Moon Over Miami: A Romantic Comedy

by Jane Graves

  "Good heavens, no!"

  "But now that I do know..." Gwen raised an eyebrow and gave her friend a conspiratorial smile. "It suddenly makes him so much more attractive."

  Liz's mouth fell open with disbelief. Then she narrowed her eyes angrily. So that was it. It wasn't the fact that Mark suddenly looked so handsome. That was merely icing on the cake. Gwen was after his money.

  "I'm telling you," Gwen said, "there's nothing more tiring than trying to motivate a man into being successful. It's so much easier to find one who's on the edge, then..." Gwen held up a finger and flicked it in the air. "Push him over."

  "Sounds like a plan to me. This is your first date, right?"

  "Yes. But now that I know what potential I'm dealing with, I can assure you it won't be our last." Gwen gave her lips a practiced swipe with a tube of lipstick, then capped it and tucked it back into her purse. "Tonight we're going to Rosario's."

  "Ahh. The test."

  "He's not the most sophisticated man I've ever met, so this should be interesting."

  "Think he'll pass?"

  "With money like that on the horizon, as long as he doesn't drink from the finger bowl I'd say there's hope."

  It was all Liz could do not to stomp out of that stall and shove that tube of lipstick right up Gwen's nose. Why had she gone to that stupid restaurant with Mark to help him learn exactly what to do? Was it too late to tell him that the liquid in that little bowl was actually very weak soup?

  "And the best part," Gwen went on, "is that he seems to be a very nice guy."

  "Hmm. I never thought you considered that much of a selling point."

  "Why, of course I do. Nice men are so much easier to manipulate."

  "And if he doesn't get the partnership?"

  Gwen smiled. "There are a lot more fish in the ocean. I'll just throw this one back and catch another one."

  Forget shoving the lipstick up her nose. Liz wanted to send her face first into the toilet. The worst part was that Mark had everything that little golddigger was looking for. Not only was she getting an attractive man with money, she was also getting a man who could send her to heaven with a single kiss. Once Gwen realized the package deal was that sweet, no force on earth could pry her claws out of him.

  The two women left the bathroom. Liz ripped the stall door open, fury bubbling inside her. What should she do now? Could she tell Mark the truth? Would he believe her?

  She pictured the hurt expression that would fall over his face when he realized his confident new image had nothing to do with Gwen's interest, but his bank book did. Then she pictured his really hurt expression when he found out the same thing a month or two from now.

  She had to stop him from spending another minute with that woman.

  She marched out of the bathroom and up the hall toward the bar, but every step she took was slower than the last. Finally she stopped completely, overcome with indecision. What was she going to do? Confront Gwen right then in a crowded club and humiliate Mark in the process?

  She glanced toward their table. Mark was rising to escort Gwen out of the club. Even at this distance, she could see the expression on his face, as if heaven had decided to send an angel to earth and he was the lucky recipient. Liz wanted desperately to scream at him. Mark! Don't go! She'll never love you for you! She's only after your money!

  Instead, her feet remained fused to the floor and her mouth stayed shut. In the end, she just couldn't do it.

  And then they were gone.

  Liz drew in a couple of deep breaths. After a few shaky moments, she went back to the bar.

  Mark had never even looked at her. Never glanced toward the bar, never come over to say hello. Nothing. She felt as if she'd lost something very precious, but she had to admit it was something she'd never really had in the first place.

  She picked up a drink order, drew two beers, then placed them mindlessly onto a tray.

  Just try to put him out of your mind.

  A couple at the end of the bar ordered two of her signature margaritas, but as she held the bottle of tequila over one of the glasses, she found she couldn't remember how much to put into a drink she'd made approximately half a zillion times. She stared at the glass, blinking dumbly.

  Don't think about Mark. Think about work.

  Finally she remembered and finished the drinks. She'd just set them in front of the couple and turned to grab another order when someone sitting at the end of the bar caught her eye—a woman with long black dreadlocks, wearing a multicolored dress in a tropical print and a wrist full of bangle bracelets. Like almost ever other person in the place, she was poking away at a cell phone. For a moment Liz couldn't imagine why the woman looked so familiar. Then it struck her.

