by Tamara Leigh
“Can you make that out?” I point to the menu under the large, bold type: SEAFOOD SELECTIONS.
Michael scoots his chair nearer. “Lemon herb-crusted bay scallops.”
“Sounds good. I’ll take it.”
“You sure? I can read the rest for you.”
Though he knows the situation with my specs—and made no pretense of hiding his pleasure!—I can’t stand my visual helplessness. “I like lemon. I like herbs. I like scallops. Works for me.”
As he returns his attention to his own menu, I take in the restaurant, which occupies a prominent, high-rent corner of Ghirardelli Square. “Nice place.”
Very nice with a tiered dining room, surfeit of mahogany and brass, and a panoramic view of San Francisco Bay. I don’t even want to guess what this night is going to cost Michael.
He scoots nearer yet. “The place to eat and be seen. And as great as you look, Kate, you ought to be seen.”
There’s that appreciative gleam again. Wonder if I’ll ever get tired of it? Not that men haven’t “gleamed” at me before. They have, especially when I was fresh out of my teen years and more concerned with makeup, clothes, and body. Before Christopher asked for his ring—
Stuffing the memory back in its hole, I reach to the blue glass and sterling silver bracelet and rub the Believe medallion.
I believe. I do.
“Blah, blah, blah,” says Michael.
Well, not “Blah, blah, blah,” but that’s what my wandering mind hears as I stare out the window toward Alcatraz Island, the infamous federal prison that once housed criminals but now caters to tourists.
Releasing the view back into the wild, I look into Michael’s eyes. “Hmm?”
“On a slow boat to China?”
I laugh. “Sorry.”
“No problem. I was just saying I’m glad you wore the outfit tonight.”
Less my foot-friendly Birkies. Grateful for the tablecloth that conceals the heels I slipped off once we were seated, I inwardly grimace at the Band-Aids required to make the shoes tolerable. What was I thinking? Though the Birkies would have been inappropriate for a night out, I could have worn flats. Vanity is definitely the mother of foolishness.
I finger the jacket’s fuchsia edging. “I’ve received several compliments.”
“Is that all?”
I make a face. “I don’t get around as much as you, Mr. Palmier.”
“Michael,” he once more corrects. Why am I having difficulty addressing him informally—especially as he’s become Michael in my thoughts?
“Sorry—Michael.”
He props his chin on an upturned hand. And not for the first time, I wonder how a man who shaves his head can be so good-looking. Maia has to be stewing—or drowning her confusion in her married boyfriend.
Hoping it’s not the latter, I remind myself of my matchmaking mission for the good of mankind. Or should I say “married kind”?
“Now, Maia—” I squash the impulse to push up my absent specs—“gets around more than I.”
A knowing gleam replaces the appreciative one. “I’ll bet she does.”
Set myself up for that one, didn’t I? “What I mean is that she’s worldly.”
He slips from attentive to bored. “Like every other woman I meet.”
This isn’t going the way I expected. Deep breath. “She’s really an interesting woman.”
“I’ll take your word for that.”
Oookay. “Did I mention we’re housemates?”
He perks up. “That explains a lot.”
“What?”
“Why you’re so mismatched. You’re not actually friends, are you?”
Does this mean he might pull the makeover pictures? Hmm. Might be a good thing. Still, I can’t abandon Maia, nor my plans to convert her to single men.
“Though we’re not best friends, we are friends. In a way. I mean, we’ve been housemates for going on three years. After all that time, you get to know one another. And, uh, form a bond. A friendship. Yeah.”
His snort causes nearby diners to glance our way. “Admit it, Kate. Maia stays on her side of the house, and you stay on yours.”
Uh-oh. “Well, most of the time, but we work different hours and—”
“Kate.”
“Did you know she’s a stockbroker?”
“So she said—several times.” He closes a hand over mine in my lap. “Listen, I don’t want to talk about Maia. I want to talk about you.”
“Why?” I almost bark, surprising us both.
