by Amy Hatvany
The man shook his head a little, too, and smiled, revealing white, straight teeth and a cavernous dimple in his left cheek. “The owner, actually. Victor Hansen.” He released his grip on Chad and held out his hand.
I clasped it quickly but firmly, my greet-the-executive, don’t-mess-with-me handshake. “Grace McAllister. Good to meet you. I love this place.”
“Jesus!” Chad interjected. His face flamed red and bits of saliva shot out from his mouth. “If you two are done with your little schmooze-fest, I’d like to know who’s going to pay for my shirt!”
Victor glanced over at Chad’s late-1990s holdover mustard-yellow rayon button-down, reached into his pocket, and offered him a twenty. “This should cover it. Now, why don’t you show some dignity and walk away?”
Chad looked at the bill in Victor’s hand but didn’t take it, then made a disgusted noise before grabbing his coat off the back of his chair and pushing his way through the bar to the front door, knocking into a few chairs and tables as he went. Outside, he threw a middle finger up in the air behind him as he walked by the window where Victor and I stood.
“Wow,” Victor said, tucking his money back in his pocket, “I wonder if his mom knows he escaped her basement?”
I laughed. “Thank you,” I said, reaching into my purse for my credit card. I held it out to him. “I’m happy to pay for our drinks.” The other customers stopped looking at us and returned to their own conversations; the comforting background noise of glasses and silverware tinkling filled the air.
“Oh no,” Victor said, waving my card away. “Those are on me.” He smiled again. “Did you order dinner?”
“No, thank god. Just a drinks date.” I shook my head. “Evidently, I need to work on my screening process.” Maybe I should start asking for men’s relationship résumés and require at least three glowing references before agreeing to meet.
Victor chuckled. “Tough out there, isn’t it?”
My eyes stole a glance down at his left hand. No ring. Hmm. He caught me midglance and lifted his hand up, wiggling his bare fourth finger. “Some detective I’d make, huh?” I laughed again, then reached up to smooth my russet waves.
Luckily, he laughed, too. “So, I’m thinking the least I can do is feed you so the night’s not a total loss. Will you join me for dinner?”
My cheeks flushed, and I dropped my gaze to the floor before looking back up at him and smiling. “I’d like that,” I said, “but will you excuse me a moment? I need to visit the ladies’ room.”
“Of course.” He pointed me in the right direction, and I walked away slowly, conscious of his eyes on me, making sure not to sway my hips in too obvious a manner, but enough so that he’d notice the movement. In the restroom, I stood in front of the full-length mirror and swiped on a touch of tinted lip gloss. I took a step back and examined my reflection. Reddish, shoulder-length hair, mussed in that casual, I-meant-it-to-look-a-little-messy way that had taken me over an hour to achieve. Pale skin, a spattering of freckles on my cheeks that no amount of powder could hide; green eyes, set evenly apart. A swash of mascara was the only makeup I wore besides the lip gloss. My lips were full enough, and the gloss definitely helped. Being that this was the first date night I’d had in several months, I’d taken the time to go shopping and pick out a flattering pair of dark, boot-cut jeans and a slightly clingy green sweater, both of which made the most of my somewhat average figure. My legs looked leaner, and with the help of a good bra, my chest looked perkier than usual. Overall, not too shabby. I pinched my cheeks for a little color and returned to the bar, where I found Victor exactly where I’d left him.
“All set?” he asked, and I nodded, following him through swinging black doors into the kitchen. As we entered, I hesitated. “Um, do you want me to put my order in myself?”
Victor laughed again, took my hand, and led me over to a high-backed, cushioned red booth off to the side of where the servers were gathered. “No, I want you to have the best seat in the house—the chef’s table.” He gestured for me to sit down. “I’ll be right back. What were you drinking? Lemon Drop?”
I smiled. “How did you know?”
