Dream Guy

by Dream Guy (lit)

  She squeezed her way through the crowded tables on the sidewalk. At least Bev had chosen a table closest to the building, shaded by the green-and-white awning running across the front of the restaurant.

  Bev could easily have been a model instead of an attorney sitting at that table. Her long strawberry blonde mane was loose and fanned out around her shoulders, instead of pulled back like Annie had her own hair now. And though the sixties look was popular again, Annie knew the faded turquoise gauze sundress Bev was wearing today was almost as old as Annie herself.

  People often mistook them for sisters which was a comfort in one way, but a curse in another. Bev’s youthful appearance at her almost-fifty age told Annie she could expect to age as well herself. But it was Bev’s ever-sharp feminist tongue that always embarrassed Annie if some unlucky man happened to approach them.

  She reached the table and took the seat next to her mother on purpose. With her back to the brick restaurant wall, she could scan the crowd sitting outside on the sidewalk. To her relief, all of the people dining were couples, or groups of women. There wasn’t a single guy in sight.

  “Well? What’s so important?” Bev quizzed, smoke snaking from the brown cigarillo she held skillfully between two slender fingers.

  “Could I at least order first?” Annie looked around for a menu.

  “I’ve already ordered,” Bev informed her. “I have to be in court soon. I ordered the sausage calzone we always split.”

  “Fine.” Annie reached for her water glass.

  Bev took a slow drag from the cigarillo and blew the smoke into the air as gracefully as any classic silver-screen movie star. “How’s Doug?” she asked, fishing, and Annie knew it.

  “You know perfectly well his name is Dave, Mother.” Who was Bev kidding? The woman had a memory like an elephant for names and faces. Annie paused before she added, “Dave moved to San Francisco three weeks ago.”

  “I’m sorry.” Bev sounded sincere, but she erased the goodwill when she added, “Don’t tell me you’ve already replaced Doug before his pillow had time to get cold.”

  “As a matter of fact, I have,” Annie said right back, and metaphorically speaking, it wasn’t a lie.

  Bev rolled her eyes. “Maybe we should wait until after we eat before we continue this conversation. I have a feeling whatever you came to tell me is going to give me indigestion.”

  “Whatever,” Annie snipped.

  Bev made a big production of putting out the cigarillo. She snapped her napkin open and placed it in her lap. “Oh, go ahead and tell me what’s going on,” she said with a sigh. “The sausage gives me indigestion anyway.”

  “Then why did you order it?”

  “Because it’s your favorite.”

  “It isn’t my favorite,” Annie said. “I thought it was yours.”

  “I’m beginning to think we have a communication problem,” Bev said.

  And Annie said, “That isn’t a news flash, Mother.”

  They both stared at the indigestion-producing entrée as the waiter suddenly appeared and placed the plate on the table between them.

  “Anything else, ladies?” he asked, smiling.

  Bev looked at Annie, then back at the waiter. “Yes,” she said. “We’ll have two caesar salads, please.”

  Annie laughed in spite of herself.

  After she’d finished telling her mother the saga that had become her life over the last few weeks, Annie felt as if she’d regressed back to her childhood—waiting while Bev looked over her report card. She’d started at the beginning, with her getting dumped by Dave on the videotape. Then having the Joe Video brainstorm and being forced by Matt to present the idea. And finally, the promise of her big promotion, which, Annie explained, was the reason she was allowing herself to be railroaded by the CEO into creating the buzz for the game on local TV.

  She’d left out the part about her current problem with Rico’s unwanted affection, however, only mentioning that she’d found a guy with mega sex appeal to play the role. Though she was ashamed of herself for doing it, she’d also made it a point to mention Rico’s name. Bev had always been a fierce minority advocate. Under the circumstances, Annie was shamefully trying to score points with her mother any way she could.

  Annie looked down at her watch. It had been exactly two full minutes since she’d finished her story. As yet, Bev hadn’t so much as looked up from her caesar salad.

  Annie couldn’t take it any longer. “Would you please say something, Mother? Scream if you want. Throw something if you have to. Just don’t give me the silent treatment. You know I hate that.”

