Teach Me

by Olivia Dade

  He eyed the ornate ironwork around Milano’s entrance. “Somehow, I think your generosity will be rewarded tonight. Manifold.”

  “It’s my birthday. I deserve good food.” She heaved open the heavy wooden door. “I heard amazing things about this place. Apparently, I need to try the truffle risotto.”

  Truffles? Jesus.

  Why her classmates were talking about a restaurant like this, he’d never know. When he’d checked out the menu online, he’d failed to spot any prices, which was always, always a bad sign. As the old saying went: If you had to ask, you couldn’t afford it.

  But his girl was turning eighteen tonight, and she never asked for much. If she wanted truffle risotto, he’d eat a few more servings of cheesy mac and give her some damn truffle risotto. Next year, she’d probably be thousands of miles away and unable to empty his bank account in a single meal.

  Her college applications had been mailed months ago. Other than Marysburg University, all her choices would require a significant amount of travel. Too much travel for frequent visits.

  He swallowed past the thickness in his throat and followed her to the etched-glass table inside the restaurant’s entrance. After a quick glance at Milano’s lush, velvet curtains and tufted chairs, he revised his estimate of the night’s bill a hundred dollars higher.

  Then his eye caught on a familiar tilt of the head, a familiar bitter-coffee shade of hair. Only he’d never seen Rose’s hair down before, except after the dunk tank. Never seen it ripple over her shoulders—bare shoulders, he noted with another hard swallow—in waves that shone in the candlelight.

  “Krause. Reservation for two,” Bea informed the maître d’.

  Rose was sitting at a round table beneath a crystal chandelier, cinched into what appeared to be the classiest black bustier in existence. The tops of her breasts gleamed pale, and they rippled in a hypnotic way when she laughed.

  Wait. Why was she laughing? Was she on a date?

  He forced his eyes away from her magnificence, only to see—thank goodness—an older couple at her table. Physically, they didn’t much resemble her, since both the man and woman were slight of build and several inches shorter than Rose, even seated. But the woman was wearing black from head to toe, her dress formed from a draped fabric that looked soft and delicate and expensive, even across the room. Her silver hair smoothed back into a flawless twist, one that looked very familiar. She was smiling at Rose with the sort of doting affection he’d seen in pictures of himself and Bea.

  Obviously, these were Rose’s parents. He’d known she came from money, her knowledge of Little Debbie’s baking talents notwithstanding.

  “Dad?” A tug at his arm.

  He’d wanted to take Rose someplace like this for Valentine’s Day, but he hadn’t. He hadn’t even asked. Ever since that staff meeting in January—where he would have sworn, sworn, she was flirting with him, if only a tiny bit—she’d remained friendly, but hadn’t given him any indication she considered him more than a colleague and casual friend. Someone with whom she could grab coffee occasionally, but no one she’d date.

  And he’d decided months ago that he couldn’t tell her how he felt or ask her out. Not if he didn’t know she trusted him. Not if she wouldn’t share her past with him. Or her present, for that matter, which was currently sitting across from her in a restaurant he could barely afford.

  Maybe that decision was just an excuse to justify his own self-doubts, but if so, it was a good one.

  Another tug. “What are you—oh. Oh, that’s fantastic! Hey, Ms. Owens!”

  Motherfucker. He should have known.

  By the time he returned his attention to Bea, he’d missed his chance to stave off disaster. His daughter had already waved off the tuxedo-clad woman behind the desk and was rushing toward Rose’s table, as Rose and her parents looked up in startlement.

  He followed as quickly as he could, but there was no catching Bea in full flight. The school’s damn track team had done too good a job.

  Rose and her parents stood as Bea approached, and they all smiled at her with seemingly sincere welcome. But when Rose spotted him in hot pursuit of his daughter, she froze in place.

  “—so I told him I wanted to come to Milano for my eighteenth birthday, because you said such incredible things about the truffle risotto, Ms. Owens, but I had no idea you’d be here tonight.” Bea flung out her arms. “What an amazing coincidence!”

  Apparently, his girl had spent some time with Rose, unbeknownst to him.

