Moon Over Miami: A Romantic Comedy

by Jane Graves

  But how would the stuffy maître d' at Rosario's take it? Would he suggest that perhaps madam would like to go home and put on something less...spectacular?

  Liz's smile faltered. "Mark? Is something the matter?"

  Mark opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He cleared his throat. "That dress is really...something."

  Liz beamed. "Thanks." Then her smile faded again. "You don't think it's too short, do you?"

  He could have done a whole essay on that question: The Pros and Cons of Diminutive Dressing. And there would have been more pros than cons, except they weren't going dancing at some crazy club. They were going to a high-class establishment that was undoubtedly very conservative. But knowing Liz, this could easily be the most conservative thing she owned.

  "No. You look great." And he meant every word of it, as long as he was talking from a man's point of view. He only hoped the restaurant staff didn't measure skirt length at the door.

  "You kids have a good time," Sherri said, flopping on the sofa and grabbing the TV remote. "I won't wait up."

  Liz grabbed a silver purse off her dining room table. "Okay. I'm ready."

  Liz was ready for Rosario's. But was Rosario’s ready for her?

  8

  Twenty minutes later Mark pulled up in front of Rosario's, which occupied a beautifully restored 1920s house near downtown Miami. Evening was slipping into night, and the lamps that lined the brick driveway glowed through the twilight.

  "Wow," Liz said. "This place is really something."

  Mark stopped his car in front of the valet stand, where three white-coated valets stood talking among themselves. One of them opened Liz's door, and when she stepped out, their talking abruptly ceased. As they stared at her, Mark thought their eyeballs were going to pop right out of their heads and go rolling down the driveway.

  Liz responded with a cheery wave. "Hey, guys!"

  They all grinned, and Mark felt a flash of foreboding. Liz was, after all, Liz. He wanted to blend into the surroundings tonight--to observe, to prepare, to learn--but he had the feeling she was going to render anonymity pretty much impossible.

  After passing his car off to one of the valets, Mark led Liz to the door of the restaurant, where a short, balding man in a tuxedo greeted them. The guy played it cool, but Mark still noticed his moment of hesitation as his gaze traveled along Liz's dress from top to bottom. It was a short trip.

  "Good evening." He swung the door open and invited them to enter with a sweeping motion of his hand.

  "Good evening to you, too," Liz said, giving him a big smile. Then she stopped short. "Oh, look!"

  Mark froze in disbelief as she reached up to the man's tuxedo jacket. She picked something off his coat, then rubbed her fingers together to send it floating away.

  "There you go. Just a little piece of lint."

  She gave him a friendly smile, then patted his lapel. The man's astonished expression said he was accustomed to being ignored most of the time, and for a moment he didn't say anything. Finally he cleared his throat.

  "Uh...thank you, madam."

  "Anytime."

  That feeling of foreboding grew stronger. It was one thing for Liz act so friendly when they were sitting at Gino's, but it was another thing to do it at a place like this.

  Then went into the foyer of the restaurant, a two-story expanse of marble and mahogany that glittered beneath crystal chandeliers. The maître d' confirmed their reservations and led them through the restaurant to a table for two near a window, then informed them that their waiter would be with them momentarily.

  "Look at this place!” Liz said. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

  Mark had to agree. The restaurant was decorated in warm hues of red and gold that blended with cream-colored table linen. Ornate silver and crystal sparkled like jewels on every tabletop. The sun had slipped below the horizon, and the dim lighting in the restaurant cast an warm glow around the room. At one end of the restaurant was a parquet dance floor, along with chairs and music stands that told him a band of some kind would be playing.

  A waiter came to their table. He looked to be in his early thirties, with dark, slicked-back hair and exactly the arrogant, nose-in-the-air attitude Mark had expected.

  "Good evening. My name is Ricardo. I'll be your waiter this evening."

  "Hi there, Ricardo," Liz said. "Nice place you've got here."

  Ricardo blinked with surprise, his uppity waiter facade crumbling a little. "Thank you, madam."