“Smelled it on your date.” He winked, then strode over past the stainless steel counter behind which several cooks were either sautéing, whisking, or artfully arranging wonderful-smelling food on square white plates. The energy in the room was kinetic but slowed down as Victor spoke to one of the male chefs, a hugely muscled and handsome man with startling black tribal tattoos on his thick neck and forearms. He looked over at me as Victor talked, then he smiled and gave me a clipped salute in greeting. I gave a short wave back, briefly wondering how many other female patrons Victor had given this treatment.
Victor headed out of the kitchen—to get our drinks, presumably—so I quickly texted Melody, my best friend. “Weird night. On date number two (I think), same restaurant.” She texted back immediately: “WTH? I can’t even get one date!” I smiled to myself, picturing her curled up in her favorite plaid flannel pajamas, eating popcorn, and watching reruns of Sex and the City. “Will explain tomorrow,” I typed, pressing send just as Victor returned with two martinis. Dirty for him, lemon for me.
“So,” he said, “I hope you don’t mind I ordered food for us both. I know the menu pretty well.”
“How do you know what I like?” I asked, taking what I hoped was a dainty sip from my drink.
“Well, I know you don’t like stupid men, so I’m already ahead of the game.” He smiled. “I’m having an assortment of dishes brought out, actually, so you can sample a little of everything.”
“Impressive. Must be nice to be the owner.”
He grinned. “It is. So, what do you do?”
I launched into a short description of my career, how after I got my degree in business management, I’d stumbled into a position as a lowly HR assistant and worked my way up through various companies to an eventual directorship for a local medical center. It was there I learned about Second Chances. I told him how I’d been a volunteer with the organization long before I was one of its employees.
“What made you want to give your time there, in particular?” Victor asked, tilting his head a bit toward his shoulder.
“Well,” I said, “that’s kind of a long story.”
“The good ones usually are.”
“All right then, you asked for it,” I said with a smile. “So, I was in seventh grade when I saw a news segment about this amazing female doctor who traveled the world helping people who’d been affected by all sorts of atrocities—disease, war, famine. Horrible stuff. And I remember being in awe watching her cradle this extremely ill-looking woman, who just clung to her like she hadn’t been held so tenderly in her entire life.” Tears swelled my throat even then, as I recalled the power of that moment. “I guess that image sort of stuck with me. I sort of promised myself to someday be like that doctor . . . helping those who couldn’t help themselves.”
Victor nodded and seemed interested, so I continued, careful not to hop up on my soapbox about the political issues surrounding domestic violence, as I sometimes had the tendency to do when I started talking about my job. “When I heard about the work Second Chances did, it seemed like such a perfect way to fulfill that desire. I mean, HR was great for me professionally, but this was an opportunity to help people on a much more personal level, you know?” He nodded again, and I went on, wrapping the details up as quickly as I could. “I enrolled in crisis counselor training to get qualified to take calls on the help line and started using my business contacts to increase fund-raising donations, and discovered I had a real passion for the work. When the woman who started the organization told me she was retiring, I applied for the position and got it. Most of my management experience is in operations and organizational development, so it’s kind of a perfect fit.”
“I think it’s great that you’re so passionate about what you do,” Victor said, lifting his glass and tilting his head, indicating that I should do the
same. “Congrats.”
I complied, and we clinked our glasses together lightly. “Thank you.”
He took a sip of his drink, then set it back on the table before giving me another smile. “So, I have to ask. What did that guy say to get you so mad?” I gave him a quick recap of Chad’s statements about the role of women in relation to procreating and Victor’s jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me?”
I shrugged. “I guess he didn’t believe me when I told him I’ve chosen not to have kids.”
“Me too,” Victor said. “At least, not any more than I already have.”
I cocked a single eyebrow and apparently looked as confused as I felt, so he pulled out his wallet to show me a picture of two dark-haired, blue-eyed children—a girl and a boy. “Max is six and Ava is twelve,” he said. “They live with their mom, but I see them every other weekend.” His voice was tinged with a tiny bit of sadness, and I automatically wondered what kind of relationship he had with his ex-wife. In the past, if I were mentally reviewing a man’s relationship résumé and it included the word “father” among his experience, I would have moved it to the “no” pile. But it was becoming increasingly difficult for me to find a single man who hadn’t already been married or didn’t have children, so I attempted to keep an open mind. Just because I wasn’t set on having babies didn’t mean I wasn’t looking to fall in love.
