Morgan laughed and replaced the photo on the dresser. “Well I don't know about you, but I'm starving. Are you ready to go?”
“Yes.” I locked the apartment door, set the alarm and followed Morgan down the narrow stairs and out into the unseasonably mild evening.
He led me to an expensive hybrid car – the current model year – and opened the passenger door before making his way to the driver's side. I would have liked to pretend it was Morgan's environmental responsibility that impressed me, but that wasn't the truth.
In truth, I was a closet car whore.
That's right. As much as I liked to believe I wasn't taken in by material possessions, I was incredibly shallow and easily distracted by pretty, shiny things on four wheels.
There was no specific method to my madness – my love of cars and wine were much the same. I didn't know anything about grape crops or wineries; engines or transmissions. I just knew what I liked, and just as a good bottle of wine could save an otherwise dull meal, the appearance of a gleaming car – whether vintage, muscle or brand new off the showroom floor – made the owner infinitely more interesting in my eyes.
“So, where are we going?” I asked as we turned on the highway toward the ocean.
“Company Road,” he replied, naming the city's best seafood restaurant. Again, I was impressed. Even with reservations, getting into that restaurant on a Saturday night was no easy feat. Morgan was not kidding about his status as a trust fund baby – he apparently had friends in all the right places.
Destination decided, we settled back into the silence, broken only by a Springsteen CD playing softly on the car stereo. While not uncomfortable, I was happy when our chatter picked up as we arrived downtown with matters to discuss such as a search for parking on the crowded Portland streets. Our small talk continued comfortably as we entered the restaurant and shuffled around getting settled at a table with menus and a nice bottle of Pinot.
I heard Livvie's voice in the back of my head as I perused the menu for my dinner choice. I knew to stay away from dishes with thin sauces – they had a tendency to splatter. Not the most attractive look to project on a date. No food with too much garlic or onions, either…for obvious reasons.
I spared a glance to Morgan who was making appreciative noises at several of the dishes listed and wondered if men ever went through the same torture when trying to make a good first impression. I doubted it, but according to David, I knew very little about men and what they were thinking or expecting from women.
Suddenly, the romantic table for two became very crowded between Morgan, me, Livvie's voice in my head telling me what to order, and memories of David instructing me what to say and how to act.
“What are you going to order?” Morgan interrupted my thoughts.
“I'm not sure. Everything looks good.”
“I was thinking of ordering the salmon special.”
I considered the description our waitress had provided – a lightly grilled fish with no onions, no garlic and no sauce. We had a winner. “That sounds good. Let's make it two.”
Meal ordered, I had a momentary attack of anxiety. Everything up to this moment had been just an overture. The opening act. Like Natalie Wood dropping her scarf at a drag race, by ordering dinner and ridding ourselves of our menus, the date had officially started.
“Stop it.”
“What?” I brought my startled eyes to meet my date's.
“Whatever you're doing, you need to stop. I lost you somewhere when the waitress walked away. I don't know what you're thinking, but come out of your head and talk to me.”
I studied the smart, handsome man sitting opposite me. He had already seen me at my worst and was miraculously interested in coming back for more. I took a deep breath and leaned back in my chair as I realized I was making things much harder than they needed to be. I mentally pushed Livvie, David and even my own insecurities away from the table for the moment and smiled in acknowledgment of his words. Picking up my glass of wine, I asked, “So, you like Springsteen? Have you ever seen him in concert?”
It was amazing, the wave of serenity that swept over Morgan's features as discussion turned to the relative safety of music. God love Bruce Springsteen. His name unlocked the invisible barrier between us and soon the conversation, like the wine, began to flow. “Yeah, I've seen Bruce a couple of times. The best show was…”
I really liked this guy.
Our discussion ebbed and flowed over the evening as we touched on politics, movies and books, finding ourselves both to be fans of an obscure science fiction writer.
“You can't read the third series until you've read the first two,” he argued.
“You're wrong.” I leaned over the table. “All of the series stand alone just fine and none of the characters overlap.”
I waited for Morgan's counter-argument about the author progressively building upon a theme, but it didn't come. Instead, I found my date staring down at my hand which I'd casually draped over his arm when making my point.
“Oh, I'm sorry.” I pulled back immediately, only to find my hand captured and returned to its place on Morgan's arm.
“It's okay.” He smiled, placing his hand on top of my own.
“Oh. Okay, then.”
By the time coffee and dessert were delivered – cheesecake for him, gelato for me – we had broached more personal topics.
“So, my older brother Will is helping my dad run the business. They were disappointed when I quit and went to law school, but they've pretty much adjusted.”
“You weren't interested in moving from the charitable end into the business itself?” I asked, still a little sketchy on the details of Donovan Industries. I knew from the news that it employed tons of people, manufactured some kind of computer parts, was well-respected and made scads of money.
“Nah.” Morgan brought his napkin to his lips and then dropped it on the table “I've just never been interested in spending two million dollars researching ways to save eight cents per widget. I know that sounds cold, but I'm just not made out for corporate America.”