  Ricardo handed them menus, then gave Mark a wine list. He recited the specials for the evening, which included food items Mark had never even heard of. But he nodded as if he understood.

  "I'll return momentarily to take your order," Ricardo said, then strode to the next table.

  "Did you catch all those specials?" Liz asked.

  "Nope."

  "Did he actually say one of them was ostrich?"

  "That's about the only one I did catch."

  "Wow. Can you imagine the Colonel frying up one of those?"

  "Don't worry," Mark said. "It looks like there's normal stuff on the menu."

  "Wait a minute. Something's wrong with my menu."

  "What?"

  "There aren't any prices." Her eyes widened. "Oh, boy. Do you suppose this one of those places where if you have to ask, you can't afford it?"

  A little panicked, Mark glanced at his menu again, noting that it suffered from no such deficiency. In fact, there were prices all over the place. Even bigger prices than he'd anticipated.

  "Maybe they put prices only on the man's menu," he told Liz.

  She looked at him with disbelief. "What is this? The 1950s?"

  "I'm buying," he said, his mind already at work, estimating the future damages. "So don't worry about it."

  "Tell me how much this chicken thing is," Liz said, pointing to her menu. "The second one down on the right."

  "Liz--"

  "What? Fifteen bucks?"

  "No."

  "Twenty?"

  "I said not to worry about it."

  "Mark, if you don't tell me how much this stuff is, I'm going to McDonalds and bringing back a Big Mac."

  Unfortunately, where Liz was concerned, he couldn't automatically assume that was an idle threat. "Thirty-two dollars.”

  Liz's eyebrows shot up. "That's outrageous!"

  "Will you keep your voice down? It's the cheapest thing on the menu."

  Liz slapped her menu closed. "Then I'll have a side salad and a glass of water."

  "No, you won't. You were right when you said I need to get used to spending money."

  "On you! Not on me!"

  "If you don't order something that's an actual meal, I'm ordering for you."

  Liz rolled her eyes. "Oh, all right. I'll have the stupid chicken. But don't blame me if your credit card goes into cardiac arrest."

  "Not a problem. You know CPR, remember?"

  He gave her a smile, finally coaxing one out of her. Then he took a moment to survey the place setting in front of him. Of the nine pieces of silverware, everything looked at least somewhat familiar except the small fork at an angle across the bowl of the soup spoon.

  "Do you know that fork is for?" he asked Liz.

  "I have no idea."

  This was just the kind of thing he'd been afraid of--some strange ritual involving a utensil he knew nothing about. Then, before Mark knew what was happening, Liz leaned over, caught Ricardo's attention and motioned for him to come over.

  "Yes, madam. Are you ready to order?"

  "Yeah, in just a minute. But about the silverware. We're pretty clear on what most of this stuff is for, but what about this little fork?" She pointed to it, then smiled up at him. "I mean, this is already way more hardware than a person needs to eat one little meal, don't you think?"

  Mark groaned inwardly. She might as well have plastered a sign on their foreheads that said they were best friends with Ronald McDonald. A vision flashed through his mind of the waiter showing
them the restaurant's policy on table etiquette, then ejecting from the premises.

  But to his surprise, Ricardo's haughty expression faded, replaced by a smile. He leaned toward Liz and whispered, "It is kind of ridiculous, isn't it?"

  Mark was stunned. Not only was the guy agreeing with Liz, but his voice had gone from waiter-perfect to nice-guy friendly. He pointed to the unknown utensil.

  "That's an oyster fork. A lot of people order oysters as an appetizer, so we go ahead and set one out. If you skip the oysters, skip the fork."

  "Thanks, Ricardo," Liz said. "Don't know what we'd do without you."

  Ricardo gave her a furtive wink, then put his waiter face back on and headed to the next table to take an order. Mark stared at Liz with pure astonishment. Was there anyone she didn't talk to as if she'd known them all their life? And what was it about Liz that made people drop all pretense and talk back to her the same way?

  Mark picked up the wine list. "Okay, Liz. What do you know about wine?"

  "It's made from grapes."

  "But you're a bartender."

