Single-Minded

by Lisa Daily

  “We match,” he says. “Actually, as Gabriel would say, we coordinate.”

  “Did he pick out your wardrobe for tonight?” I tease.

  “No,” he grins, “that was all me.” He leans forward and gives me a gentle kiss on the cheek. I can hardly contain my glee. “You’re not going to let me live that one down, are you?”

  “Not a chance. Please come in,” I say, and he obliges.

  “You look beautiful tonight,” he says. “Great place. Very you.”

  “Thank you,” I say, taking my clutch and wrap off the breakfast bar. He looks beautiful too, but I don’t exactly know how to phrase that. He is gorgeous, and he looks completely at home in his perfectly tropical, dressy casual attire. Like he just stepped off a yacht, or out of a Tommy Bahama catalog.

  Morley appears from nowhere and starts rubbing against Daniel’s legs. Before I can warn him to beware of flying claws, he leans over and picks up Morley, cradling the cat in his arms while he scratches him behind the ear. Morley starts purring, his odd, broken motorboat purr, and I stand there with my mouth open. Daniel sets him back on the floor, and Morley purrs even louder, figure-eighting Daniel’s legs. I’m dumbfounded.

  “Sweet little guy,” he says. “Shall we?” He extends his hand and I allow him to take mine.

  “Wow, that’s amazing,” I say. “Morley never likes anyone. Not even me.”

  He laughs. “I’m sure he likes you as much as he likes me. What can I say? Morley clearly has good taste.”

  “Maybe it’s your modest personality,” I say.

  “Or maybe it’s that I handle shrimp a couple of times a day.” He laughs.

  Locking my front door, I follow Daniel down the front walkway to his car, a shiny black BMW. He opens the door for me and then once I’m inside, he shuts my door and heads to the driver’s side. I smile to myself; the car seems freshly washed.

  “Is there any place special you’d like to go?” he asks as he slides behind the steering wheel. “If not, I was thinking maybe we’d try Sangria on Main Street.”

  “Oh, I love that place,” I say. “Tapas is one of my favorites because I like to try a little bit of everything.”

  “Me too,” he says. “Sangria it is.”

  We drive downtown, which is busy even on a Sunday evening with locals and tourists. Parking karma is with us, and we find a spot a half block away from the restaurant. As we walk down the sidewalk, he gently places his hand at my back.

  We’re seated more quickly than I’m accustomed to, even though there’s a bit of a crowd. The hostess is smiling and flirting with Daniel, who seems generously oblivious.

  Once we’re seated, our waiter is with us in a flash. Neither of us has even had a chance to take a peek at the menu.

  “Do you want to start with some wine or sangria?” Daniel asks, and I nod yes in response.

  “You pick,” I say. “Not my forte.” I’m starving, but feeling weirdly self-conscious about ordering food or wine in front of my famous chef date.

  “Red, white, rosado?” he asks.

  “What’s rosado?” I ask.

  “It means it contains enough of the grape skins for a lovely pink color, but not enough to call it a red. You’d call it rosé if it’s French, rosado if it’s Spanish or Portuguese.”

  “That sounds good,” I say. He selects a bottle from the wine list and the waiter confirms his choice. Our waiter returns quickly and pours the wine. It’s light and fresh, not too heavy. The perfect choice for a warm evening. Daniel and I each peruse our menus, and we rattle off a few different dishes to start with: the beef tenderloin with carmelized onions, a goat cheese spread, sea scallops sautéed in butter and wine, chilled artichokes. Our waiter leaves and we stare across the table at each other for a few seconds, suddenly at a loss for words.

  “I’m so glad you agreed to have dinner with me tonight,” says Daniel. “I was worried that in light of everything you’ve been through, that last night things might have been moving too fast for you.”

  I smile, unsure of what to say. Last night, the dancing, the kissing, all the emotion—it was fast.

  “Thank you for the invitation,” I say.

  He laughs. “You certainly like to play your cards close to the chest.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask. I know exactly what he means.

  “It means I’m going to have to work a little harder to get to know you.”

