by Laura Clark
He leads me to the kitchen and through the French Doors. We walk down the deck stairs that lead to our patio. He has Mom's little cafe table set for two, with a white table cloth, and what appears to be Mom's good china. There are two small votive candles burning, and a clear round vase with a carefully arranged bouquet of gorgeous, pale-pink peonies at the center of the table.
"How did you know that peonies are my favorite?" I ask with a huge smile on my face. The flowers look as if Martha Stewart had arranged them. They do not have distracting leaves, or sprays of baby breath that grocery store florists often add to their arrangements. It's just the round bundle of perfect, full blooms with clean, cut stems.
"Lis, I know more about you than you'd believe."
He pulls out one of the chairs for me. His chivalry is very sweet, but it's making me feel a little self-conscious. I am definitely not used to being fussed over like this, but then again, I've never had a boyfriend before, either.
I am in awe of how beautiful the table is. It looks like something my mom would have orchestrated, only I know that there is no way she did this. I admire the delicate, scalloped edges of the bone-colored china, while running my fingers along the raised beads that border the inside edge of the plate. It used to be my Nana's old china, and my mom says it will one day be mine. It is truly gorgeous, but my love for these dishes is mostly because they remind me of Nana.
"I hope your mom doesn't mind that I raided her china cabinet," Sam says sheepishly.
I shake my head, and wave my hand in the air once, as if to say, "Nonsense." In fact, she would probably think this was very sweet, if she knew about it.
"How did you?" I carefully pick up the intricately wrapped cloth napkin, and hold it in my hand. It looks like a swan.
He chuckles. "Would you believe that my mother actually made me take a napkin folding class with her? It was when we went on that family cruise a few years ago."
"You, napkin folding?" I ask in between giggles.
"I know. What can I say? I'm a bit of a momma's boy. It's kind of hard to say no to her when she’s begging," he whines playfully. "If you tell Kyle though, I'm going to have to kill you." His fake stern voice makes me laugh harder. It's true. Kyle would never let him live it down.
A tiny white envelope with my name typed on it, falls onto my plate.
"What is this?" I ask, while holding it up. Sam shrugs. The corners of his mouth turn up into a sexy half smile, which pretty much jolts my heart into a frenzied mess.
"Guess you'll have to open it to find out," he says.
I'm not sure if it is because of the candles, or just the way everything feels special, but Sam's eyes seem to be extra sparkly tonight. I carefully tear the envelope, and slide out the small card. It has a gold embossed, monogrammed L on the front. I run my fingers across the raised surface, before opening the card.
Dear Laila,
I know that we have only technically been dating for a week now, but I want you to know just how much I care about you. The truth is, I've known you longer than I've ever known any other girl, but you are not just another girl to me. The more I get to know you in this whole new way, the more I like you.
I am truly sorry for how poorly I handled the whole double-dating situation. Knowing that I caused you to shed even one tear completely wrecks me inside. I promise to do everything in my power to keep those tears away permanently, and make sure you always have a smile on your face.
I can't say yet what this all means, but I will say that I may just be falling for you, Lis. It scares the hell out of me. More than that though, it excites the hell out of me. I'm so glad we are finally together. I was going bat-shit crazy watching you grow up from afar. Don't worry about your family. In time, we’ll figure all of that out.
Sam
I fold the notecard closed, and clutch it in my hand, as tears start to pool in my eyes. Sam's expression changes to panic. He immediately throws down his napkin, and rushes over to me. He crouches down, taking my hands into his.
"That is the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me, Sam. I . . . I don't even know what to say."
He pulls me up so we are both standing, and wraps his arms around my waist protectively. "It wasn't supposed to make you cry," he says, while stroking my hair affectionately. "I really am trying to keep those tears away."
"These are good tears, Sam." I tighten our embrace. We sway back and forth for a minute. He sighs, resting his chin on the top of my head.
When I muster up enough courage, I try to tell him how I feel. "I think I might be falling for you, too," I say, while staring up into his twinkling eyes.