“What are you made out for?”
Morgan looked almost wistful as he answered, “Honestly? I want to be a lawyer that protects the integrity of the legal system by taking the cases no one else does. I really want to be a public defender.”
“If that's the case, why are you working in Frank's office? You know he refuses to take on criminal defense cases.”
“I know. The truth is, my father would have a cow if I worked where I wanted. He thinks being a public defender is beneath me. Dad knows Frank and his reputation and is proud to tell his friends where I work. I don't want to mess with that.”
Not wanting to walk into a touchy family issue on the first date, I attempted to deftly change the subject. “I know how dads can be. As proud as my dad was of my law degree, I think he was a little sad that I wasn't interested in taking over the diner. He loved that place.”
The waitress arrived with the check which Morgan exchanged for his credit card before turning my way. “Not interested in taking it over some day?”
“No.” I took a final sip of coffee. “I mean, I love the place and can't imagine a day when Uncle Jeremy is actually ready to retire, but I definitely found the right profession for me.”
We continued our conversation about the diner while Morgan signed the bill and during the walk to the car. Part of me was engaged in the discussion while another part tried to dissect the feeling I was experiencing as the night wound towards its conclusion. There was a definite level of comfort and ease I felt being around Morgan, but underlying it all was a small thrum of energy dancing around the edges of the evening.
The drive back to my house was not the silent trip to the restaurant we'd experienced a few hours earlier with each of us sitting rigidly in our own space. During the return trip, we wrestled with the demands placed on adult children in the modern family structure, all the while my hand was held gently in Morgan's, rested on the s
ide of the passenger seat.
Even I had to admit that this date was kicking ass.
My euphoria lasted approximately another twelve seconds before we were parked in front of the diner and I was back in panic mode. It had been a very long time since I'd been on a first date with a man – and much longer still with a man I really liked. I was no longer clear about the direction the rest of the evening should take.
Namely, should I invite Morgan up to my apartment? What would that mean? What would he think it meant? I considered every exponential possibility of asking the man beside me upstairs, and as I did so, I also watched the hopeful light in Morgan's eyes dim.
Had I missed my window of opportunity?
Did Morgan assume I didn't want to continue our date in a more intimate setting, while the truth was that it was exactly what I wanted? I dithered around in my head trying to figure out what Morgan would read into such an invitation and whether it was too early to go there.
Screw it.
I was twenty-nine years old and no blushing virgin. Remembering David's words from earlier in the evening, I decided to be the strong, independent, decisive woman Morgan had originally pursued.
“So, Morgan,” I leaned in and asked. “Are you interested in a relationship?”
He leaned back, startled and made a gurgling sound in his throat that could have been interpreted as, “Huh?
“Are you interested in a relationship?” I repeated. “With me. Do you want me to be your girlfriend?”
I saw and felt Morgan go from mildly disappointed at not receiving an invitation upstairs, to a man in the throes of blind panic. I put my hand lightly on his shoulder and his entire body went rigid at my touch.
And not in the good way.
David's advice was abruptly pushed out of my head and instead I heard Livvie's voice screaming, “Abort! Abort! Abort!”
“Oh my god, you should have seen your face!” I joked with a high pitched, keening laugh that in no way resembled my own. “I'm kidding of course. Just kidding. Well, anyway, thanks so much for a lovely evening. It was fun. Let's do it again. Again. Yes, let's. Okay, then, I'll see you at the office on Monday.”
I leapt from the car and ran to my building, jammed my key into the door and raced upstairs. There was one final task I needed to complete before I let myself over-analyze my insane behavior. Stalking to my laptop, still running and open to the internet from when I checked my e-mail that afternoon, I quickly opened a new message screen, typed in David's address and a very succinct message.
“You ruined my life.”
* * *
Bzzzzzzzzz.
I raised my head from the edge of my desk where it had collapsed in a pathetic heap several minutes earlier, and glared at the office intercom.
“What is it Gloria?” I picked up the phone, failing to hide my irritation.
“Two things.” She replied in her crisp, efficient manner. “First, you have a delivery at the front desk that you need to pick up. Second, you will not take that snippy tone with me in the future.”
“Sorry.” I said, meaning it. It wasn't fair to take out my bad mood on anyone but the person responsible for it.
That would be me.
My next words were in a much friendlier tone. “Can you bring my delivery down to my office?”
“So you can continue to hide in there like you have all day? No, dear, I cannot.”
I took great offense to Gloria's classification of my behavior. I wasn't hiding. Just because it was the Monday following my date with Morgan and I had gotten in early, shut my office door and not emerged for a coffee or bathroom break in nearly five hours? I wasn't hiding.
I was focused. Very, very focused.
“Morgan just left for lunch.” Gloria informed me, once again astounding me with her amazing deductive skills.
Realizing I really could use a fresh cup of coffee…and really needed to pee…, I turned off the intercom and walked down to the reception area where I was surprised to find a beautiful arrangement of yellow tulips, a small card with my name on it tucked neatly in the center.