  “Knock yourself out,” I say. His eyes dance at the challenge. It’s tough not to stare at his face. Apparently I’m not the only one having this issue; the hostess has peeked around the corner at least four times to gape at him, and a nearby table of women clearly enjoying a girls’ night out seem to be fascinated with Daniel as well. I can’t blame them; with mesmerizing blue eyes and broad shoulders, he does cut quite the dashing figure.

  The chef arrives at our table before the first dish is brought out, and introduces himself to Daniel. His chef’s jacket is starched white, a dramatic contrast to his black hair and caramel skin.

  “I’m Jose, the executive chef,” he says in a thick Spanish accent. “We’re so honored you’ve come to dine with us, Mr. Boudreaux.”

  “This is Alex Wiggins,” Daniel says, gesturing to me. “Please call me Daniel. Chef, I’m so pleased to meet you, I’ve heard great things about your menu. I hope that you’ll join us for dinner once Boudreaux opens up next week.”

  “Alex, very nice to meet you,” Chef Jose says to me, grasping my hands in his. “I hope you are delighted with your meal.” He turns to Daniel. “I’m an admirer of your family’s restaurants, and of course your legacy. I will be honored to dine at Boudreaux.”

  “That’s so kind of you,” says Daniel with a wink. As Daniel and Chef Jose talk food, I see that the table of ladies to Daniel’s left have taken notice of the special attention he’s receiving from the chef. Sarasota is a small city, low on big shots.

  “I’m preparing something special for you,” says Chef Jose, “I hope you will enjoy it.”

  “Thank you,” says Daniel. “We’re looking forward to it.”

  I smile. “Thank you so much. It was so nice to meet you.” Chef Jose nods his head and excuses himself to go back to the kitchen.

  “I’ve never had a chef come to my table before,” I say. “Does that happen to you all the time?”

  “Professional courtesy,” says Daniel.

  “Is that a yes?” I ask.

  “That’s a yes.” He smiles at me. “Tell me your story, Alex.”

  “I think you know it already,” I say. “What do you want to know?”

  He looks deep in thought for a moment, and then he breaks into a smile. “About you, cher, I want to know everything. Where did you grow up?”

  “I grew up here. Some people can’t wait to get out of a small town, I couldn’t wait to come back after college. I love it here. Not just the beaches, which are the most beautiful in the country. I love how creative and artistic this town is. I love its weird little circus history. I love the fact that it never gets cold.”

  “That’s what I love about it too. Do you still have family here?” he asks.

  “My grandma Leona is here,” I say. “She’s a riot. She’s the most positive person I’ve ever known. My mom and dad are back in San Diego. They moved away once I went to college. I’m an only child. Well, sort of, I guess. I had a brother who died when he was two, leukemia. I was six when it happened. It was so rough on my parents, I felt like I had to be this perfect kid who never gave them any trouble because they’d already been through such a brutal, heartbreaking few years.” I pause. “Weird, I don’t think I’ve ever said that out loud before.”

  “That’s a lot of pressure for a six-year old,” Daniel says kindly.

  “I met Michael that year, two weeks after my brother died. He was a life raft for me. He was funny and sweet and protective. And his family wasn’t sad all the time. They were happy, and fun. And they played Scrabble and ate pepperoni pizza every Friday night.
I practically lived there in elementary school. And then, a few years later, Michael’s mom died. And Michael felt like the only person in the whole world who could understand what that felt like was me. It bonded us together on such a deep and profound level. We were inseparable.”

  “You were lucky to have each other to lean on,” says Daniel. “I’m so sorry about your brother.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “It was a really long time ago. Does that sound callous? I always feel that I should be sadder than I am. But the truth is, I was very young when he died. We never played together, because at first he was just a baby, and then he was too sick. I barely remember him, and most of those memories were in the hospital. They seem more like a dream now, or a movie you saw a really long time ago, but can’t quite remember what it was about. The thing I remember most is not the loss of my brother so much—it was the loss of my parents after he died. It changed them, they were never quite the same. They were brokenhearted, hollow, disconnected. They stopped mourning after four or five years, but I have this whole lifetime of memories of sad Christmases, sad Thanksgivings, sad Fourth of Julys. Like ever enjoying anything again was strictly verboten for my parents and me, because my brother, William, wasn’t there to enjoy it too. Do you know what I mean?”