He recovers before me. “I like you. So if you have some plan to hook me up with your supposed friend, I’m telling you it’s not going to happen.”
Not going at all the way I expected. “You like me? But Maia’s beautiful and—”
“I see plenty of beautiful women in my line of work. That’s not what I’m looking for.”
I really hope that wasn’t a slam.
“I don’t understand.” Ah. Maybe I do. “Has some biological clock started ticking that I should know about?”
He shrugs. “I’m thirty-eight, been everywhere I care to go, seen everything I care to see, and experienced everything I care to experience. What’s left but to settle down?”
Yup. Ticktock, ticktock, but not with this clock who has sworn off men—even if it is for the second time this year.
“If you’re trying to sweep me off my feet, Michael, it’s not working.”
He chuckles. “I’m being honest.” He squeezes my hand. “From the moment I saw you outside the coffee shop, I was enchanted.”
“Enchanted?” It’s my turn to snort, and I use the moment of levity to pull my hand free. Thankfully, he doesn’t leave his in my lap. “If you recall, I was not only wearing specs, a sweatshirt, and exercise pants, but I was rewriting the definition of glowing.”
“And you weren’t the least bit concerned.”
As I stare at him, a thought occurs, as in Where’s the camera? I eye the ceiling, the walls, the floor. “Is this one of those crazy twists on a Candid Camera reality show?”
Michael throws back his head and laughs. Not a Clive Alexander laugh—loud rather than full, shallow rather than deep. However, it does prove useful, as it causes our waitress to finally notice us.
Wearing a chic black apron, she hastens across the dining room and shakes her head, which causes her blond ponytail to swish. “Ready to order?”
Michael’s laughter ends on a sigh. “For some time now.”
With a look of annoyance, she pulls out her pad and raises an eyebrow. “Ma’am?”
“I’ll take a dinner salad with blue—”
“That would be our house salad.” She proceeds to scratch on her pad.
Right. “With blue cheese dressing—”
“Roquefort.” She scratches some more. “And for your entrée?”
“The lemon scallops.”
“Herb-crusted?”
How did my order turn into the third degree? “What other kinds of lemon scallops do you have?”
She sighs. “Just the herb-crusted ones, ma’am.”
“Then—” I suppress a smile—“that’s what I’ll have.”
Scratch, scratch. “Good choice.” She gives her ponytail another swish. “And for your side?”
“Rice.”
“Wild rice?”
Here we go again. “Is there any other kind?”
“No, ma’am.” She taps her pencil on her pad.
I press my shoulders back. “Then wild rice it is.”
Scratch, scratch. “And you, sir?”
Light dancing in his eyes, Michael places his order with pretty much the same result.
When the waitress swish-swishes away, I slide my gaze to him. “The place to eat?”
Smiling, he crosses his arms on the table. “So why is it hard to believe I’m interested in you, Kate?”
“I’m hardly your type.”
“How do you know that?”
“To begin with, I’m thirty-three y
ears old.” Hate to admit that.
“Believe me, Kate, thirty-three isn’t old. You still have plenty of childbearing years ahead of you.”
Pang. Not my type at all. So glad I’ve sworn off men.
I lift my water goblet and take a long sip. “So, your biological clock is telling you it’s time to go forth and multiply, hmm?”
“Go forth and multiply—I like that.” His lids narrow. “You’re religious, aren’t you?”
I’m always surprised at how personal a question that is, especially coming from someone of the opposite sex. It’s almost like being asked my bra size. Though I know it’s wrong to feel that way and that I should proudly proclaim my beliefs, I don’t deal well with rejection.
I stiffen my upper lip. “I’m a Christian. And you?”
“Buddhist.”
I startle.
He laughs. “Just kidding.”
Whew! I think. “Then?”
“Christian.”
“Really?”
“Sort of. I was saved at sixteen, but that’s pretty much the extent of my religious experience. So I suppose I’m a Christian, provided there’s no expiration date.”