  Kiki. She looks just like Kiki.

  No. That was impossible. Well, not impossible, but what were the odds that a beach waitress she'd met at a Jamaican resort hotel a few weeks ago would be sitting at her bar right now? In any case, Liz knew she should go over there and take her drink order, but for some reason her feet felt frozen to the floor.

  Then all at once the woman looked up from her phone. She fixed her gaze on Liz, and a small, knowing small crossed her lips. Liz imagined what that smile was saying. Hello, sweetness. You're not losin' faith, now are you?

  Liz's heart jolted hard. It's her, it's her, it's her!

  "Ma'am! Excuse me?"

  Liz whipped around. "Yes?"

  "We ordered these margaritas without salt on the rim. These have salt."

  "Oh! I'm so sorry!" She grabbed their glasses. "I'll make new ones." She dumped out the drinks to start over, then turned to look at the woman at the end of the bar again.

  She was gone.

  Liz blinked. Blinked again. She scanned the area. Looked toward the front door.

  She was nowhere to be seen.

  "Sherri!" Liz called out. "Watch the bar, will you?"

  Liz ducked under the bar and headed for the ladies' room. She opened the door so quickly she nearly knocked down another woman coming out.

  A woman who wasn't Kiki.

  Liz scanned the bathroom. She even looked for legs under the stall doors.

  Nothing.

  She walked back out to the bar, making one last visual pass over the room. When she still didn't see the woman, Liz decided she must have slipped away in the crowd while her back was turned, except that it really wasn't all that crowded in there for a Saturday night.

  Oh, hell. What did it matter? It wasn't Kiki, anyway. No matter how much Liz wanted some kind of explanation for why the Jamaican woman's crazy prediction had suddenly gone so wrong, any random woman who happened to look like her wasn't going to be able to provide it.

  "What was that all about?" Sherri asked her.

  "Full moon. True love. A crazy woman who had no idea what she was talking about, who was not, by the way, sitting at my bar two minutes ago."

  "Huh?"

  Liz sighed. ”Never mind."

  She grabbed new margarita glasses. She fixed that problem, only to make a martini for another customer that she spilled immediately after plopping the olive into it. The glass clattered against the bar, sloshing gin into the woman's lap. The olive rolled along with the alcohol wave, coming to a squishy stop at the edge of the bar.

  Enough was enough.

  Liz apologized profusely to the woman, cleaned up the mess, took off her apron, then told her boss she felt sick and wanted to go home. He wasn't happy about that, but she'd told the truth. She really did feel sick, and she didn't expect to feel better any time soon.

  Once she got home, she went to her bathroom, filled her tub and soaked for half an hour, trying to wash away thoughts of Mark. But every time she closed her eyes to relax, she saw that overpriced restaurant with its glowing candlelight and soft ivory table linens and glittering crystal, and that horrible woman smiling at Mark over a glass of Chardonnay, her devious mind making plans for their future that undoubtedly involved his platinum AmEx card and a very large joint che
cking account. Liz started having a few fantasies of her own, only hers involved creative ways she might be able to do away with Gwen, hide the body, and not get caught.

  Finally Liz got out of the bathtub and put on her ratty terrycloth robe, then plopped down on the sofa, grabbed her phone and dialed her mother's number. A few seconds later she heard her mother's voice.

  "Hello?"

  "Hi, Mom. It's me."

  "Hi, baby! How's it going?"

  Liz sighed. "Lousy."

  "Uh oh. Is this gonna be a long story?"

  "Probably."

  "Okay. Hold on. Let me grab my cigarettes."

  Liz heard some shuffling around, then the muffled sound of the fridge door opening and closing. If she knew her mother, she'd just pulled out a Bud Light to go with her Virginia Slims. Liz heard a kitchen chair scrape across the linoleum floor, then her mother plopping down with a comfortable sigh and a flick of her Bic.

  "Okay, baby. Shoot."