  “That must have been rough,” says Daniel, reaching across the table to gently pat my shoulder.

  “I shouldn’t complain,” I say. “I’ve had a great life. My family loves me. I’ve had amazing opportunities. I’m educated, I have friends who care about me, a business I’m inspired by.” I smile at Daniel. “I’m well fed.”

  Daniel raises his glass, “To being well fed.”

  I raise my glass to his. “To being well fed.”

  As if on cue, our waiter appears with several of our selections: the goat cheese spread and the beef tenderloin. He also brings a small plate of jalea prepared for us by Chef Jose—a breaded seafood with marinated vegetables. Daniel and I sample the various dishes, which are absolutely delicious.

  “Try this,” says Daniel, raising a forkful of jalea. I take a bite, and even though I usually hate when anyone tries to feed me, it feels natural and comfortable, sharing with him.

  “It’s good!” I say. “Spicy.”

  “You’re spicy,” he says, his eyes flirtatious. I can’t help but be charmed.

  “How do you get away with saying stuff like that?” I ask. “Do you think it’s the dreamy Southern accent?”

  In a comically on-the-nose Scarlett O’Hara falsetto he says, “I declare, Miss Wiggins, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” We start laughing and suddenly we can’t stop ourselves at cracking up over every little thing; we’re laughing so hard our eyes start watering.

  Our waiter swings by to drop off a few more plates, and pick up the ones we’re finished with.

  “I think we need to sample more food,” says Daniel.

  “We should try the empanadas,” I suggest.

  “Sounds good. Do you like scallops?” he asks, and I nod yes. “And maybe the butternut squash?”

  I start laughing over nothing, Daniel starts laughing, and seconds later the two of us are roaring away at the table with no earthly idea what set us off again. I think it was the word squash, which is hilarious if you have a glass or two of rosado and say it over and over again like a punch line. Squash.

  “What’s your story?” I ask.

  “What do you want to know about?” he asks. “I’ve already told you too much about my family, I think.”

  “Yes, let me see if I can get this straight,” I tease. “Gabriel shops for your clothes. Who does your hair?”

  We laugh and talk for hours and suddenly I notice that the staff are starting to prep the restaurant for close.

  “Please tell me if this is too personal,” Daniel says. He’s still smiling but his face is serious.

  “Okay,” I say. “But you already know most of my low points, and you did attend my divorce party, so…”

  “Do you think you’d ever want to be in a relationship again?” he asks.

  “From what my friend Darcy says, you may be the only man on the planet looking for a relationship.”

  “Is that a no?” he asks. “Or a yes? Or a maybe?”

  “Theoretically,” I say, “the answer is yes. I loved having someone to share my day with, to joke around with, someone who got all my little flaws and weirdnesses and loved me anyway. Things were just so easy with Michael, and I trusted how I felt with him, I trusted our relationship, and now I find out I shouldn’t have. So there’s something in me that doesn’t trust in love, doesn’t trust in my own judgment, doesn’t know if I can ever trust another man.”

  “But you’ll never know if you don’t put yourself out there again.”

  I nod, as though I’m considering what he just says, but really I’m thinking that putting myself out there has not exactly been a winning strategy for me so far.

  “So, you’re not dating anyone?” he asks. I reminisce about the oddball collection of weirdos and jerks I’ve encountered over the last few weeks.

  “No,” I say. “Not dating anyone.” I pause. “Well, except for tonight.” He smiles in response and it feels good. But it also feels scary.

  “Tonight is perfect,” he says.

  “What about you?” I ask. I’m high on adrenaline and oddly thrilled that he’s asking about my dating life. I may have no real practice with relationships with the opposite sex, but I know he’s testing the waters. And that feels flattering and powerful in a way that has my skin flushed and my extremities tingling.