  Next time he saw Rose at school, he was going to request that she rave about Chipotle in the future.

  “I’m sorry,” he mouthed to her as Bea continued to talk.

  She jerked a little, then lifted a smooth, round shoulder in an elegant shrug.

  “Are these your parents?” Bea bestowed her best grin on the older couple. “Because I can see where you got your amazing fashion sense.”

  Now that he considered it, his daughter had been wearing a lot of black recently. He’d half-wondered whether she wanted to make a last-ditch effort to join the softball team.

  The white-haired woman lit up at Bea’s comment. “Thank you, my dear. I’m afraid I missed your name? And the name of your handsome companion?”

  Handsome? Obviously, Bea had chosen a truly transformative tie.

  Before his daughter could interrupt Rose’s dinner further, he intervened. “I’m Martin Krause, Rose’s colleague in the social studies department.” He placed his hands on Bea’s shoulders. “This is my daughter, Beatrice, who’s a senior at Marysburg High.”

  “I go by Bea,” she interjected.

  “Anyway,” he emphasized, “we should find our own table and leave you to your meal. I hope you have a lovely evening.”

  “Oh, but you can’t go.” Rose’s mom gazed at him in dismay. “You mustn’t.”

  Rose’s father spoke for the first time, his narrow face serious. “We’d love to eat dinner with one of our Rosie’s colleagues and his charming daughter. Please join us.”

  Rosie? Martin blinked at them both and turned to Rose for guidance.

  She stood staring at her parents, mouth slightly agape. So no guidance there, although the poleaxed look on that lovely face did not seem to indicate untrammeled delight.

  In her eyes, this was no doubt an egregious violation of her privacy.

  He needed to respect that.

  With a smile that strained his cheeks, he said, “I’m afraid we couldn’t—”

  “That sounds great!” Bea exclaimed. “Do we ask the waiter to get more chairs, or what?”

  Rose appeared to shake herself. “We shouldn’t intrude on your time with your dad, honey, especially since you’re leaving so soon for college. I’m sure he wants to get every minute with you he can.”

  Bea frowned mutinously.

  “And no doubt Rose wants to spend some time alone with her parents.” He nudged his daughter’s shoulder. “Let’s go find our table, sweet Bea.”

  The older woman clapped a hand over her heart. “Sweet Bea? Oh, that’s so lovely.”

  “We’re not Rosie’s parents, although we wish we were.” The older man seemed to age two decades before Martin’s eyes, sagging back into his seat with slumped shoulders. “Are you certain you can’t dine with us?”

  Rose’s mother—or not her mother, apparently, but obviously some sort of near relation—had transformed over the past few seconds. Was that…was that a hunch?

  He could have sworn her posture had been just as impeccable as Rose’s.

  “Please say you and your daughter will join us for dinner.” Her small, graceful hand appeared to have a newfound tremor. “Seeing such a sweet young face across the table would be so wonderful.”

  Oh, Jesus. Only a churl could refuse such a wistful invitation.

  Bea poked him in the ribs. “Dad.”

  Rose’s not-parents blinked soulfully up at him, eyes sad but hopeful.

  Martin smothered a sigh and mentally prepared for an
awkward evening. But before he could speak, Rose braced her hands on her hips and turned to her dinner companions.

  “Drop the act, you two,” she told them, her tone affectionate but firm. “You can play the doddering-elderly-couple game with me, because I know you’re both perfectly happy and healthy. But Martin and Bea don’t know the rules, and they might not want to participate.”

  The older woman’s posture improved with remarkable speed. “Excellent point, Rosie. Our apologies, Martin and Bea.”

  “Yes, indeed. Please excuse us.” The other man offered an abashed smile, shoulders broad and square once more. “Rosie tells us we absorbed the lessons of a long-ago acting class with lamentable enthusiasm.”

  Rose shook her head in fond exasperation. “Martin and Bea, please meet my former parents-in-law, Annette and Alfred Buckham. They might want you two to eat dinner at our table, but they’re not in any danger of expiring during the meal if you refuse. Feel free to say no. That said, you’re more than welcome to join us.”

