Still, she vacillated between calling Bill Moffit and making up some excuse as to why she couldn’t go out tonight, and hoping he’d call and break the date himself.
Neither happened.
Standing in front of an antique mirror in the foyer, she was trying to decide whether to rebrush her hair so it waved away from her face, when the doorbell sounded.
“Dam,” she whispered. “Darn, dam, darn.”
Forcing a smile, she went to the door. Somehow, she kept the smile steady when she found herself face-to-face with a man no taller than herself.
Okay, this is okay. Height is no problem. Only a person with a small mind worries about height.
He was wearing a three-piece charcoal suit, white shirt, gray and white paisley tie with a diamond tack. She relaxed a little. At least he wasn’t wearing a straw hat with a pineapple stuck in it.
“Bill?”
“Temple?” He extended his hand. “Bill Moffit.”
He didn’t yell, or mumble. “Hello, Bill. Would you like a drink before we go?”
“No.” He glanced at his watch and at that moment it chimed. “I made reservations at Antonio’s.”
“Oh...well, I’m ready. Let me get my jacket.”
Antonio’s. Five-star restaurant. Maybe I should have worn something a little more formal.
Bill’s car was an older-model charcoal BMW with leather interior. It smelled like old paper.
“What kind of music do you like?” he asked as they got in. “I’ve got anything you want.”
Reaching into the back seat, he flipped open a leather case that held at least a hundred eight-tracks. Eight-tracks! Temple mentally groaned.
“Um, country?”
He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind.
“That isn’t even a choice,” he said. “Try R&B, show tunes, opera, Barbra Streisand. She’s in a class by herself.”
“Barbra’s fine.”
After fiddling with the dinosaurian eight-track player to get what he considered the “exact” right setting, Bill finally started the car and merged with the traffic. Driving with one hand on the wheel, the other draped loosely over the back of her seat, he hummed along with the music.
This is fine. I’m having a whiteout as far as small talk is concerned, but that’s okay. Small talk is overrated anyway.
Antonio’s was a pricey restaurant specializing in authentic Italian cuisine. The mouth-watering aromas of garlic and pasta drifted into the foyer as they worked their way up to the host.
“Table for Moffit,” Bill said.
“Yes, sir. It will be just a moment, sir.”
He looked at Temple, smiling. “Ten minutes. Tops.”
“No problem,” Temple said, watching a teenager feed dough into a pasta machine then catch the noodles it produced. Somehow, the limp pasta reminded her of her love life. Colorless, flavorless, no body.
The waiting area was too crowded for them to engage in conversation. As they were gradually shoved against one wall, Bill jingled change in his pocket impatiently. The room grew close and the aromas of garlic and tomato sauce were getting to her. A small headache was forming at the nape of her neck. Temple wished she’d followed her first instinct and called off the date. But if she had, she told herself, Ginny would never have let her forget it.
“Moffit, party of two?”
“That’s us,” Bill said, his hand firmly clasping her elbow to direct her to follow the hostess.
They followed the woman to a corner booth that, if Temple had wanted to consider it as such, could be called romantic. The restaurant’s cozy, dark corners, candles on the tables, soft music, the low tones of conversation, made her relax just a little.
A waiter in a modified black tux approached to take their drink order.
“No drinks,” Bill said quickly, then glanced at her as if he’d just remembered she was there. “Okay?”
“Fine.”
The waiter smiled. “Then permit me to tell you tonight’s specials.”
“Shoot,” Bill said.
They listened as he recited the list.
“Thanks,” Bill said when the man had finished. “We’ll need a few minutes to look over the menu.”
“And what will you be drinking with your dinner, sir?”
“Iced tea is $1.50,” Bill mumbled. His forehead furrowed in thought as his gaze skimmed the menu choices.
“Sir?”
“Iced tea. Iced tea.”
“Thank you. Madam?”
Temple followed Bill’s lead. “Tea with lemon, please.”
Bill was still studying the menu when the waiter left. He let out a low whistle. “It’s been a while since I’ve been here,” he said. “They’ve upped the prices.”
“They are a little high—”
“Never mind. Order what you want. What looks good?”
“Well, the manicotti sounds good.”
He whistled again. “At $18.95 it should be.”
Made uneasy by his tone, Temple quickly rechecked the columns. “Well, there’s always lasagna.”
Bill started figuring on a napkin, shaking his head. The waiter appeared beside him, order pad at the ready.
“What may I get for you tonight?”
“Temple?”
Swallowing, Temple’s gaze swept down the menu, checking the midpriced items.
Apparently the cost of the entrées is going to be a problem for Bill. So why did he bring me to a five-star restaurant? Great thinking.
She closed the menu. “Pasta fagiole with a salad.” Soup and salad. You can’t get much cheaper than that, Burney.
“Excellent. And you, sir?”
“I’ll have the...spaghetti, no meat sauce. Does that come in a luncheon portion?”
“No sir, not for the dinner meal.”
“Okay. Spaghetti.”
“Salad, sir?”
“No salad. Does the bread come with the entrée? Or is it charged separately?”