“How long have you been divorced?” I asked, keeping the inquiry light. How recently he came back on the dating market played a big part in my decision about whether or not he was relationship material. I wasn’t anxious to be any man’s rebound girl.
“A little over two years,” Victor said. “We get along fairly well, which is great for the kids.”
“Ah,” I said, leaning back against the seat cushion. “They’re adorable.” I realized he was the first person in as long as I could remember who hadn’t immediately asked why I wasn’t anxious to have children as soon as they found this out about me. Another point in his favor.
“They’re also enough,” he said. “I’m thirty-nine, and I don’t plan to have any more.” He looked at me, his expression hesitant. “So, does my daddy status mean this is our last date?”
“Date?” I fiddled with the hem of my sweater and issued what I hoped was an appealing smile. “This isn’t just the owner of the restaurant making up for a customer’s crappy night?”
“I don’t think so.” He gaze became more determined as he reached over and skimmed the top of my hand with his fingertips. “I’d like to see you again.”
His touch sent a shiver through me, and staring into his kind eyes, I felt a twinge somewhere in the vicinity of my belly. Do I do this? I hadn’t dated a man with children before, but something about Victor felt different. Special enough to think he might just be worth taking a chance.
Ava
After Dad moved out, Saturday mornings were the hardest. Saturdays used to be when he didn’t have to get up early and head to the restaurant; Saturdays were when he woke us with the buttery smell of his special homemade vanilla-bean waffles toasting on the griddle and smoky bacon sizzling on the stove. I loved to lie in my bed, breathing in the tendrils of those familiar scents, feeling them wrap around me, warm and comforting as my father’s arms.
“Breakfast, kiddos!” he bellowed when it was ready. “Come and get it while it’s hot!”
Max would scamper down the hallway to beat me to the table, but I stayed in bed with a small, secret smile on my face, knowing exactly what was coming next. My bedroom door was flung open, and Daddy would stomp over to me. “Is there a sleepy little girl in here?” he asked in a teasing, slightly maniacal voice. “Does she need to be tickled to wake up?”
“No!” I’d squeal, my smile growing wider, scrunching myself up against the wall, pretending to try to get away from him.
“Oh, yes!” Dad said, holding his hands out in front of him and wiggling his fingers like crazy.
“Daddy, no!” I said again, but inside I was thinking, Oh, yes!
“It’s time to get uh-up!” he said, and then it would come, the dive-bomb of his fingertips to my sides, and I couldn’t help but shriek, giggling and laughing and writhing around beneath his touch. “Are you awake yet?” he asked, rubbing the short stubble of his beard against my neck to tickle me more. “Are you ready to come have breakfast?”
“Yes!” I yelled, smiling so wide it almost hurt my cheeks. “Okay! I’m coming!”
Dad kissed my cheek and pulled his hands away from my body. “All right then,” he said. “Let’s eat!”
Now that he was gone, now that Mama had asked him to leave, Saturday mornings were quiet, empty of any happy laughter. For breakfast we had cereal or toast, and most of the time, I ended up going into Mama’s room to wake her up so we wouldn’t be late for Max’s soccer games. Just last week, she had forgotten that we were in charge of bringing the snack, and instead of just stopping at the store to buy something like any of the other moms probably would have, she’d rushed to bake a batch of cupcakes before we could leave.
“Yoo-hoo!” she had singsonged as we finally made our way to the field where Max’s game was about to get under way. “Sorry we’re late!”
He’d missed warm-up, but as I carefully balanced the carrying case filled with the chocolate cupcakes, Max raced past us to get to where his coach was picking the starting lineup. The mothers of Max’s teammates barely turned to acknowledge Mama’s greeting. They sat together on the bleachers with heavy plaid blankets over their laps, chattering and laughing at something one of them had said. A group of men stood nearby, laughing and shaking each other’s hands; a few of them shouted encouragement to Max and his teammates. Daddy used to stand with those men, talking and laughing, before he moved out. Now he only came to Max’s games on the Saturdays we were with him.