At the realization that I’m not treading on completely foreign ground, I brighten. “Of course there’s no expiration date. Once saved—”
“—always saved.”
Hey! Maybe I could date this guy. Maybe we’re not so different. Maybe there is a future for us. Maybe I was too hasty in swearing off men.
“What about you, Kate? Is your biological clock telling you to ‘go forth and multiply’?”
Maybe not.
I moisten my lips. “Not really.”
“Neither is mine.”
I frown.
“I just want to find a good woman and spend the rest of my life with her.”
“And somewhere in there have children.”
“Actually, I could take ’em or leave ’em.”
Did I hear right? Did this single, attractive, successful something-of-a-Christian really say that? Might God have finally dropped “The One” in my lap?
It’s possible …
“Not only am I the eldest of six siblings—” he gives me a meaningful look—“but between them, they’ve given me tons of nieces and nephews.”
Possible …
“I assure you, if I never have a child of my own, I’m more than covered.”
Very possible …
“In fact, I dedicated my bestselling book to the lot of them, including two who weren’t yet born.”
Realizing he’s waiting for a reaction to his author status, I say, “The Makeup Bible? Maia mentioned it.”
His face brightens. “Did she?”
“Yeah.”
“Great title, huh?”
“Well, I did wonder about the Bible part of it.”
Disbelief crosses his face only to be replaced by an air of patience. “Think about it, Kate. Isn’t the Bible considered life’s greatest instruction book?”
Though he’s misunderstood my concern over the use of Bible, I’m pleased by his regard for God’s Word. “Absolutely.”
“Well, just as the original Bible covers every aspect of how to live, The Makeup Bible covers every aspect of how to display and preserve a woman’s beauty. Clever, no?”
He thinks I’m thick.
“Yeah.” I have every intention of dropping the subject, but the thought that follows finds its way to my lips. “Of course, my grandmother might take issue with it.”
Michael tilts his head to the side. “She’d be offended?”
I nod. “She was very spiritual.”
“Was?”
“She passed away years ago.”
“Sorry. Were you close?”
“With the exception of my teen years—yes. She and my grandfather raised me.”
“Oh?”
“Um-hmm. My parents died when their two-seater plane went down in the Sierra Nevada mountains.”
“That must have been hard on you.”
I shrug off the twinge of loss. “I was only three.”
A semiuncomfortable silence descends until Michael says, “So your grandparents raised you to be a Christian.”
“Grandmother tried, but with the support of my agnostic grandfather, I managed to stay a step ahead of her—or should I say behind her?”
Michael smiles. “Is your grandfather still agnostic?”
I feel a twist at my center. “He passed away two years after my grandmother—still the doubting Thomas.”
“Sorry to hear that.” Before the silence creeps in again, Michael says, “I’m assuming you have no siblings.”
“None.”
“So you’re pretty much alone in the world.”
I’ve concluded the same thing numerous times, especially at night when it’s just me, my pillow, and a bad case of self-pity, but it’s not true. Though I’m hardly drowning in friends, there are people who care about me—foremost among them Belle and Beau.
I draw a deep breath. “I’m a Christian, Michael. How can I be alone?”
He breaks into a smile. “I like you, Kate.”
“And I like you.” Though not as much as Clive Alexander—
Who is strictly business!
Michael gives an abrupt nod. “Then let’s take a chance and see if we make a good fit.”
Whoa! This is so … whirlwind. And yet the temptation is there despite the little voice that mutters something about matchmaking and swearing off men. Thus, I find myself mentally constructing a list.
Pros Cons
He’s a Christian! Not a practicing Christian.
Christian groundwork laid. May not be truly saved.
Children not essential to existence. May change his mind
Great looking. Is he balding? Or just fashionable?
Successful. Exposure to lots of beautiful women.
“Kate?”
My columns dissolve. “Don’t you think this is moving a bit fast? I mean, we just met a few days ago.”
“Four days.”
He’s keeping count, is he? “My point exactly.”