The waiter seemed surprised by the question. “Uh, why it comes as a courtesy, sir.”
“At these prices, I’d hope so.” He handed both menus to him. “Hustle a basket out here.”
After a brief hesitation, the waiter spun on his heel and left, a pained look on his face.
“Now then,” Bill said, settling his elbows on the table, holding up his tea glass to inspect it for smudges, “tell me about yourself.”
“I’m a flight attendant. I fly with Sparrow Airlines.”
“How long have you been flying?”
“Ten years. Five years with Sparrow.”
“Have you ever thought about doing anything else? I mean, can you be a hostess until you retire?”
“Well, I never thought about it,” Temple admitted. “The airlines have less strict guidelines now than a few years ago so I guess I could fly as long as I want to.”
A devilish look came into his eyes. “How old are you?”
She glanced up, surprised.
“Only kidding,” he said. “I don’t expect you to admit your age.” Setting down his glass, he leaned forward. “You women have to stay pretty thin. How much do you weigh?”
Damn! Another one bites the dust.
Over dinner, Bill dominated the conversation. Temple ate, listening with one ear as her mind raced with reasons she shouldn’t leave right then. Rude, she decided. No use wasting good food.
“Well, you’ll be settling down with a family soon,” he was saying. “Statistics show that a woman is usually married by the time she’s twenty-three. That’s up two years from ten years ago. A man is normally twenty-five, up three years. Though women usually work until they’re twenty-eight before having children. Still, most continue to work after the kids come along. Economics being what they are today, the woman is taken out of the home to work as well as raise the children.
“They shouldn’t, though. Too much stress in trying to work and keep house, especially when there are children.”
An alarm bell went off in h
er head. “Men don’t help raise the children?”
“Not at first. Women are better nurturers,” he proclaimed. “Statistics tell us that men are assuming more of a role with younger children, but I’m not sure those figures aren’t skewed by men wanting to take advantage of the family-leave opportunity afforded them now. Women, you have to admit, are better with children. How about you? Planning to have children?”
“Not right away.” Like Craig said, marriage first and that prospect was looking dimmer by the moment.
“Can’t wait too long. You’re over thirty.”
She didn’t like the turn of this conversation at all. “I understand you’re a CPA, Bill?”
“Yes. With Whitney, Mannes, Gowan and Peterson. One day, Moffit will be added to that door. Within five years is my plan.”
Accounting? Good ole Bill here could balance her checkbook and do her taxes for her.
“Do you have an area of specialty?”
“Corporate taxes. Though I really enjoy the statistical format.” He leaned back with obvious satisfaction. “At the moment, I’m deep into a complicated audit. A utility company. I suspect they’re not using their invested funds properly and I know they’re not reporting income from those investments. You wouldn’t believe what people think they can get away with...or at least fail to find out that they’ve got to report. And these people are supposed to be trained and informed.”
“Must be complicated,” Temple murmured, her eyes starting to glaze over. An image of him naked surrounded by ledger books flashed in her mind, and she recoiled.
“It is. I’ve been working on this one area for a week now and I’ve just begun to scratch the surface. By the time I’m finished,” he said pompously, “they’re going to have quite an education in how to use a reporting system—”
He droned on, detailing the steps he was taking to track down errors in the company’s accounting system, none of which she understood. Math had never been her strong point—witness her inability to balance her checkbook. Craig kept telling her it was simple. Mark off the checks returned with the bank statement with a red pen along with noted deposits, add up those not checked off—and she lost him there. Though she followed instructions carefully, somehow her checkbook never balanced out.
But then, Craig made everything look easy.
Bill never missed a beat in his continuing narrative about various complicated tax situations he’d had to unravel over the past two years. It seemed that most of them required several weeks of intense work equal to the development of the atomic bomb—work he was obviously willing to relate in intricate detail. But, he’d said not once but three times, it was soooo satisfying when the last column of figures was added up and balanced, stacks of forms completed perfectly and presented to the errant comptroller or head accountant.
“May I offer you one of our wonderful desserts,” the waiter suggested, displaying a tray of luscious-looking plaster facsimiles. “Spumoni, of course, French silk pie and a light pastry—”
“Nothing for me. Temple?” Bill was figuring on the napkin again.
Temple eyed the French silk, but knew she didn’t dare order. Bill was already calculating the total of their meal and frowning.
“No, thanks. Maybe coffee, though.”
“We have a very nice latte, or perhaps a cappuccino?”
“Latte, please,” Temple ordered. To heck with Bill. He’d chosen the place. He should have checked out the prices first if that was a concern.
“And you, sir?”
“Just decaf.”
“Cream, sir? There’s no extra charge.”
“No, black.”
The waiter’s remark went right past Bill and Temple swallowed a laugh.
The latte was exquisite. Temple leisurely sipped it as Bill continued his litany of tax errors most common to companies as compared to individual tax problems. Her mind began to numb.
How was it possible, she wondered, to sit through an entire evening and not understand a single word the man said? How was it possible for an evening with such bright promise to dim so completely?
“They hadn’t even filed—”
The waiter discreetly slipped the bill onto the table. “Thank you for dining with us this evening. I’ll take care of this for you whenever you’re ready.”