  "Well, I can tell a Merlot from a Chardonnay, but as far as all that vintage and appellation stuff, I haven't got a clue." Liz slipped the wine list from Mark's hand and scanned it. "Well, okay. I now know one more thing about wine. Places like this mark it up like crazy."

  Ricardo came back to their table to take their order. This time he lost his haughty waiter look as soon as he approached their table. Mark ordered the chicken for both of them.

  "Will you be having wine with dinner?" Ricardo asked.

  Before Mark could answer, Liz pointed to the wine list and said, "Let's make this easy. Which one of these tastes pretty good but won't break the bank?"

  Again, Mark wished he could slide unnoticed under the table and crawl out of the restaurant. To his surprise, though, Ricardo smiled obligingly. "Try the Blackthorn Chardonnay." He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Decent wine, low price. Comparatively speaking, anyway."

  "Thanks." She looked at Mark. "Chardonnay?"

  Still in shock, Mark just nodded.

  As it turned out, the wine and the meal were perfect. Mark thought he managed to use the right utensil with each course, but after a glass of wine, he loosened up a little and it didn't seem to matter so much anymore.

  As they ate, they talked about everything from the state of current affairs to the latest movies they'd seen to the books they'd read, and Mark discovered Liz was well-versed in a lot of subjects besides sports. But sometimes he didn't catch everything she said because he'd start looking at that gorgeous mouth of hers, or watching the way her eyes sparkled when she talked.

  He was having a wonderful time, which would have been even more wonderful if Ricardo hadn't butted in. He stopped by the table so many times Mark thought he was going to pull up a chair, prop up his feet and pour himself a glass of wine, particularly when Liz started asking him a ridiculous number of personal questions, which he seemed delighted to answer. After he left for the umpteenth time, Mark turned back to Liz.

  "Okay, now that we know all about Ricardo's life history, how about yours? You said you went to high school in Big Fork. What did you do after that?"

  "Not much. I wasn't ready for college." She laughed. "I wasn't ready for much of anything that required responsibility. See, I was a bit of a hell-raiser in high school."

  "No! Really?"

  Liz smiled. "I knew you'd be astonished. Anyway, I kind of hung on to that attitude for a while, and then I went to the Lone Star College of Bartending." Liz put a phony flourish on the words, her nose stuck in the air. "Pure class, it was. But since I really do like talking to people, it's been a great way to make ends meet. And now that I've finally grown up, I'm starting college next semester."

  "Really? What are you majoring in?"

  "Psychology."

  Mark smiled. "Ah, that's right. I remember now. Good choice."

  "You really think so?"

  "You're already smart about people. Remember?"

  Liz smiled. "I remember."

  The longer they sat there, sipping their wine and listening to the soft music provided by a quartet of tuxedoed musicians, the more Mark felt himself slipping into a zone of comfort he never would have anticipated. And he came to the realization that it didn't much matter where he was with Liz, he had a good time.

  “Thanks for inviting me tonight,” she said. “I know you just needed someone to go with you so you wouldn't have to go alone, but--"

  "No. If I made it sound like that, I'm sorry. I wanted you to come with me. You've done a lot for me in the past week. This gives me a chance to do something for you."

  "I wasn't too sure about this fancy restaurant thing. But everyone seems so nice. I'm having a wonderful time." She paused, her smile fading. "I think Gwen will, too."

  The words Gwen who? popped into his mind. Not that he'd actually forgotten her, but he sure hadn't spent much time thinking about her, and wasn't that why he was here? To make sure things went perfectly when they went out on Saturday night?

  “I have to admit I'm a little nervous," he told Liz. "It's been awhile since I've been out on a date."

  "Me, too. Guys ask, but I'm past the point of going out just to be going out, you know? I'm not even sure I know how to behave on a date anymore."

  "First dates are tough under any circumstances.”

  "You know the worst part for me? Waiting for that first kiss. I mean, when it's a guy I really like, I can't enjoy the date because I'm wondering when he's going to kiss me, if he's going to kiss me. Screws up the whole evening."