  As Rose raised her brows in inquiry, Bea poked Martin again in silent entreaty.

  It was his daughter’s birthday. He should follow her lead.

  Besides, he wanted to spend time with Rose. Wanted to know more about her personal life. Wanted to keep sneaking glances at her from across a table and bask in her presence.

  “Okay.” He raised his hands in surrender. “If you’re sure this isn’t an intrusion, we’d be delighted to have dinner with you.”

  While Annette, Alfred, and Bea all beamed at him, Rose swiveled to scan the restaurant. “Let me catch our server and tell him to bring us more chairs and hold our food until you’ve ordered.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll take care of it.”

  She muttered something about performative masculinity and insufficient therapy, but she let him help seat her, as well as Annette, while Alfred directed a genial smile at the table at large. And she didn’t try to stop Martin from hunting down the server, who was more than delighted to add another couple of people to his table—not to mention his tip.

  As Martin rejoined the group, he studied all its members. Rose was holding out a hank of her skirt—some sort of flouncy black fabric—for Bea to touch, while his daughter studied it and chattered away. His girl seemed perfectly comfortable in Rose’s presence, as if the two had talked a million times before. Maybe they had.

  He’d be asking Bea about that on the way home.

  The sight of Rose herself nearly hurt his eyes, she was so fucking beautiful. He had to look away, before he revealed entirely too much to both her and his daughter.

  That left two people: Rose’s former in-laws. He could have used Annette’s spine as his classroom ruler. Alfred radiated well-seasoned strength, rather than elderly frailty.

  That must have been one hell of an acting class.

  Performing skills aside, they were wise enough to want Rose as their daughter and gaze at her with open pride and affection as she charmed Bea.

  He liked them already.

  After dinner together, he could only hope they’d feel the same way toward him.

  Desserts finished, Rose and Bea excused themselves for the bathroom.

  He stood until they’d left the room, and then seated himself again.

  “Thank you so much for allowing us to share your table.” He smiled at Alfred and Annette, whose conversational ease and wholehearted welcome had made the entire evening much less awkward than it could have become. “Bea couldn’t have had a lovelier birthday dinner.”

  Annette inclined her head in gracious acknowledgment. “She’s a wonderful young woman, which is no doubt a testament to your parenting. We’re delighted the two of you could join us.”

  “Believe me, your presence was our pleasure.” Alfred arranged his fork at a precise angle on his plate. “We’ve never met one of Rosie’s colleagues before.”

  No doubt they hadn’t. “Rose is quite private.”

  Annette’s shoulders visibly stiffened under that drape-y fabric, and her blue eyes narrowed on him. “She has her reasons. Anyone in her life would have to understand that and appreciate her for what she is, rather than what he’d like her to be.”

  Fuck. He hadn’t meant that as a criticism, merely a statement of fact.

  If honesty would fix this, he’d offer it.

  He held Annette’s gaze without flinching. “I think Rose is magnificent. Smart and kind and hardworking and witty. Do I wish I knew more about her? Yes. But that doesn’t mean I resent her self-containment or that I’d ever push her to change for my own comfort.”

  Alfred’s mouth turned down at the corners. “Which makes you a better partner for her than our son ever was.”

  That…that was more information about Rose’s marriage than he’d expected to receive.

  More than he was comfortable receiving from anyone but her.

  Annette reached across the table and covered his hand with hers. It was slim and cool. “I’m going to tell you something. Rose would kill me if she found out, so don’t share this with her.”

  More private information about Rose? No. He couldn’t allow it.

  “Please don’t—” he began.

  “She may try to appear impervious to hurt, but she’s not.” Annette patted his hand, then removed hers. “Cause her pain, and we’ll make quite certain you regret it.”

  “So much regret.” Alfred offered him a genial smile. “The sort of regret that would cause a man to rethink all his critical life choices to that point.”

  Before tonight, he’d worried that Rose had entirely isolated herself in the world. From time to time, she’d mentioned a few college friends, but no family, and no one local.