  Bev looked up, seemingly surprised. “Oh. I’m sorry. I was still in process mode thinking about your perfect man concept.”

  “And?” Annie urged, one second away from grabbing her mother’s shoulders and shaking her silly.

  Bev put her fork down. “I think your concept is brilliant, Annie.”

  “What?” Annie croaked.

  Bev looked puzzled. “Why do you find that so hard to believe?”

  “Hell-o? Defender of the sisterhood? Resistant to a male-controlled world? Disgusted by men-dependent women everywhere? You tell me, Mother. Why do you think I’m so astonished that you would think my concept of creating a perfect man on DVD is brilliant?”

  “Oh, stop being so dramatic.” Bev picked up her fork and waved it through the air before she dug into her salad again. “Whether you realize it or not, your concept is actually overtly feminist. How else could a perfect man exist? Unless a woman created one on DVD?”

  Annie put her elbows on the table, dropped her head into her hands, and pressed against her temples. Great. Just what she needed. Another opinion about her concept. She’d seen Joe Video as an important self-help tool. Matt had seen the game as a good ol’ boy gag gift. And now her mother was giving Joe Video a glowing endorsement as recruitment material for the frickin’ Feminist Majority.

  “How rude,” she heard Bev huff.

  Annie kept her eyes closed and pressed harder against her temples. “I’m not trying to be rude, Mother. I suddenly have a headache.”

  “Not you,” Bev said, nudging Annie with her elbow. “That man over there who keeps staring at us.”

  Annie’s eyes snapped open she found herself staring directly into the dark eyes of Rico’s uncle. He’d introduced himself to her the morning he’d delivered the first of Rico’s daily bouquets to her office. He had a flower shop, he’d said, not far from the Plaza. Umberto? Was that his name? Yes, she was sure that was it.

  Oh no. He’s walking in our direction.

  “Don’t be militant, Mother, I know him,” Annie said before Bev pulled out a spray can of Mace.

  He wasn’t that much older than Rico, possibly late thirties, and he was almost as handsome. He was dressed simply in faded jeans, and his pale blue polo shirt only emphasized a deep tan that Annie suspected he had acquired out-of-doors and not in some tanning bed. He smiled when he came to a stop at their table, reminding Annie how strong the family resemblance really was. Like Rico, his teeth were dazzling white and perfectly straight.

  Annie didn’t chance even the slightest hesitation before she said, “Umberto. I was just telling my mother how fortunate we are to have Rico on board at Paragon. Mother, this is Rico’s uncle, Umberto Romero. Umberto, my mother, Beverly Long.”

  Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

  Before Annie could scream for Umberto to run for his life, he stepped forward and kissed her mother’s outstretched hand. Annie almost fell out of her chair when all Bev did was smile.

  “It is an honor,” he said, and maybe Annie only imagined it, but he seemed to be holding on to her mother’s hand a little bit longer than necessary.

  Well. The Romero men certainly are a hand-kissing bunch, Annie mused. Lucky for this old-fashioned Romero, her mother was in a surprisingly good mood today.

  “Umberto Romero,” Bev repeated, gazing at him intently. “I knew your name sounded familiar. I just read a feature
article about you in the paper a few weeks ago. You’re the singing gardener. The man who sings opera to his plants.”

  He laughed and held his hands up. “I am guilty as charged,” he said. “Loco to some. Not so loco to others.”

  “Won’t you join us?” Bev asked.

  Annie jumped in and said, “Remember you have court, Mother.”

  Bev ignored her and pulled a chair out for Umberto. Umberto wasted no time in accepting her offer.

  What the hell is going on here?

  Annie couldn’t figure it out. Her usually check-her-watch-every-second mother? Taking time out to chat up a man who sang opera to his plants?

  Unbelievable.

  “I’ve always been a huge opera fan myself,” Bev said, actually smiling at him.

  Why couldn’t Umberto have been a rapper? Annie thought disgustedly. If her mother got started on opera, they could be there all day.

  “And a favorite of yours would be?” Umberto urged.