  She told her mother the whole story, starting with the first night she'd tried to help Mark meet Gwen, and ending with the fact that the same woman was about to snag him for all the wrong reasons, emphasizing the fact that this particular woman was the most vile creature who'd ever lived. Liz left out the part about how she felt about Mark, because that wasn't the issue. The issue was saving Mark from Gwen.

  Her mother listened, with only an occasional "uh huh" to encourage Liz to continue.

  "He's on a date with her right now," Liz said, when she'd gotten to the end of the story. "What should I do?"

  She heard her mother take a long drag on her cigarette and blow it out slowly. "Nothing."

  "Nothing? But Mom, she's so wrong for him!"

  "Let him figure that out for himself."

  "I just don't think--"

  "Baby, sometimes the best thing you can do for people who desperately want the wrong thing is to let them have what they want so they can realize they don't want it after all."

  "But he doesn't know what a rotten, underhanded woman she is!"

  "Is he a smart man?"

  "Well, yeah, but--"

  "You think he can't figure out what kind of woman she is, so he needs you to tell him?"

  "Well, of course, he could figure it out--"

  "Then let him."

  "But--"

  "What can you do right now, anyway? Call him while he's at the restaurant? Tell him what a God-awful woman his date is? That'd go over real big."

  "Maybe tomorrow--"

  "No, baby. It's time for you to butt out. If she's really wrong for him, he'll know it. And he'll dump her."

  "But what if he doesn't?"

  "Don't worry. If he's the man for you, he'll come to his senses."

  "The man for me?"

  Her mother was silent.

  "I didn't say anything about wanting him for myself!"

  Her mother laughed softly. "Baby, you may be able to fool the rest of the world, but you've never been able to fool your mother."

  Liz sighed with disgust. "Oh, all right! I'm crazy about him. Does that make you happy?"

  "Don't make me one way or the other. But it looks like it's making you miserable."

  "Yes! Because he doesn't want me. He wants her!" Liz leaned her head against the back of the sofa and closed her eyes. "Mom, what am I going to do?"

  "I told you what to do. Nothing."

  "But what if he doesn't figure it out?" Then Liz had an even more terrible thought. "Or what if he knows, and he doesn't care?"

  "Nah. It won't be anything like that. He's a wonderful man."

  "How do you know that? You've never even met him."

  "Because you wouldn't be so crazy about him if he wasn't. Next time you come home, you bring him along, you hear?"

  With that, her mother hung up. Liz stared at the phone in disbelief. Bring him along? Her mother was only fifty-seven. Senile dementia couldn't possibly have set in. But evidently her hearing was going fast, because she obviously hadn't heard her say that Mark wanted another woman.

  Liz sighed heavily. As right as Laura Lee Prescott had been all her life about everyone else's problems, why did she have to choose this moment to be so wrong about her own daughter's?

  Her mother was right about one thing, though. There wasn't anything she could do about it tonight, even if she wanted to. All she could do is get a pint of Ben & Jerry's out of the freezer, plop back down on the sofa and add a few inches to her hip measurement, while she spent the rest of the evening picturing the man she wanted with the woman she hated.

  Did it get any more pitiful than that?

  10

  Mark stared across the candlelit table at Gwen, thinking that she was everything he'd expected, and more. She blended into Rosario's like a jewel blended into a golden crown. She wore a powder blue dress in a silky fabric that stopped a modest two inches above her knees. Her hair was put up in one of those intricate twist things that was probably the result of hours in a beauty shop. She walked with the grace of a duchess and displayed manners that said there was a headmistress out there somewhere glowing with pride. It was as if every quality he needed in a woman had come together in one highly attractive package.

  The table they'd been given was perfection, too. It sat beside a huge picture window that looked out on a garden full of flowering shrubs and trees strung with tiny white lights. Pale evening light shone through the window, mingling with the glow from the candle on their table, lending a celestial quality to Gwen's already impeccable beauty.

  Gwen was perfect. The setting was perfect. His nervousness eased a bit.

  So far, so good.

