by Dee Davis
With a sigh, I picked the phone up yet again, and was just starting to dial when it rang, surprising me so much I dropped it into the sink. Thankfully, sans water. Grabbing it, I checked caller ID.
Not Dillon. Plus one.
Not Ethan. Minus two.
Althea.
Game over.
I sucked in a deep breath and answered. (I could have ignored it, but she’d have just kept trying.)
“Hello?”
“Darling,” Althea gushed. “I didn’t think you’d be home.”
“It’s Saturday night,” I said, perversely, “where else would I be?"
"Well, you could have met someone wonderful.”
“Yeah, right.” I know. I know. I was lying. But the thing is, Althea has this tendency to take over. Especially if it involves my love life. And, as has already been pointed out, I’d practically already decided to cancel. So it wasn’t really that far off the truth.
“Well,” she sighed, “one can always hope.”
There was nothing to say to that so I just left it to dead air.
“I really just called to check in. You’re feeling better, I assume?” she asked, ignoring my silence.
“Much.” I nodded, even though I was on the phone. “The bruises are fading and my stitches are starting to itch, which Bethany says is a good sign.”
“How is Bethany?” she asked, her voice just a tad too innocent sounding.
“Like you don’t know. Isn’t she reporting in?”
“Well, yes, but she might not be telling me everything.”
“They’re supremely happy, Althea. You should be delighted. You’ve made a match.”
“I do what I can,” she said, and I imagined her hand-to-head shrug. “Anyway, I’m glad it worked out.”
“So far, so good,” I couldn’t help adding.
“You sound like you don’t want them to be happy,” she scolded.
“I do. I swear I do. It’s just that I don’t like your meddling.”
“Andrea, we’ve been down this road before.” There was a moment’s silence and then she said, “I saw your show. It was really good. The jambalaya looked delicious. I even asked Bernie to make some.”
“It was her recipe in the first place,” I admitted. “But I’m glad you watched.”
“Thought you were a little hard on poor Mardi Gras. Was it really that awful?”
“It was, actually. But I’ll admit I was spurred on a bit by the fact that Diana Merreck is part owner.”
“Did you know that before . . .” She paused, searching for the right words. . . well, Dillon?”
“No, actually. Clinton figured it out after the fact.”
“Go Clinton. I always liked that boy.” Since said “boy” was pushing forty, her comment was particularly amusing. But from Althea it was a rare vote of confidence in one of my friends. “Hit them in their pocketbooks, that’s what I always say.”
“Well, it doesn’t really even the score, but it did make me feel a lot better.”
“I’m glad to see you’re standing up for yourself. Women like Diana always think they’ve got the upper hand.” Considering the two of them were cut from the same cloth, I was sort of surprised to hear Althea say it. “Anyway, you’re worth two of her any day and Dillon’s a fool not to see that.”
It was tempting to tell her about Ethan. Really tempting. But if I told her, I’d be committed to going. And even buoyed by Althea’s support, I still wasn’t sure I was ready to go out with someone new.
As if in support of the thought, a thunderclap rattled the windows as it echoed down the street, a renewed hail of rain pummeling the glass.
“Well, darling, if you’re really certain you’re okay, I should ring off. I’ve got a charity dinner in an hour, and I’m not even dressed.” A likely story. Altheas idea of dressing down was to change her jewelry. She still had her hair done once a week, and slept on satin pillows in a hairnet to keep her “do” fresh in the meantime. “You can come with me if you’d like.”
I’d left myself wide open for that one. “Not worth getting out in this rain. I’ll just cozy up with a bottle of wine and an afghan.” And just like that my decision was made. I’d call Ethan and cancel.
I disconnected and walked over to the window, watching the city lights as they reflected in the wet pavement below. Hunched figures with umbrellas made their way through the pounding rain as lightning flickered in the distance and the thunder rolled.
Definitely not a night to be out and about.
I picked Ethan’s card up off the table, hit the first three numbers, and then the buzzer went off. Apparently this was my night for company. I walked over to the security monitor and Clinton waved from down below. I punched the button to let him up, walked over to pour myself a glass of wine, and then opened the door to my very wet friend.