A punch-drunk grin suddenly takes over his face. He places both hands on my cheeks, and kisses me firmly. It is the most perfect, romantic moment. I know in my heart, I am not falling for Sam. I have already tripped, crashed, and fallen. Right now, I am toppled over drunk, in love with this boy.
We stay here, holding each other in a tight embrace, soaking up the moment for a while. That is, until the sound of his phone ringing brings us back to reality. He holds up his finger, as he breaks away from our embrace.
He turns away from me, and answers quietly. "This is Sam. Oh, yeah. Man, I am so sorry. We are definitely ready. All right, man. Thanks again for doing all this. I owe you."
He slides his phone back into his pocket, and pulls out a tiny remote. When he presses a couple of buttons, music starts pouring out of the speakers. It sounds like a mix of blue grass and jazz. I don't recognize the man's voice, but it's soothing, and I like it.
"Who is this?" I ask about the music, even though I'm more intrigued by his mysterious phone call. However, I don't want to be nosy.
"This is Amos Lee." I look at him curiously. "You haven't heard this before?" he asks.
I shake my head and smile. "I like his voice. It's really nice."
Nice? Really Laila? Why can't I ever find anything intelligent or clever to say? I swear that my brain cannot properly function when I am in the presence of hotness. I groan to myself, hoping that Sam does not think I'm boring.
Sam's phone buzzes. He glances at it quickly, and then slips it back into his pocket. "Excuse me. I'll be right back." He jogs up the deck stairs and into the house, without saying anything else.
I sigh. Does he really need to step away to call someone back, right in the middle of our date? It's not even just the mysterious phone calls and texts. He has been acting so strangely since that first call.
Luckily, he returns before my mind can veer off into a million different directions, plotting all the reasons for his odd behavior. He sits back down at the table and leans back in his chair, while folding his hands in his lap. He has one leg casually bent across the other, with his legs out to the side of the table. The table is much too small for him to comfortably sit with his legs underneath.
The sun has receded into the horizon, leaving the sky with a gorgeous, neon-orange glow. The temperature has dropped to a perfect seventy-five degrees. There is even a slight breeze tickling my cheeks. The sound of trickling water from the fountain in the pool, along with the soothing sound of Amos Lee's voice, is calming.
"Buona sera signore, mia donna. It is my pleasure to serve you both on this fine and beautiful evening. My name is Ricardo, and I will be taking care of you. Come va?"
I look up with surprise. Standing before me is a short, rather stout man, dressed in an old-fashioned black tuxedo, with a burgundy bow tie, and matching vest. He has a full head of dark, wavy hair with a rather distinct receding hairline, and a thick mustache that reminds me of Tom Selleck. I am not familiar with the language, but I'm pretty sure that he just asked me a question in Italian.
Sam leans in and whispers, "I think he just asked us how we are." I look at Sam, wondering if Ricardo expects me to answer in Italian. "Don't worry. He speaks English just fine." It's uncanny how Sam seems to read my mind so easily.
"We are wonderful. And how are you, Ricardo?" I ask nervously.
"Sono molto co
ntent, signora." My eyebrows furrow, as I look at Sam, hoping he can translate this for me. Ricardo chuckles lightly. "Ah, signora. I tell you this means, I am very happy. Signore Samuel has arranged for you to experience Brookville's finest Italian cuisine, in your very own private ristorante." He turns around and waves his arm around, as if he is presenting a showcase on The Price Is Right. "Welcome to Minuscolo Venice." He leans in, lowering is voice just for me, "Otherwise known as Little Venice."
"Would the lady like a glass of wine this evening?" He is holding two ridiculously big wine glasses in his hand. Ironically enough, I'm pretty sure those are part of a set of four that my mother brought back from Italy last year. I squint my eyes to get a better look. Sure enough, there is a tiny scroll with the letter P etched into the glass above it.
