  “Yes, Father,” Parker said, a tight expression on his face.

  “What about golf, then, eh? Do you play?” Mr. Hamilton asked me.

  My mind shot instantly to the mortifying events in Parker’s car following our one and only golf game together. “Oh, well, yes. A little,” I replied, darting a look at Parker, my eyes pleading with him not to share my golfing catastrophe from a few weeks ago. Or remind him how he hadn’t said “I love you” to me afterwards.

  I needn’t have worried. “Cassie’s an excellent golfer. We played a round only a couple of weeks ago. Didn’t we, Cassie?”

  “Yes, I—”

  “Does she shoot a six handicap, though? That’s what I want to know,” Mr. Hamilton questioned.

  Whoever this Sara person was, she was beginning to get on my nerves. “No, I don’t, Mr. Hamilton.”

  “Cassie’s very good at Pilates,” Parker offered as he squeezed my knee under the table.

  I shot him a grateful look. “I’m okay at it.”

  “Flexible, is she?” Mr. Hamilton asked, as though I wasn’t sitting right next to him at the table. “That’s what a man likes to hear.”

  “Dickie!” Mrs. Hamilton looked offended. “That’s snooker room chat, it’s not appropriate luncheon conversation.”

  But asking me about herpes is?

  I cleared my throat. “So, how was your trip? I understand you were in Europe?”

  And that was it for the rest of the meal. Three courses. Mrs. Hamilton complained about the weather and the people, even the cobblestoned streets. Mr. Hamilton drank his weight in chardonnay, occasionally winking at me as his wife droned on. As boring as it was, and as difficult as it was to pretend every word she said was fascinating, at least the bright light of interrogation had been lifted from me. I could relax. A little.

  I heaved a sigh of relief when we bid them goodbye.

  “That went well,” Parker commented as we walked to the car.

  I nearly tripped over in astonishment. “It did?” I blinked at him in wonderment. Mr. Hamilton thought I was a poor second to this Sara person; I kissed him smack-bang on the lips, and he liked it; neither of his parents knew anything about me until today; and Mrs. Hamilton’s line of questioning made me feel like I was auditioning to be an egg donor for an online service.

  “Yes, silly. Don’t seem so surprised. I know my mother can be a little full on, but it’s only because she loves her only son.” His smile was so cute I almost forgot about Sara.

  “She put me through the third degree, you know.”

  “Yes, she does that. It’s just her way, that’s all. And my father thought you were terrific.”

  I thought of Mr. Hamilton winking at me across the table and his suggestive comments to his son. “I certainly got that impression.”

  “So,” he said, leaning in to kiss me, “even if it was tricky for you, it went well and you can relax. You passed.”

  “I passed?” I asked, startled.

  “Yes, you passed. You may proceed to the next level.” He grinned at me, and my heart melted. Sure, it was probably a nerdy reference to some sci-fi movie I didn’t know, but Parker cared enough about me to introduce me to his parents and he thought they had liked me.

  He may only “really like” me so far and “needed more time,” but that had to count for something.

  * * *

  Back at my place after the lunch, I asked Parker about something that had been bothering me all day. “Who’s Sara?” I kept my tone light as I handed him his coffee and sat down next to him on my sofa.

  “Oh, err, sorry about that. That was pretty awkward, I know. My dad isn’t great with names.”

  “Ah, no.” When no response to my question was forthcoming, I asked, “So? Who is she?”

  “Ah, Sara’s my ex-girlfriend.”

  I knew it!

  “Oh. And your parents obviously knew her?”

  “Yes, yes they did. We dated for a while. They’re friends with her parents, that’s how we met.”

  “Oh.”

  Parker put his coffee down on the table and wrapped his arm around my shoulders. “Cassie, don’t worry about Sara. We broke up quite a while ago.”

  Telling me not to worry about Sara made me do exactly that. “I’m not worried,” I lied. I took a sip of my coffee and smiled at him, just to show him precisely how relaxed I was about this Sara ex of his from quite a while ago. “How long did you
date?”

  “A few years.”

  A few years?! I jerked, spilling some of my hot coffee on my hand. “Ouch!”

  “Oh, you clumsy thing. Here.” Parker took my mug from me and put it on the table. He reached behind the sofa and pulled a couple of tissues out of a Kleenex box I kept on a side table.