“What in the world brings you out on a night like this?” I asked, taking his dripping umbrella.
“The knowledge that you were most likely sitting here thinking of excuses for backing out on your date with Mr. Wonderful.”
“I wasn’t. I was talking to Althea.”
“And you’re holding Ethan’s card because you couldn’t remember how to spell his name?” He shot a pointed look at the card in my hand.
Busted.
“Okay, you got me. I was contemplating calling it off. The weather is awful. And the truth is I’m just not ready for this.”
“Don’t be silly. You know what they say—getting back on the horse is the best possible thing.” He shed his raincoat and hung it on a hook.
“You make it sound dirty.”
“Well, isn’t that the whole point?” he asked with a wicked grin.
“You’re incorrigible.”
“I’m right. And I come bearing gifts.” With a flourish he produced a garment bag I’d failed to notice with all the rain gear. “But first I need something to warm me up.”
“I opened some wine,” I said, tipping my head toward the bottle on the counter. “False courage.”
“Wine would be great.” He took the bag and laid it carefully on a chair, then took a seat on my sofa. “It’s really nasty out there.”
“My point exactly. Not a night to try and get a taxi.”
“You’re just making excuses,” he said, accepting the glass of wine. “And I’m here to make sure you don’t chicken out. Bethany would have come, too, but she had her own date to worry about.”
“With Michael. I was just discussing them with Althea.”
“So she really was on the phone.”
“Yes. Digging to find out if I was up to anything this evening.”
“And did you tell her about Mr. Wonderful?”
“No. I didn’t. I mean, it didn’t seem relevant if I’m going to cancel. And besides, you know how she is. If I tell her, she’ll run a Dun and Bradstreet on him, check his heritage, and probably get the ladies at the Colony Club to vote him up or down.”
“Well, I don’t support this notion of canceling. But I can see why you didn’t tell Althea.”
“She was rather gushing about you, though.”
“Really? I didn’t think the old girl liked me.”
“Well, she does. And she was really delighted that you helped me get one in on Diana.”
“Will wonders never cease,” he laughed, and sipped his wine. “I do think Althea did good by Bethany. She seems to be really smitten with Michael.”
“You’re the only person I know who uses words like ‘smitten,’ ” I laughed. “Anyway, despite Althea’s involvement, I’m delighted Bethany’s happy. Did she tell you we finalized plans for the dinner party? You’ll come, won’t you?”
“If I don’t have to bring anyone.” Clinton had recently ended a relationship. It had been a long time in coming, and the breakup had been at Clinton’s instigation. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t residual fallout. If I hadn’t understood before, I certainly did now.
“I thought you were all for getting
back on the horse,” I reminded him. “You know, what’s good for the goose ...” I opened my hands in a shrug.
“I haven’t met Mr. Wonderful,” he responded. “You have.”
“I wish you’d stop calling him that. And you don’t know that he’s wonderful, anyway. You haven’t even met him.”
“Well, if someone rescued me from the pits of despair, as it were, I’d damn sure give him a chance. Andi, this sort of thing doesn’t happen every day and you’re a fool if you don’t take advantage of it.”
“I know,” I sighed. “I’m being a total idgit. But it’s scary to think about starting something new.”
“Of course it is,” Clinton agreed. “But that’s also why it’s exciting.”
“Well, I’m just not that brave.”
“This, from the woman who conquered Metro Media and got us an interview with Philip DuBois.”
“He hasn’t agreed to be on the show yet. We’ve just got interest from his publicist.”
“Well, Cassie said you were brilliant.”
“I wasn’t bad,” I allowed. “But wasn’t it you who said for us not to get ahead of ourselves? We just need to wait and see.”
“Well, it sounds pretty positive to me. And I, for one, am excited at the prospect of meeting the man.”
“Actually, I would have thought you’d have run into him somewhere or another. I mean you do move in the same circles, more or less.”