  "Hey, it's even worse for a guy. He's got to wonder all night if the woman wants him to kiss her or not. If he tries to and she doesn't want it, he looks like a jerk, but if she wants it and he doesn't do it, he looks like a wimp. Try figuring that one out."

  "You're better off taking a shot at it whether you're sure or not."

  "Oh, yeah?"

  "Shows confidence. No matter what most women say about all that sensitivity stuff, they like men who know what they want. Audacity pays off. Now, I don't mean you should push a woman to do something she doesn't want to do. But a confident man who expects to succeed really gets a woman's blood rushing."

  Mark pondered that for a moment. It was hard to believe he was sitting there talking with a woman about kissing. But for some reason, no subject seemed too uncomfortable to discuss with Liz.

  "So I should just do it," he said.

  "Right. Knock her for a loop. Kiss her before she even realizes you've mussed her lipstick or knocked a hair out of place. By the time she realizes what's happening, believe me, she won't care about any of that."

  Mark tried to picture kissing Gwen the way Liz described, but it was an image that just wouldn't come together. She was so pristine that she was probably going to make him boil his lips for three minutes before they touched hers.

  "Would madam like dessert?" Ricardo asked on his twentieth trip to their table, reverting to his waiter voice but maintaining a conspiratorial twinkle in his eye.

  "No, Ricardo, madam is going to pass on that, or madam's hips won't be able to fit through the door. But I do have one more favor to ask." Liz touched Ricardo's sleeve and he leaned closer. She nodded toward Mark. "My friend is bringing a woman here on Saturday night he really wants to impress, which is why we've been taking Fine Dining 101 from you tonight. Do you think you could help him out? Maybe make sure they sit at one of your tables and everything goes really well?"

  Ricardo blinked. "You mean, you two aren't..."

  "No. We're just friends."

  He raised his eyebrows with hope. "Are all the other men in your life right now just...friends?"

  "Right now, yes."

  Mark couldn't believe the grin that spread across good ol' Ricardo's face. He turned to Mark with a magnanimous expression. "Sure, buddy. I'd be happy to help you out."

  Mark read between those lines. The guy was so delighted that Liz was unattached that he'd have
done anything for her. All at once it dawned on him that Ricardo was not a bad looking guy, and Liz had smiled at him a lot tonight. And for reasons Mark couldn't fathom, it irritated the hell out of him.

  Then Ricardo leaned in even closer to Liz and dropped his voice to just above a whisper. "Just for the record, my name's Rick. They make me use the Ricardo thing here. Image, you know."

  He winked at Liz for about the tenth time that evening, then walked away. Mark noticed a spring to the guy's step that hadn't been there before, and that irritated the hell out of him, too.

  "Nice guy," Liz said.

  "Yeah," Mark said. "Nice."

  They sipped the rest of their second glasses of wine. Mark found himself smiling when he focused on Liz, then frowning when he thought of Rick. And then he realized that too long a time had passed since he'd thought of Gwen.

  Gwen. He yanked his thoughts back around to her, wondering where they'd taken such a sharp turn in another direction. Thanks to Liz, he felt prepared. He was going to bring Gwen there for their date and everything was going to proceed smoothly. He'd have to remember, though, not to let his guard down. It was one thing to get a little lax around Liz and put his elbows on the table or drop his napkin on the floor, but it would be another thing to do it around Gwen.

  "Let's dance," Liz said.

  "Dance?"

  "Sure. It'll be fun. You do know how, don't you?"

  "Yes, I know how."

  Dancing was no problem. What was a problem was the fact that his head felt a little light from the wine, and he'd been enjoying Liz's company way too much. At a time when he needed to concentrate on the woman who could help him reach the number one goal he'd had for the past ten years, he did not need to be thinking about a woman who offered him nothing but a good time, and he certainly shouldn't be holding her, touching her...

  So why was he getting up and following her to the dance floor?

  As Mark took Liz in his arms and began to move to the music, a distant warning bell went off inside his head, telling him to keep her at arm's length because prolonged, intimate contact was not a good thing. That slinky dress of hers felt way too soft and enticing beneath his hand, allowing him to feel her back beneath it as if the dress were barely there at all.