It takes me a moment to find my voice, because I am completely shocked by his presence. Next to Ricardo is a small rolling cart with bottles of wine, a basket of bread, a pitcher of water, and a bucket of ice. Did he really roll that out here without me even noticing?
"Laila, I think he is waiting for you to answer." Sam smiles at me reassuringly.
"What? Oh, yeah. I mean yes. Wine would be lovely. Thank you, Mr. Ricardo." My face is blazing. I don't know how to say anything even remotely basic in Italian.
"Oh, mia donna. There is no need to call me Mister." His heavy Italian accent combined with his theatric laugh, makes me wonder if he really isn't just an actor, hired to play the part of an Italian server. "Rosso o Bianco?" he asks me. I look at him and shake my head sheepishly.
"He wants to know if you would like red or white, Lis," Sam whispers to me. He has a coy smile on his face. My embarrassing lack of understanding seems to be amusing him.
"Red or white what?" I ask, still confused by his question.
Ricardo places the two empty glasses in front of our plates. "Oh my dear. I am referring to the color of the wine. Which would you prefer to drink this evening?" He is laughing again, but it is not a mean laugh. It is more of an amused laugh.
I could not feel denser, even if I had tried. "Red, I mean Rosso," I repeat. I can't roll my Rs the way he and Sam can, which makes my attempt to speak in Italian seem even more amateur. "I'm so sorry. I suppose I'm still just a little taken aback by your presence, Ricardo," I say, trying my best to sound friendly.
"Of course you are, my dear. It's not every day a fellow as handsome as this gentleman here, will go to such extreme lengths to please his donna. You must be quite special." He winks and flashes me a beaming smile, as he pours a small amount of red wine into Sam's glass.
"Signore, please taste the vino, and make sure it is to your liking." Sam picks up the glass, and sips the wine
"Ricardo, it is perfect to me, but I definitely think mia donna should try it before we give you the green light." Sam is smiling at me, while licking his lips. Ricardo simply nods before pouring another splash of wine into my glass. I sip the wine and am amazed at how smoothly it goes down. It reminds me of the wine Trevor and I had last week.
"It's delicious. Thank you," I say, while smiling warmly at Ricardo.
"Magnifico," Ricardo sings, as he fills our glasses about halfway full. Even this is a great deal of wine when you consider how large the bowls of these glasses are. He sets the wine down into a fancy silver wine trivet. I suppose the cloth napkin that is wrapped around the neck of the bottle is there to catch any drips. How fancy.
Ricardo places two tall, clear glasses next to our wine glasses, and carefully drops ice cubes into them, using tongs. I'm amazed by how classy and upscale everything is.
"Would mia donna prefer still minerale or water with gas?"
I glance at Sam in disbelief. "Sparkling water? I feel like I'm at a five-star restaurant, Sam."
Ricardo chuckles again. "That is the idea, mia donna. It means that these unusual accommodations are living up to Little Venice standards. My boss will be very pleased to know this." He smiles and winks at Sam this time. "Now, which would you prefer, Signora?"
"I'll splurge and go for bubbles. I've never actually had sparkling water before," I say, while shrugging.
"Fantastico. May I suggest you add a slice of fresh lemon to your bubbly? It is most refreshing."
I nod, trying to hold back my laughter. Sam is unusually quiet. His eyes are focused on me, while he carefully studies my reactions to everything.
Ricardo sets a basket of warm, fresh, assorted bread onto the table along with a smaller dish. He pours olive oil and balsamic vinegar onto the dish, and cranks the lever of a large wooden pepper mill, leaving behind a perfect sprinkling of fresh cracked pepper across the top of the mixture.
He places two leather-bound menus down in front of us, before he perfectly recites every item listed, along with a mouth-watering description of each.
He explains that our entire meal has been hand-prepared by none other than the famous head chef, Mr. Anthony Rentini himself. I wonder if there is an Italian chef in my mother's kitchen as we speak. This idea makes me want to burst out into a fit of laughter, but I do my best to suppress it until after Ricardo disappears.
I am holding my stomach and laughing so hard that my eyes are threatening to produce tears, yet again.