  “Pavarotti. An aria from Tosca. It always makes me weep.” Bev actually sighed.

  This heat makes me want to weep, Annie felt like saying as a trickle of sweat slid down her back.

  Umberto touched his heart. “One of my favorites, also.” He was now staring just as intently at her mother.

  Do something! Annie’s mind screamed.

  “Did Rico tell you we’re going to start filming next week?” she broke in. She had to change the subject before both of them started reciting every flipping aria near and dear to their opera-loving hearts.

  “Yes, Rico told me about the filming,” Umberto said, but he was still staring directly at Bev. “My nephew,” he said, “he is very smitten with your beautiful daughter.” He finally glanced over at Annie for the first time since he’d taken a seat at their table.

  Busted.

  And it’s my own damn fault.

  “Oh really?” Bev raised an eyebrow as she looked in Annie’s direction.

  Annie was still grasping for something to say when Umberto looked back at her mother and said, “Just as I am sure Annie’s father is smitten with her beautiful mother.”

  “Yes. Very smitten,” Annie spoke up, hoping to steer Umberto away from that touchy topic as quickly as possible.

  “Annie’s father died a long time ago,” Bev said, to Annie’s surprise. She usually didn’t like talking about the past. Especially not about esteemed professor Thaddeus Dick.

  “I am sorry for your loss,” Umberto said sincerely.

  Bev smiled. “Thank you. But as I said, that was a long time ago.”

  Okay. This entire conversation is making me way too nervous. Besides, Annie knew the sooner she got her mother out of there, the less time Bev would have to pump Umberto for more information about his smitten nephew.

  “Well, I hate to break this up,” Annie said, scribbling her name across the bottom of the check. She slipped her credit card back into her purse. “But I need to get back to the office. Mother, didn’t you say you had to be in court early this afternoon?”

  Bev laughed and said, “I’m an attorney, Umberto. Not a criminal. Just in case you were wondering why my daughter is so adamant about me not missing court.”

  Umberto laughed, too.

  Annie didn’t.

  Now Bev’s making corny jokes?

  If she didn’t know better, she’d think her mother was actually flirting with this man. But that was ridiculous. Umberto had to be, what, at least ten years younger? Maybe even more?

  Bev finally pushed her chair back and stood up. Umberto and Annie did the same.

  “I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Umberto,” Bev said. “Now I can brag at the courthouse that I’ve actually met the singing gardener.”

  Umberto smiled. “I am flattered. And, please. Both of you. Come visit my shop. You are always welcome there.” He took a business card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Bev.

  The second they said their good-byes, Annie nudged her mother toward her VW that was waiting at the curb farther down the sidewalk.

  “I’ll drop you off at the courthouse, Mother.”

  Bev nodded, but she looked back over her shoulder one last time. “Nice man.”

  “Nice and young,” Annie said, putting emphasis on the age difference. “Really, Mother. Did you realize you were almost flirting with him?”

  “You told me not to be militant,” Bev said as she opened the passenger-side door of Annie’s convertible.

  Annie opened the driver’s side door and slid behind the wheel. “That didn’t mean for you to go to the other extreme and give him your phone number.”

  “I didn’t give him my phone number. He gave me his.” Bev held up his business card.

  “Very funny.” Annie started the car and roared away from the curb.

  “And his nephew, Rico?” Bev asked a few seconds later, just as Annie knew she would. “Are you just as smitten with him as he is with you?”

  Annie shook her head. “Sadly, no. I’m not smitten with Rico at all. I hope I can finally convince him of that tonight when I have dinner with him.”

  Despite Matt’s order to hurry back from lunch, Annie didn’t return to the office after she dropped her mother off at the courthouse. She’d called Collin instead, and asked him to do her dirty work for her.

  “Tell Matt if he wants me at the TV studio in the morning, I need the rest of the day to get ready,” she’d told Collin. “Tell him it’s a chick thing. That always confuses him.”

  She’d spent the remainder of the day getting ready for her big television debut. She’d had a manicure and a pedicure, toetoo and all. She’d even managed to pick out—all by herself—a great black-and-white DKNY skirt, jacket, and blouse ensemble to wear when she made her big appearance on City Singles.