  I took them and wiped my hand. “Thanks.” I tried to sound nonchalant when I asked, “Out of interest, how long is it since you broke up?”

  “Ages, really.”

  Is he being elusive on purpose?

  “Are we talking months here, or years? Give me a ballpark to work with,” I persisted. For some reason, it seemed vital for me to know.

  “Why do you want to know about her? It’s not relevant to us,” he said.

  “Humor me?”

  He let out a sigh. “Okay. Let me think.” He looked out my living room window to the street outside. “I guess about six months. Give or take.”

  “Six months!” I replied far too loudly. I was pleased I wasn’t holding my coffee for that particular little gem of information. Recovering, I cleared my throat. “Oh, yes. That is quite a while ago.” I did some frantic mental arithmetic. That would mean Parker and Sara had broken up—after dating for years, the precise amount of time yet to be determined—only a matter of mere weeks before he and I started dating. My tummy twisted into a knot.

  Did that make me a rebound?

  “So, she was a good golfer, huh?” I asked leadingly, desperate for any clue about how he felt about her now.

  “She is. Was. Yes. Hey, Cassie? Let’s talk about something else, okay? We both have exes, but we don’t need to delve into one another’s past, right?”

  “Sure, of course.” My tone was light while my mind was going a mile a minute, and my tummy was involved in some sort of energetic trampoline convention. It wasn’t a pleasant combination. I sat next to Parker, listening to him telling me about some patient or another, brooding. Why had they broken up? How many years exactly did they date?

  “Parker? Can I ask something else?”

  “Look, if it’s about Sara, I’d prefer you didn’t. It was a tough breakup and I’d really rather not get into it.”

  Alarm bells clanged in my head like it was Sunday morning. Tough for whom? For him? Did Sara dump Parker? Although breakups can be difficult for all concerned, it’s a universal truth it’s much harder on the dumpee than the dumper. Parker may have expressed his desire not to talk about this anymore, but I was in imminent fear of becoming obsessed.

  Chapter 18

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON, WE stood together on the doorstep of my old family home, dressed in much less formal attire.

  “Ready for this?” I asked Parker with a grin.

  Up until I had met Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton yesterday, I had thought it would be much easier for Parker to meet my family than me his. Even though I knew Mom and Dad would be happy for me in whatever person I chose to be with—unless he was a drug lord or leader of a terrorist organization or the like, clearly—as I stood next to Parker, I was suddenly anxious he wouldn’t like them.

  “Yes,” he confirmed with a smile.

  It was now or never. I turned the knob and pushed the front door open. “Hi, it’s me!” I called out.

  As though they had been lurking around the corner, awaiting our arrival—and I wouldn’t be surprised if they had—both my parents materialized in the hallway at once, wide grins on their faces.

  I greeted them with hugs, as was the Dunhill way. “Mom, Dad? This is Parker Hamilton. Parker, this is Cheryl and Joe Dunhill.”

  I watched as Parker extended his hand and gave my dad a firm handshake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “Sir?” Dad roared with laughter, his belly wobbling like a bowl of jelly in an earthquake. “Call me Joe. We’re not in the military, you know. And what’s with this handshaking? Come here.” He pulled Parker in for a hug, slapping him on the back the way men do, as if half maiming one another was perfectly acceptable.

  “Of course . . . Joe.” Parker extracted himself from the hug, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Dun—ah, Cheryl.” He greeted my mother with a kiss on both cheeks.

  “Oh, look at him, all French,” Mom said to me, still clutching onto Parker’s arms. “Aren’t you the fancy one? But then, you are a doctor.” She pulled him down for one of her famous bear hugs, squeezing the living daylights out of the poor guy. I swallowed as I noticed Parker’s eyes bulge in surprise.

  I closed mine in silent mortification. Why did Mom and Dad have to be so . . . so not Parker’s parents?

  “Well,” Mom said, her cheeks pink. “Why don’t you come on in? We don’t stand on ceremony here, Parker.”

  Dad slapped Parker on the shoulder. “No, we don’t. Come and put your feet up, have a nice cup of tea, Park. Can I call you Park?”

  “Ah, Parker,” he replied.

  Oh, god.

  Dad’s smile didn’t drop. “Parker it is then.”