As soon as he’d left, Bill picked up the bill. His hair stood on end. “Forty-one eighty? How is that possible?” He began frantically retotaling his columns. “Mine was $18.85, yours...$10.50. How much was the latte? More than the decaf? Decaf $.95. Latte?”
“Two seventy-five, I think. Look, if there’s a problem, I’ve got—”
“This bill can’t be right. Forty-one? Waiter? Will you come here, please?”
Temple shifted slightly in the booth, hoping to lose herself in the deeper shadows. If he was going to quibble about cost, she wished he would at least lower his voice. The occupants of three tables around them had heard him and made their annoyance clear. Painful memories of the Darrell fiasco surfaced.
The waiter whipped to a stop at the table, bending slightly at the waist with a look of genuine concern in his expression. “Is there a problem, sir?”
“This bill is not right. Forty-one eighty for what we had? And that doesn’t include tax and tip? Highway robbery!!”
“Sir, I’m sure there’s been no mistake, but I can have the cashier recheck it for you—”
“I’ve checked it. I’m only questioning the prices. Who sets these prices? Donald Trump?”
“I’ll call the manager, sir.”
“Bill,” Temple said, leaning forward and lowering her voice. “If there’s a problem—”
“Nothing that can’t be taken care of. These places try slipping a couple dollars here, a couple dollars there. Just in case someone doesn’t tip. You know how it is.”
Temple felt her face grow warm as more people glanced in their direction, whispering among themselves.
The manager appeared. “Is there a problem, sir?”
“Your prices are too high!” Bill re-added and came up with the same total.
Frowning, he crossed off the total and re-added the bill again. “Well, I guess it’s right—highway robbery, but right.” He handed the ticket back to the waiter.
“Would you bring me a to-go container for this? Waste not want not, that’s my motto,” he said sanctimoniously. “Are the refills on coffee free? My cup’s empty. You’re slipping.”
Temple had to give the waiter top marks for holding on to his temper when he most likely wanted to shoot Bill. She knew she did.
“And you, madam? May I freshen your latte?” the man asked politely.
Quickly, shielding the cup with her hand, she shook her head. “No!”
“More bread, Temple? It’s free.”
“No, thank you.”
“I’ll need a receipt, too,” Bill added, flashing his Gold Card.
The waiter slipped away with the credit card as Bill carefully counted out six one-dollar bills and some change. He placed them squarely in the middle of the table with a little satisfied pat of his fingertips.
“How long have you known Mike and Ginny?” Temple asked, curious as to how the three had gotten together, especially since Ginny didn’t have a thrifty bone in her body.
“Only on a professional basis,” he told her. “I did their taxes several years ago. I know everything about their financial situation, but other than that we seldom see one another. Seem like nice folks, though. They’ve referred several clients to me. I appreciate a prudent person.”
No kidding. I’d appreciate having a smooth exit line.
“Ah, here we are,” Bill crowed when the waiter returned.
He quickly signed the credit card form, carefully tore out the carbons and folded them, then slipped them into his pocket along with his receipt. When another couple left the table across the aisle without taking their receipt, Bill reached over and took it, too—for his records.
“You can never be too ca
reful,” he said. “One of my clients got his credit card statement and someone had run up a thousand dollars on his bill. Fortunately, he was able to get the charges removed. You have to be on your toes. Lots of crooks out there. Ready to go?”
She had been ready an hour ago.
More Streisand on the way home. If she heard “People Who Need People” one more time, she’d slap Bill just for the satisfaction of it.
He parked the BMW in front of her apartment building and turned toward her.
“I had a good time this evening. May I call you again?”
This was it; bailout time. “I’m never sure what my schedule will be.”
“No problem. I’ll check with Ginny.”
She slipped out of the car before he could say anything more, and shut the door. Giving a brief wave, she ran up the stairs and into her apartment.
Switching on a lamp, she stood a moment to enjoy the soft light bathing the small but cozy room in a warm, welcoming glow. Home sweet home. Her headache began slipping away and she drew a deep, cleansing breath to calm her nerves.
She dropped her purse onto the couch, kicked off her shoes and continued into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of milk.
Leaning against the cabinet, Temple stared out the window. Mrs. King’s lights were off. She went to bed with the birds. One by one, the lights on the block went off as people turned off televisions, put the cat out, and pulled the shades.
She sighed as she thought of the five years she’d spent in the crowded but energetic Dallas/Fort Worth area. There was something here for everyone. The problem was, what was that something for her?
Lately, her life reminded her of the old story about the planeload of passengers who were waiting for drinks to be served, when they spotted their flight attendant crawling down the aisle, frantically peering under seats and around feet. Amazed, they watched as she leaped up and continued her frenzied search through the upper storage compartments.
“What’s going on?” one passenger finally demanded.
The harried attendant whirled. “I’m looking for the romance that was promised me!”
The untutored believed the stories about hostesses meeting and marrying first-class megabucks men. The tantalizing tales of lengthy layovers in exotic locales. The crew parties with cases of French champagne.
Dates And Other Nuts Page 8