Perhaps I was overreacting, I thought with a smile as I reached for the card. Sure the last five minutes of our date had been horrible, but maybe Morgan was willing to grade the entire evening on a bell curve, ignoring the fact I had flunked the final exam.
“They're lovely, aren't they?” Gloria remarked. “Who are they from?”
I opened the card and found a neatly typed message.
Don't be mad.
Love, David
“They're from David.” I reported, disappointed, but at the same time not altogether surprised.
“Your uncle's son, David?” I leapt a foot in the air, not expecting to hear Morgan's voice a few inches from my ear as he leaned over my shoulder to read the card.
“Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you.”
“No problem,” I assured him, my next words directed to Gloria. “For some reason, I thought you'd gone out to lunch.”
My death glare elicited merely a noncommittal shrug from Gloria before she turned back to her computer screen, shutting herself off from the conversation.
“So, David is sending you flowers. I thought you guys…I mean, I didn't think…” Morgan cleared his throat and squared his shoulders just as I caught on to what he was trying to say. “So, when we went out on Saturday, that wasn't really…”
“No!” I jumped in, anxious to nip his incorrect conclusion in the bud. “I mean yes. I mean, Saturday night was really…I mean, David is just a friend.”
Was it relief I read on Morgan's face at my clarification? Or, more likely, was it relief I saw because that was so desperately what I wanted to see?
“David, he, um…” I wondered precisely how to put words to what I wanted to say. “He tried to help me with something and it got hopelessly screwed up. These are apology flowers. That's it.”
“Oh, okay.” Morgan picked up his work from the printer and turned down the hall back to his office.
“Wait!” I yelled, causing him to stop and turn but not take any steps back toward me.
Great. Now that I had his attention, what was I supposed to say?
“I had fun on Saturday.”
Morgan's lips moved in an upward motion, but I would have been hard pressed to call his expression a smile. “Yeah, me too. See ya.”
The man then turned and scuttled away down the hall like I was on fire.
If I'd had any doubts regarding whether I'd irrevocably screwed things up with Morgan, they had just been answered. I turned toward Gloria and just held my hand up to stop the flow of questions I knew were coming my way.
“Don't. Please.” My tone must have been just pathetic enough, because while an inquisitive eyebrow was raised, no questions were asked.
Just as I began slinking back to my own office, the main door slammed open and Frank burst through with a booming, “Good afternoon, people!”
I once again jumped at the unexpected greeting and remained startled by Frank's over-the-top good humor. There was an actual, sincere smile on his face as he clapped me on the shoulder – nearly knocking me over with the unknown strength of his exuberance – and continued on down the hall yelling for Morgan to show his face.
“Mandatory meeting in the conference room now.” He turned to Gloria. “Switch the phones over to the answering service.”
I took a seat as far from Morgan as possible without raising Frank's suspicions, but had the feeling that my boss was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to notice my behavior at all.
“I have excellent news that I want to share.” Frank smiled his toothy, predatory smile. “We have an important new client.”
That was unexpected. Usually Frank carted me to the required contact-building lunches where my social skills prevailed and he could happily scowl from the corner. Gloria's face registered surprise as well, which was even more astounding. If it was unusual for me to be out of the loop, it was downright shocking that Gloria was
also in the dark.
“Who's the client and what's the case?” I asked.
“I went to college with Mark Ekbert.” My boss stretched back in his chair, getting comfortable as he began to tell his story. “Mark lives out on Lightship Island in Casco Bay. The island is currently considered a part of Bayside City, but its citizens have signed a referendum outlining their plans to research seceding from Bayside and creating a new town of their own.”
Lightship Island was a forty minute boat ride from Bayside, a city just up the coast from Portland. If I remembered correctly, it had a year round population of a hundred people which swelled by ten times during the summer months when rich families from Massachusetts and New York returned to claim their summer homes.
“Secede? I thought people stopped doing that after Fort Sumter,” Morgan remarked.
“Actually, secession is quite popular in Maine,” Gloria interjected. “A lot of small islands and communities would rather set up their own governments if they feel they're not getting adequate services in return for the taxes they pay.”
Frank nodded at Gloria's assessment. “Mark is the chair of the island's Board of Selectmen. They just authorized him to hire a law firm to research the legal implications and liabilities of secession. I fired off a proposal a few weeks ago, and the board chose to give their business to the law firm of Francis G. Murphy.”
Watching my boss preen as his story unfolded, I couldn't think of a time when I had seen Frank so proud of a business coup. He was always thrilled with legal victories, but had little patience for the business of creating business. He believed a good reputation would keep clients coming in, and while that was generally true, he was obviously very pleased that his proposal had gone over so well.
“That's wonderful, Francis,” Gloria exclaimed. “What exactly does it mean for the firm?”
“Well, it means a lot of work for our two friends here,” Frank said, gesturing first to me, then Morgan where we sat at opposite sides of the table. “We need to research municipal law in general and secession issues in particular. Just off the top of my head, I can guess that it's going to involve looking into tax issues, leasing fire and police services, schooling, and insurance.”
Next Year I'll be Perfect Page 13