  He supposed that was one worry he could retire.

  These people loved Rose. Would threaten near-strangers for her. Would openly criticize their own son’s behavior toward her.

  Which meant they deserved more truth. “I can’t promise I won’t ever hurt her, because I’m human, and I also don’t know enough about her to avoid any sore spots. But I can promise I will do my absolute, unequivocal best not to cause her pain. Ever.”

  “Good enough for me.” Alfred leaned over the table to thump Martin’s back. “For now, you can forget about all those terrible regrets. But we’ll be watching.”

  “Oh, Alfred.” Annette heaved a dreamy sigh, scooting her chair close to her husband’s so she could rest her head on his shoulder. “Did you hear that? Unequivocal. He’s a nerd, just like her.”

  “What’s this about nerds?” Rose came up to the table, Bea at her side.

  “Nothing important, Rosie,” Alfred said.

  Martin withdrew his wallet from his pocket. “It’s been a wonderful evening, but Bea and I need to head home and open presents.” A quick look around didn’t reveal their server. “If you see our guy, can you flag him down?”

  Annette’s laugh tinkled through the restaurant. “My dear, Alfred paid the bill an hour ago, while you were diving face-first into your risotto.”

  First of all: Rose hadn’t been lying about the dish. He would do terrible, terrible things for that risotto.

  Second: No. He wasn’t letting Rose’s former in-laws pay for him and his daughter.

  How much cash did he have? “Let me pay you back. How much was our portion of the bill?”

  Alfred tried to stand, then collapsed back into his chair.

  “Where’s my cane, darling?” he asked Annette, his voice feeble. “I’ll go talk to the server about how much each meal cost, even though my leg hurts so much.” He aimed a despondent look at Martin. “Paying for dinner brings such pleasure to an old man’s day. Are you certain you won’t reconsider?”

  That hunched position Annette had assumed couldn’t be comfortable. “We wouldn’t want him to feel uncomfortable, dearest. Even though it would make us both so, so happy to pay for the meal. Why don’t I try to find the server instead?”

  She clutched her spine as she inched up from the chair. “Pass me my p
ain pills, would you, Martin? They’re in my purse.” Another mournful glance his way. “Sometimes extreme disappointment makes my back seize.”

  If he wasn’t mistaken, Bea had turned away to hide her snickering. That didn’t make it much less audible. Rose, on the other hand, sent him a reassuring look.

  She leaned over to whisper in his ear. “Whatever you decide is fine, Martin. Let them pay or don’t. Or feel free to play their game in your own way.”

  A natural actor, he was not. But the rules of this game were now clear to him, and with Rose’s encouragement, he was willing to play.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, as if in terrible discomfort, then pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “What a coincidence. Anytime I can’t pay for my part of a meal, I get a blinding migraine.”

  A very familiar snort almost made him smile, but he kept his composure.

  “Once I hand over the right amount of money, though, I instantly feel better.” Dropping his chin, he pinched harder. “Oh, my poor head. I know you don’t want me to be in pain, Alfred. Please help.”

  Silence.

  When Martin peeked through his fingers, Rose and Bea were grinning at him with seeming pride. Alfred rolled his eyes as Annette began to giggle, the sound soft and sweet.

  Finally, the older man admitted defeat. “Touché, son. May we at least pay for your daughter’s dinner as a birthday present?”

  Headache miraculously cured, Martin dropped his hand and thought for a moment. “As long as you ask before paying the bill in the future.”

  He didn’t anticipate dining with Rose’s in-laws again, but a careful man planned for all eventualities.

  Alfred heaved a sigh. “Fine.”

  “Then thank you very much for Bea’s dinner.” Martin offered the other man a handshake. “We had a lovely evening with you and your wife.”

  Alfred’s grip was steady and strong, his eyes on Martin assessing. And when Martin handed him a wad of cash, the other man didn’t protest.

  “The truffle risotto was the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth, including those deep-fried Twinkies at the Wisconsin State Fair.” Bea bounced on her heels. “Thank you so much for dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Buckham. It was great meeting Ms. Owens’s family.”