“Thanks for the compliment.” Clinton smiled. “But DuBois is in a category all unto himself. And he left New York long before I came on the scene.”
“But he speaks, doesn’t he? And teaches classes?”
“Not really that often. And usually only in Paris. I’ve always wanted to take courses there, but just never seemed to find the time.”
“Me, too, actually. Someday. Right?”
“Yes. We’ll make a point of it. But in the meantime, you’re going to get a private lesson, as it were.”
“Well, as I said, he hasn’t agreed to anything. And we agreed not to talk about it until it happens. So how about I pour you some more wine?”
“How about we get you ready for your date instead?”
“I have nothing to wear,” I said, threatening mutiny.
“Well, it just so happens I’ve got the solution to that. Aren’t you going to ask me what I’ve brought you?” Clinton reached for the garment bag, holding it just out of my reach. “It’s from Linda Dresner’s.”
Linda Dresner had a delicious boutique on Park Avenue. An institution, really, the shop catered to well-heeled clients interested in the latest European designs. She’s cutting-edge and over-the-top expensive.
“What did you do?” I stuttered.
“Nothing that involved highway robbery. I promise. I merely called in a few favors. It’s always easier to take a leap when you look drop-dead gorgeous. And I think you’ll find that this little number will go a long way toward accomplishing just that. . .”
He pulled the zipper with a flourish and the garment bag fell to the floor.
The dress was gorgeous. Absolutely flawless, really. Silk georgette in black. It was softly draped in the front and back and cinched in at the waist with a wide silk belt. It put me in mind of Marilyn Monroe and subway grates.
“It’s Hidalgo.” Peter Hidalgo was the current “it” man in fashion. Newly split from his association with controversial designer Miguel Adrover, Hidalgo’s new designs are known for their curve-hugging, hourglass perfection.
“I can’t possibly wear that. It’s too…too glamorous.”
“Don’t be silly. You’ll look magnificent. I have an eye for these things, remember?”
“What about the bruises?”
“Well, the dress should cover the ones on your chest. And we already know how to deal with the ones on your head. Besides, it’s not as if Mr. Wonderful hasn’t seen you at your worst already.”
“Well, I suppose there’s truth in that,” I said, laughing despite myself. The dress was fabulous.
“So go. Try it on. I’ll pour us another glass of wine. Fortification and all that.” He waved me off, and, with a sigh, I took the dress and the garment bag and headed into the bedroom, stopping in the doorway. The floor looked like a battlefield, rejected clothing covering every square inch of the floor. I’d tried everything I owned—even, in desperation, an old bridesmaid’s dress. Need-less to say, it hadn’t passed muster.
Fortunately, Clinton had ridden to my rescue—again. Now if only the dress lived up to the promise, or more accurately, if only I lived up to the dress.
I kicked the bridesmaid’s monstrosity out of the way, and slid out of my jeans and T-shirt. Then, with exaggerated care, I slipped the dress off its hanger. The soft silk felt like gossamer fairy wings or something equally ethereal. I slid it over my head and, holding my breath, turned to look in the mirror.
It was pure magic.
I might not be a society maven, but I’m not immune to the potency of feeling beautiful. Even my bruises seemed to fade under the graceful flow of the gown. As I smoothed the full skirt over my hips, I felt that time-immemorial rush of feminine power.
Clinton was a genius—or more realistically, I suppose, Peter Hidalgo was. Anyway, what’s important was that I looked really good. I tightened the belt, and twirled in front of the mirror.
“How’s it going in there?” Clinton called.
“I look like a princess or a goddess or something. It’s amazing. Come on in and see for yourself.” I twirled again, my heart fluttering along with the skirt hem.
“It’s just a frame, Andi,” Clinton said from the doorway. “The beauty’s all yours.”
“No more wine for you,” I said, taking a sip from his glass. “You’ve gone poetic.”
“I’ve only had a glass.”
“Well, it’s not me. It’s the dress. It’s absolutely fabulous. But which shoes?” I stared at the bottom of my closet and the tumble of shoes that covered the floor. “I’m afraid I don’t own anything worthy of this dress.”