I set the carrying case on the table next to the cooler full of water bottles and watched as Mama tried again. She fluffed her hair and put on her best, brightest smile. “Hey there,” she said as she walked over to stand next to the group. “Beautiful weather for a game, isn’t it?” It was a cold, crisp fall day.
A heavyset woman with black, straight hair turned her head and gave Mama a false smile in return. “Yes,” she said, as though stating something incredibly obvious. “It is.”
“How’s the other team looking this morning?” Mama asked, shoving her hands into the side pockets of her fitted black leather jacket. The other moms wore Columbia fleece pullovers or earthy-toned wool sweaters. Mama chose tight Levi’s and over-the-knee black boots to match her jacket; the other women had on rain boots or closed-toed Birkenstocks. “Our babies are going to show ’em who’s boss, right?”
No one answered her. Instead, a few of them covered their mouths and stifled coughs. Mama’s chin trembled just the tiniest bit before she sat down on the bottom bleacher and tucked her tiny hands between her legs. I joined her, and she put her arm around me, hugging me to her. I wanted to tell her not to worry—that she was prettier than all those other women. Nicer, too. But I didn’t know if I should. If it was good for her to know that I could see the sadness in her eyes when she looked at them—the longing to be made a part of their group. Mama and I were alike that way. She had Diane and I had my best friend, Bree, but that was pretty much it. She looked at those women like I looked at the popular girls at school. Like, Please, just give me a chance.
One of the fathers noticed Mama sitting on the edge of the bleachers. He was tall and barrel chested, with sandy blond hair and a goatee. He made a comment under his breath to the other men, and a few of them snickered in response. He walked over to us, propped his foot up on the edge of the bleacher right next to Mama’s leg, and leaned on his thigh with his forearm. “Hey, Kelli,” he said. “How are you?” His words were slick, as though coated in oil as they slid from his mouth.
Mama gave him a sparkling smile. “Well, I’m just fine, thank you very much.” Her voice was bubbly, practically dripping with enthusiasm. “How are you
?”
“Better now,” he said with a wink, and my stomach clenched. I was pretty sure he was Carter’s dad, and the husband of the black-haired, heavy woman, who I only knew as “Carter’s mom.” I didn’t like the way he was looking at Mama. I didn’t like how hairy his knuckles were, either.
“Honey,” Carter’s mom called out, noticing her husband talking to us. “Are you watching the game?”
“Carter’s not even on the field yet,” he said sharply, giving her a hard look. Then he turned his gaze back to Mama, softening it. “I feel like I haven’t seen you around much. I was sorry to hear about you and Victor. You two always seemed so happy.”
Mama kept her smile bright, but I saw the flash of grief in her eyes. Even after all of this time, she still seemed to miss him. A few weeks ago, she had accidentally set a place for him at the dinner table. “I guess things aren’t always as they seem,” she said to Carter’s father now.
“I guess not,” he said with a chuckle. He glanced toward the parking lot. “Is Victor coming today?”
Mama shook her head. “He wanted to, but he’s working. He’ll be here next week, for sure. It’s his weekend with the kids.” He wanted to? If that was true, it was news to me. I wondered if Mama made that up.
Carter’s dad leaned down, closer to Mama. “And what about you?” he almost whispered. “Will you be here?”
“Mike!” Carter’s mom said loudly. “Can you please get me another blanket from the car? It’s colder than I thought out here.”
Carter’s dad straightened, put both feet back on the ground, and winked at Mama before he looked up at his wife. “Sure thing,” he said flatly. He let his fingers brush against Mama’s arm as he walked past her, and I saw Mama shrink back.
“He’s gross,” I whispered to Mama, and she turned her head, her lips pursed.
“You hush, now. That’s impolite.”
“So was he!” I said, maybe a little too loudly.