"Are you okay, Laila?" Sam asks, not quite understanding why I am laughing.
"This guy cannot be real. He is an actor you hired, right? I mean waiters like that only exist in movies, Sam."
Sam almost spits out his water, he is laughing so hard. "I know what you mean, but no. He is the real deal."
"Now, wait a minute. Let me get this straight. Little Venice is a real restaurant?"
"It sure is. It's a brand new five-star ristorante featuring the finest Italian cuisine Brookville has to offer," Sam adds proudly.
"Get out!" I want to push him, the same way Elaine does on Seinfeld.
"No joke, Lis." Sam's eyebrow pops up, as he takes a sip of his wine.
"How did you . . ." I start to ask.
"Ah, but a man has to have a few secrets of his own, don't you think?" His grin is just mocking me. He knows how badly I want to know. I decide to play along, for now. He will tell me later, though. Even if I have to drag it out of him.
Ricardo serves us our full five-course meal, which takes just under two hours for us to finish. We have food that I don't even know how to pronounce. The menu didn't help, either, since it is written entirely in Italian. By the time we get to the main entree, I wonder how I could possibly eat another thing. Somehow, I manage to find room in my stomach to at least try a couple of bites of my filet mignon, and the hand-rolled pasta.
I am unsure exactly how much wine I've consumed because Ricardo keeps filling up our glasses every time we take a sip. I do feel a little lightheaded, though, and wonder if I should stop. After much consideration, I convince myself that all of this food is bound to soak up the alcohol. If I am being completely honest with myself though, I just really like the wine, and am not ready to stop drinking it. It’s not like we are going anywhere tonight. Plus, my parents aren’t even coming home.
Between all of the lavish eating, Sam and I talk about everything.
He tells me about school and how he is double majoring in Business and Marketing. I am surprised to learn that he already has plans to continue on and get his MBA. Sometimes, Sam seems so much older than his age. He's always been wise beyond his years. It's one of the reasons my mom adores him so much.
He tells me all about a job that his father already has lined up for him. It's with a big ad agency in New York City. All he has to do is finish school, and the job is his for the taking, if he wants it. My stomach drops a little when I think about Sam being so far away. I'm not even sure where I will be going to college next year. I applied to four schools, none of which are in New York. He still has two more years before that would become a concern anyway. It's not at all hard to imagine us still together two years from now, though.
He talks a little about the frat house, and how even Kyle thinks the excitement i
s wearing off. "There is only so much partying and drinking you can do before it all starts to get boring," he says, followed by a sigh.
"I'm glad to hear that despite the relentless trouble Kyle gives Mom, he is finally growing up."
"Yeah, I'm not sure why he insists on torturing her. He is far more responsible than he lets on." Sam chuckles, and rolls his eyes while shaking his head.
"I kind of like having an inside scoop on my brother. I wouldn't know anything relevant about him if it weren't for you, Sam." Sam shifts in his chair, as if he is suddenly uncomfortable.
"Okay, enough about me. I want to learn more about you, Lis. You are obviously not the same little runt with pigtails in your hair and a tutu cemented around your waist that you used to be. What are you passionate about now? I mean other than me, of course," he teases.
I tell him all about theater, and my dream to some day become a big movie director. He probably thinks I have lofty, idealistic goals because the chances of that actually happening are pretty slim, but I don't care. If everyone said that, we'd never again have great movies. I tell him about the two film schools that I applied to in California.
"Those are my top two, but I also applied to both Mizzou and Northeastern. If I don't get into film school, I think Journalism would be pretty cool. I mean, we'll see if I am any good when I start writing for the school paper next year.”
"That is awesome, Lis. Are you sure you are only sixteen?" he asks with an easy smile spreading across his face.
"Well, only for another month," I remind him.
"It's just amazing how you know what you want and aren't afraid to go after it. You don't know how many girls I've dated that have no clue what they are going to do beyond the sorority house. You really don't act like you're in high school, Laila."