  Rick sauntered up to their table, doing his very best stuck-up waiter imitation. Knowing what he knew now, Mark almost laughed at the phony expression of arrogance the guy wore. Gwen, however, didn't seem to find it the least bit suspect.

  "Mr. McAlister. It's a pleasure to see you this evening."

  "Ricardo."

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gwen glancing back and forth between him and Rick. The waiter knows you?

  Mark smiled to himself. True to his word, Rick was going to make this an evening to remember. Evidently he hoped Mark would put in a good word for him with Liz. Mark frowned at that thought, then brushed it aside.

  They'd made better time from Gwen's apartment than he anticipated, making them early for the reservation, so she'd suggested stopping off at Simon's for a before-dinner drink. Mark had hoped it would be Liz's night off, but then he glanced over and saw her working behind the bar. All at once he remembered the way she'd felt in his arms, and it was all he could do not to go over there and repeat the experience.

  Instead, he chose a table across the club and sat with his back to the bar, hoping she wouldn't see him. He didn't know whether she had or not, but he'd been acutely aware of her being there nonetheless. Even now she popped into his mind, distracting him from the task at hand.

  Rule number one: Do not think about Liz tonight.

  Rick handed them menus and Mark the wine list, and when he returned, Gwen ordered an appetizer of smoked salmon and a salad of spinach and radicchio with a raspberry vinaigrette dressing. Then she went for the lobster. He checked the price of it and just about choked. Would she have chosen that if she had a menu with prices and knew how incredibly expensive it was? Probably. Women like Gwen expected the finer things in life, and it wasn't as if he couldn't afford it.

  When it came Mark's turn to order, he decided to go with the same things Gwen had chosen, figuring he couldn't go wrong with that no matter how much it rattled his bank account.

  "Would you like wine with dinner this evening?" Rick asked.

  Mark skimmed the wine list, then handed it back to Rick. "Bring us the Blackthorn Chardonnay."

  "Excellent choice. It should compliment the lobster nicely."

  Mark turned to Gwen. "I assume that's all right with you?"

  She seemed shocked that he'd actually chosen a wine, and that his choice had the waiter's bles
sing. "Of course."

  "Very good, sir." Rick nodded and headed to the next table. A few minutes later, he brought their wine. Mark went through the wine testing procedure, feeling perfectly confident. Rick poured them both a glass, then stepped away from the table, and he and Gwen talked while waiting for their food to arrive.

  To Mark's relief, conversation came easily. Gwen's favorite topic, for some reason, seemed to be his job, because she asked him every question in the world about it. He told himself that was a good thing. If she was interested in his work, didn't that translate into being interested in him?

  As they ate their appetizers, Gwen told Mark they weren't quite chilled enough, and their salads, she said, were a bit on the wilted side. She didn't seem thrilled with the lobster, either, and told Rick so. He apologized profusely, and she asked him to inform the chef that while it was edible, it was quite overcooked. Rick nodded, but as he strode away from the table out of Gwen's sight, he glanced back at Mark and rolled his eyes.

  They continued with dinner, which Gwen consumed with surprising gusto considering her distaste for overcooked lobster. They talked about various things--the current trends in the stock market, the benefits of one mutual fund versus another, the value of investing in real estate. Actually, Gwen asked a lot of questions, some generic in nature, some personal, and Mark answered them. His responses seemed to please her greatly, which he guessed was a good thing. All in all, everything was going better than he'd expected.

  He thought about his company function. Before the evening was over, he could ask Gwen if she'd like to come with him, and he had all the confidence in the world that she would accept. Basically, everything was perfect.

  And now he knew just how irritating perfection could be.

  As the meal wore on, Gwen's soft, cultured voice started to drone, like a mosquito buzzing around his ear, and he really had to concentrate to catch what she was saying. Those icy blue eyes of hers were stunning, but whenever he met her gaze he felt as if he were looking into...well, nothing. Rick had looked at Gwen a lot, too, but every one of those looks had been full of distaste, unlike the complete and total adoration he'd shown for Liz.