  “It’s been a long time,” he says. “I’ve been focused on the idea of opening my new restaurant for a while. I meet a lot of really nice people, but I haven’t met the right person, if you know what I mean. And sometimes I get lost in my work and everything else falls by the wayside.”

  “Me too,” I say.

  “Lately, though, I haven’t been able to focus at all.”

  I laugh. “What’s the trouble?” I ask. “Not enough sleep? Too much stress?”

  “The trouble,” he laughs, “is that a lovely and fascinating woman seems to occupy far more of my mind than anything else.”

  “Have you tried hypnosis?” I ask, still playing along.

  “I’m already hypnotized. And mesmerized,” he says, blue eyes burning into mine. I’m starting to feel a little mesmerized myself.

  56

  He reaches across the table and touches my hand, sending tremors through my body. What is it about this man?

  “Alex,” he says, “will you see me tomorrow night?”

  “I’d love to,” I say, “but Boudreaux is opening in less than a week. Are you sure you can spare the time?”

  He smiles in response. “We can work all day and spend time together at night. Once Boudreaux opens, it will probably be a while before I get another night free. I’d like to spend all the ones I have left with you, if you can stand me.”

  “You’re pretty tough to take.” I laugh. “But I’ll consider it.” He grins.

  “Thank you very much, cher,” he says. “I’m honored.”

  “So am I,” I say laughing.

  “Is there anything special you’d like to do this week?” he asks.

  “I’m open,” I say.

  “Well then, leave it all to me.”

  When the waiter brings the check a few minutes later, I reach for it automatically.

  Daniel beats me to it.

  “You’re the client,” I protest.

  “I’m your date,” he says earnestly. “It’s our first actual date, if you don’t count last night. If we’re working, you can treat. If we’re flirting, canoodling, romancing, I will. Deal?”

  “You always cook for me when we’re working,” I say.

  “Lucky you.” He smiles. He’s sweet, chivalrous, and I find it impossible to say no to those eyes.

  Once Daniel has settled the bill, he puts his hand at the small of my back and and we walk outside.
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  “Thank you for the lovely meal,” I say.

  “Thank you for the lovely company,” he replies.

  The night is warm, but the humidity has relented and downtown buzzes with activity. There are open-air restaurants, shops, galleries, and bars lining Main Street, and we stroll along taking in the atmosphere. Daniel reaches for my hand as we walk, and my heart beats faster at the sweetness of his gesture. We’ve been walking west from the restaurant, down toward the bay front, and when we’re five or six blocks away, the sky opens up and produces a torrential downpour. We’re instantly soaked, and we duck into a small co-op art gallery to escape the storm.

  The place is busier than usual; aside from the usual tourists there are lots of others who were caught in the storm as well. Wordlessly, Daniel and I look at the works by local artists, from pottery to paintings.

  “It’s funny, she sort of looks like you,” says Daniel. The painting is a nude, and I have to admit the subject’s face and body type look an awful lot like mine. It’s eerie, almost.

  And then I spot the mole on the subject’s left hip.

  Same as mine.

  Oh Jesus. My face burns scarlet and dread starts to build in my gut. I glance around quickly to ascertain the artist’s name. Could this just be an incredibly awkward coincidence? Maybe lots of women who look exactly like me have moles on their hips too. Like we’re all made in the same factory or something. Finally, I spot it, on a plaque near the bottom of the display, along with a photo of the artist. Nathaniel Roche.

  Oh, holy hell. Nate, the tool-belt supermodel drywaller is an artist? Jesus! I didn’t think he was really an artist. Not an artist artist. I thought he just meant that in the same way every waiter in LA says they’re an actor. This can not be happening.

  I feel the blood draining from my extremities, and it’s pretty clear I’m about to have a full-blown panic attack. This nude painting is of me. My hair, my mouth, my breasts (which, I must admit, don’t look half bad), my tiny mole on my left hip. I know Nate saw the mole because he spent a good deal of time that night tracing it with his finger. Oh Jesus. Did he sketch me while I was in the shower or something? Was it all from memory? I feel so violated. And mortified that Daniel, a guy I really, really like, is essentially seeing me naked on our first real date. Not cool.