  I followed the three of them down the hall and into my parents’ living room. I glanced at the eighties-inspired sofa, with its plastic arm covers that crinkled when you touched them, Mom’s extensive plate collection, and the large TV dominating the room. Over time, it became clear to me my parents weren’t overly interested in moving with the times in interior design. I’d never felt this quite as keenly as I did today. Where once I had simply thought of this as my childhood home, suddenly it looked old, tired, and in serious need of a style injection.

  Is Sara’s family home like this?

  “What a lovely room you have here. Very relaxing,” Parker said, looking about as relaxed as a lamb in docking season.

  “Thank you,” Mom said, brimming with pride. “Come and have a look at this.” She signaled for him to go to the far wall and look at a collection of photos of me and Bella at various stages of growing up. I closed my eyes, knowing what was about to come next.

  “Is this you, Cassie?” he asked, pointing to a photo of me, dressed in my girl guide’s uniform, aged about eleven.

  “Yup. Embarrassing, huh?” I shot Mom a look. Why didn’t we meet at a café somewhere instead?

  “Oh, I don’t know. I think you look pretty cute with your long plaits and knee-high socks,” he replied, shooting me a teasing smile.

  “Oh, well, if you like that one, you should see this one over here,” Dad said, standing in front of what was quite possibly the most embarrassing photo of me ever taken. Period. “Cassie hates it, but I think it’s just wonderful.”

  Parker took in the photo of me, dressed up for my first ever school formal. I was wearing an orange knee-length dress with a full skirt, complete with ruffled puff sleeves and sewn-on flowers. I was grinning, clearly feeling like a princess in my get-up, my mouth a flash of metal. My hair fell about my shoulders in soft auburn waves, which should have been my one saving grace, but it clashed so perfectly with the orange of the dress it made me physically ill just looking at it.

  “I hate that picture, Mom,” I said, shaking my head. And now Parker had seen just how awful I looked back then. Wonderful.

  “I know you do, sweet pea, but you look so happy. You know how much you loved that dress.”

  “Yes, when I knew zero about fashion and what suits me.” I took a handful of hair and brandished it toward Mom. “Orange, Mom? Really?”

  She put her hands up in surrender. “You insisted on it.”

  “You looked adorable. I never understand why you don’t like that photo,” Dad added. Yes, you guessed it: my dad was color blind.

  I rolled my eyes. “Look at what I’ve got to put up with!” I said to Parker, hoping he wasn’t considering bolting to the hills. “Parents who love to embarrass me at every turn.”

  To my relief, he smiled back at me, looking a little less like a rabbit in headlights. Perhaps the walk down bad-fashion-choice-lane had taken the edge off his discomfort?

  Parker and I sat down on the
sofa next to one another. It was so old we sunk down into it a good half a foot more than we should. I suppose it was bought new in 1988, back when it was probably the height of fashion.

  Mom handed Parker a photo album. “Here.”

  Parker raised his eyebrows in question at me, a smile teasing the edges of his mouth. “A family album?”

  I tried to smile. I knew what was coming next.

  He opened onto the first page. There were cute baby photos of me with the dog, my Dad at a picnic. So far so good. Then, he turned the page and saw me, sitting in all my naked glory on a potty in the very room we were sitting in today, laughing my head off with a diaper on my head.

  Parker chuckled. “How old were you?”

  “Three.”

  “I bet you were adorable.”

  “Oh, she was!” Mom gushed. “Here, let me show you.”

  And so the troll through the family photo albums continued, with Mom explaining every photo, Dad chipping in with the odd bit of background on various events, Parker making all the right noises, and me? Sitting on the eighties nightmare of a sofa, wishing it would swallow me whole.

  When Mom finally put the albums away and toddled off to the kitchen to make us all a cup of tea—despite the fact Parker was a committed coffee drinker—I watched as Parker surveyed the room once more. “Your parents like plates, don’t they?” he said in my ear.

  I stifled a giggle. My mom and her plate collection go way, way back—back to when she was a little girl and her grandmother gave her her very first plate. Or so the Dunhill legend goes. She now has nothing less than about thirty adorning the walls of the living and dining rooms, and at least another dozen in the kitchen. They come from all over the world, and Mom would be more than happy to tell Parker the story behind each and every one of them. I think I’ll save that treat for another time. He’d had more than enough to contend with for one day.

  “Now that you know everything you need to about Cassie, why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself?” Dad said as Mom placed a tray of tea and cakes on the coffee table. My mouth watered as I spied her famous chocolate mud cake.