  But out of respect for her fashion guru’s wishes, she’d worn the exact outfit Collin had chosen when she got ready for her date with Rico later that evening. She even had her hair down and properly scrunched, exactly as Collin had instructed.

  Now Annie found herself being whisked away in a classy silver Lotus, by a Cuban heartthrob who obviously had plenty of badda-boom, but sadly for her, no badda-freaking-bing.

  “The place we are going, it is a well-kept secret,” Rico said, turning to look at her. “A secret I am happy to share with someone as beautiful as you.”

  Annie forced a smile.

  She had to admit Rico was, without a doubt, one damn fine-looking man.

  Like her, he wasn’t overdressed or underdressed tonight. He was wearing simple black dress slacks, a slate gray shirt with a tiny white pinstripe running through the fabric, and, as usual, expensive Italian loafers. He, too, had skipped the ponytail. Annie kept waiting for a lock of ink black shiny hair to fall forward over one eye like in the photo shoot proofs. He reached up and pushed his hair back away from his forehead, as if he’d been waiting for the same thing.

  “You have eaten Cuban cuisine before?”

  “No,” Annie said, deciding it wouldn’t kill her to help him out a little with the small talk. “At least not authentic Cuban cuisine. I’m anxious to try it, though.”

  “Bueno,” he said and smiled one of his slow, sexy smiles.

  The restaurant turned out to be one of those lovable little hole-in-the-wall restaurants on a quiet residential street in Midtown Atlanta. The type of place where you knew immediately that most of the customers were regulars and that the service would always be friendly.

  Rico spoke or nodded to almost every person there as he escorted Annie through the restaurant and out onto a wonderful outdoor patio that was large and spacious, unlike most outdoor eating areas in Atlanta. Tall potted trees were placed strategically around the patio, giving each table a feeling of privacy. Tiny white lights strung throughout the tree branches twinkled like a thousand brilliant stars, perfect for gazing.

  The second they were both seated at one of the wrought-iron tables, Annie said, “You have definitely impressed me, Rico. I never knew such a marvelous place
existed right here in Midtown.”

  Rico brought a finger to his lips. “Shhhhh. It is our little secret. Remember?”

  God. Could he be any more charming?

  Dammit. Dammit. Dammit.

  The guy was perfect. The setting was perfect. Even the weather was perfect. Not a cloud in the sky. They even had a made-to-order full moon looming overhead. And a refreshing breeze was stirring through what normally would have been an armpit-sticky Hot-lanta end-of-July night.

  Annie suppressed a sigh. How many times had she dreamed of a setting exactly like this one?

  Only all my life!

  So what, dammit, was wrong with her? What more could she possibly want? What more could she possibly ask for? What more could she possibly hope for?

  What . . . the hell?

  Startled, Annie gaped at the young waiter who had suddenly sprinted to their table. Despite the language barrier, the tone of the Spanish flying back and forth between the waiter and Rico made Annie realize that something was seriously wrong.

  Rico jumped up. “You go with Diego,” he said, slipping his hand under Annie’s right arm and practically lifting her out of her chair. “Go now. I will explain to you later.”

  “What’s going on?” Annie tried to protest, but she barely had time to grab her purse before Diego grabbed her hand and started leading her off through the maze of potted trees.

  “I do not find this one bit amusing,” Annie informed Diego as he led her around the back of the restaurant to a screen door. “I would appreciate it, if you would unhand me.” She jerked her hand from his.

  “So, so sorry, señorita,” Diego said, motioning for her to follow him through the kitchen area.

  Annie ignored the surprised looks coming from the kitchen staff, held her head high, and followed after him. Only after Diego had pushed open the swinging kitchen door and looked out did he motion her forward. After one more quick turn down a hallway, Annie found herself standing in front of the women’s restroom.

  “You wait. In there,” Diego instructed, nodding frantically for her to agree.

  Annie shook her head, telling him she did not agree. “I will not wait anywhere until I know what’s going on.”