“What’s a beautiful dress without the right shoes?” He smiled, handing me the abandoned garment bag.
I’d been so excited about the dress, I’d totally missed the bulge in the bottom. I pulled out a box—Jimmy Choo. Bethany would be having an orgasm. And I’ll admit my heart was beating a bit faster.
The shoes were almost as beautiful as the dress. Black patent sandals with gold-framed four-inch heels. I slipped them on and turned to face the mirror. The woman looking back had a cool elegance I’d never seen before.
Clinton came to stand behind me, twisting my normally unruly hair into a chic knot of curls. “Not bad at all, if I do say so myself.” He fastened a sparkling clip to hold my hair in place and stepped back with a smile. “Now just a touch of powder on the bruises and you’ll be good to go.”
I twirled again, feeling ridiculously giddy. “Whoever said that clothes make the girl was on to something.”
“Actually, the quote is ‘Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.’ Mark Twain.”
“Well, he knew what he was talking about,” I laughed, still twirling.
“On many levels,” Clinton agreed.
Mark Twain and Cinderella’s fairy godmother—who knew they had anything in common? But it turns out they were both right—it’s all about the dress.
Chapter 9
Considering I’ve been dating for almost fifteen years now, you’d think I could handle almost anything. I mean, over the years, I’ve pretty much seen it all. Good dates, bad dates, half-remembered dates, completely unmentionable dates. You know the drill.
But somehow with Ethan McCay everything seemed different. Maybe it was the circumstances, or maybe it was the man, but I don’t remember the last time I was this nervous about anything.
Thankfully, the rainstorm had played itself out. The taxi had dropped me on the corner of First and Seventy-second, but even though the restaurant was only a few yards away,
I hadn’t moved an inch. In fact, I was seriously considering retreat.
All I had to do was hold up a hand, hail a cab, and I was out of here. Of course, then I’d have to admit defeat. And I’ve never been one to do that easily. And besides, Clinton would never let me live it down.
Keeping that thought front and center, I stepped through the door into Nino’s. There’s something so wonderful about a restaurant that opens its arms to greet you. And in this case the greeting came from the man himself. Nino Selimaj. Nino’s is the crown jewel in his restaurant kingdom, and I’ve got to say it’s my personal favorite, although each has its own unique charm.
Positano, the midtown location, was more low-key, geared toward business lunches and corporate dinners. The West Side location, Nino’s Tuscany, had that theater district vibe. You know, terminally happy patrons, live piano music—in general an atmosphere that appealed to the musical-bound masses. My Nino’s, on the other hand, was totally Upper East Side—understated but elegant, catering to the fur-clad co-op crowd. It was the kind of place I sent out-of-towners who wanted a taste of old New York.
Nino kissed me on both cheeks and then asked after Althea (she regularly entertains clients here). I explained that I was meeting Ethan, and taking my elbow in that wonderfully continental way, he escorted me to a private table in a corner, where, with a smile and a bow, he left me to wait—alone.
Apparently, even with all my hesitation, I’d still managed to be early.
I sat down and made a play of looking at my menu. I know it’s going to sound vain but I always feel like everyone is looking at me. There’s just something so pathetic about sitting at a table all alone. Either you don’t have anyone to eat with or you think you do, but they’re not showing. It’s horrible. So I’ve developed a routine. At first I pretend to have great interest in the menu, while surreptitiously checking my watch every few minutes. Then I go through the whole “sipping the water, eyeing the crowd as if they’re here only for my amusement” routine. That usually works for about two or three minutes. And if that isn’t enough time to produce my tardy dinner date, then I pull out my phone.
Instant distraction. Honestly. A cell phone or tablet is the perfect solution for any awkward situation. You can check your messages, answer e-mail, catch up on the news, or even play a game. You’re not required to actually talk with someone—that would mean admitting your stupid insecurities—but you do look busy. Which at least as far as the world is concerned moves the pity meter back down to a more palatable level.