“Come on. It’s not like I’m proposing or asking for exclusive rights. As I’ll continue to date other women, I have no objections to you dating other men.”
That’s assuming there are other men. And, lo and behold, Clive Alexander rises to mind again.
Michael squeezes my hand. “I want to get to know you, to see if you might be the one.”
That’s twice in one day. First, Clive said I was “The One”—well, the one to paint the burn unit—and now Michael. Difference is, it appears Michael and I agree on the same definition, whereas Clive—
Why does that man keep intruding on my date? With a spurt of defiance, I meet Michael’s gaze. “All right. Let’s get to know each other.”
He beams and leans forward.
I catch my breath at the feel of his mouth on mine and nearly pull back; however, the kiss is nice—no pawing, no drooling, no scene setting. Just a kiss.
As he draws back, I lift my lids. “Mmm.”
He traces a finger beneath my bottom lip and contemplates my mouth as if there’s nothing he’d rather do than take an extended tour of it. As if—
“Have you given any more thought to having your teeth bonded?”
He has no idea how fortunate he is that I’m no longer susceptible to PMS. I lower my smile over my imperfect teeth. “Not really.”
He removes a business card from his shirt pocket. “Dr. Neimer, the best in the business. Mention my name and he’ll give you a discount.”
Staring at the little white card, I bite my lip with the gapped offenders. This was premeditated. He made a point of toting it along to give to me—a woman he claims enchanted him. True, with his help I cleaned up nicely, but if he thinks he’s going to completely make me over, he can find himself another girlfriend—
Oh dear, what have I done? At what point did I hop the fence between matchmaker and girlfriend? T
his wasn’t for me. It was for Maia. And here I am contemplating a future with this man. Not to mention tooth bonding! And contacts!
Goodness, it really has been a long time since a man paid me any attention.
“Hey.” Michael reaches up and smoothes my brow. “If you keep frowning like that, you’ll cause those frown lines to deepen.”
Lord, what have I gotten myself into?
Wednesday, March 21
Dear Lord,
Thank You for caterpillars changing to butterflies, great haircuts, flattering outfits, appreciative gleams, and men who open doors for women. Thank You for little-girl smiles, little-girl courage, and little-girl faith. Thank You for children’s hospitals and skilled surgeons’ hands. Thank You for misunderstandings set right, widowers who continue to wear their wedding rings, and memorials to lost loves. Thank You for men who don’t require children to complete them and who kiss without groping. BTW, did You drop Michael in my lap? If so, does that mean he’s “The One”?
Help me to be discerning in future areas of self-improvement and not to allow the new me to go to my head. As always, help me guard my tongue and not be quick to judge others. Please be with Jessica during her surgery tomorrow—and Dr. Alexander! And please continue to watch over Belle, Beau, and baby.
Yours,
Kate
PS: Told You I’d catch up on my Bible time.
eow! Refusing to rub my eyes, I blink … squeeze and blink … and squeeze a dozen more times until I realize I’ve become an object of interest. As I focus through tears on the figure emerging from the hospital room, I nearly groan.
“Ms. Meadows.” Dr. Alexander steps toward me. “Are you all right?”
“Yes!” I push off the wall I’ve been leaning against for ten minutes only to duck my head and rub my eyes.
“What is it?” His shoes appear amid my swimming vision. “Something in your eye?”
“Uh-huh.” Two somethings. Rub, rub.
“Let me see.” He lifts my chin.
For a moment, I’m too frisson-wracked to do anything but peer at him through narrowed lids.
“Ah, contacts—and colored ones at that.”
Yes, I took Michael’s advice, though not intentionally. Curiosity made me ask my optometrist whether I was a candidate. He’d pointed out that women on HRT can be intolerant of contacts, but the only way to know for certain is to give them a try. Next thing I knew, I was pointing to the colors I liked—green and blue—remarking on how easily he fit them to my eyes and exclaiming over how comfortable they felt. What went wrong?