I slump like a child in the back of a limo with my feet dangling ever so slightly above the floor. Jace Burch sits next to me with an air of normalcy. I want to ask if he picks up all his first dates in a limo, but it would lead to a no-win answer. A yes response would intimidate me. And a no would add an element of expectation and pressure to like the guy…or at least the date.
He checks his watch.
“Uh-oh. So soon?” I tease but mean it.
“What?” He looks up and realizes my point. “No. Of course not. I’m sorry. I just think in terms of timing. It’s very important for an evening to come off perfectly. Wouldn’t you agree?”
I start to say yes, but Jace uses a small intercom by his head to shout to the driver, “Jonathan, please take Eighth and circle around. I don’t want to arrive before seven.”
I don’t ask why because I know this one. He must live by the same social timing rules as Angelica. Never make a formal date before seven because the waitstaff will not take you seriously.
“I hear you work with the elderly. That is very refreshing…and noble.” There is that cliché again.
I notice that he is smiling but his eyes reflect a mind that is elsewhere. I respond because the man has picked me up in a limo, which will make for a good story later. “Not so noble. There are days I want to run for the hills.” Literally.
The silence reprimands my negativity. Think positive, light thoughts. God, give me positive, happy thoughts. Silly Putty. Ice cream. Home early and eating ice cream.
“When Sadie told me about what you did for your mom…I was really touched by that. She is so fortunate to have a son who showers her with respect and love.” Good. Good. “Believe me, I see how neglected some parents are by their children. It’s a tragedy.” Bad. Bad.
“Forgive me if I seem a bit distant right now. I’m thinking through the menu in my head. Like an actor rehearsing lines for an evening performance, I’m afraid going through the details of a meal is part of my preparation.”
“At least tonight you aren’t in charge of the meal.” I say this to ease his tension, but he looks at me curiously. I look at my watch and continue when I realize we have another fifteen minutes to kill. “I mean, if I hate the filet mignon at Lily’s, we can make fun of their chef, right?” I laugh a little fake, nervous blip.
“If you dislike anything, it will be my fault.” Beat. “Lily’s is my restaurant.”
Oh. Nevermind.
Jace tries to lighten this slip of conversation. “This is why I am nervous. I really want tonight to be perfect.” Another beat. “For such a lovely lady.”
I don’t like the term “lady.” It makes me think of Jerry Lewis’ squawking version that is drawn out, high and hard, on the eardrums. Jace seems nice enough, but I have the strangest feeling that he is on a date with someone else.
We settle back into the temperature-controlled seats, and while Jace thinks through the upcoming menu, I rethink tonight’s outfit. I ended up talking to Tess just before the date and had no time to alter my attire. To Jace’s credit, my warped schoolgirl’s uniform did not cause him to visibly cringe when he picked me up. Of course, he was probably mentally chopping ingredients for today’s special.
At last the stretch limo pulls up in front of Lily’s burgundy awning. The valet opens the door for us and by surprise greets us both by name.
“Thank you.” I stall and read his name tag. “Pierce.” My fingers hold the hem of my skirt down as I exit the car. I’m against flashing on a first date.
Jace and the valet chat for a bit. His manner is controlled yet gracious. The rapport between him and his employees is evident as we step into the candlelit restaurant and are greeted by large smiles and approving glances. I have always wanted to come here but know it to be quite expensive and romantic. This rules me out on two counts.
Women are dressed in either long gowns or perfect black dresses, both choices elegant in their simplicity. I am graffiti against a backdrop of pristine silk.
Handsome faces turn toward us. Everybody wants to see the chef and his date. Their eyes fall to my tulle apron, and I can just hear their thoughts of admiration for the respected restaurant owner, who is secure enough to date a waitress from fast-food row.
I step toward the chair that would place the table between me and the jury, but Jace reaches to pull out the chair which situates me front and center. I look at him and then down at my clothes, hoping he will take this as an acknowledgement of the situation.
“Allow me,” he gestures to the seat and I sit. If the guy wants to commit social suicide on my watch, go for it.
Jace has selected everything in advance—from the entrée choices to the music played by the violinist to the waiter who is serving us. Even my phobias are not strong enough to keep me from enjoying this perfect night. I warm up to him.
Our conversation is light and friendly. We do have a lot in common. He grew up in a modest home filled with foster children. Only later, when his mom remarried, did they have the luxury of a bigger house with a kitchen large enough to allow more than one person in it at a time. It was here, in a new setting and a home filled with new love, that he began to experiment with recipes.
For a brief moment he excuses himself to check on the progress of the dessert. Alone at the table the discomfort of being on display returns.
Jace returns with a genuine smile, apparently satisfied with the dessert’s status. He continues where he left off. “You can imagine how much flak I got. Here I am, a big kid in Jersey who should be studying football plays instead of soufflé recipes,” he reflects tenderly. “But Mom—Lily—was my biggest cheerleader. I thought it was an interest, a hobby. She recognized it as a gift from the beginning. You know, I have considered Golden Horizons as a place for my mom. It’s a very nice facility. I want her near me, and she wants a nicer climate than Jersey can offer her.”
I sense there is a bit of buzz about the room, but we are deep in conversation, and I am deep into the exquisite chocolate dessert. The tingling sensation I get when someone is standing right behind me kicks in. I turn around as Jace looks up to greet a man with a camera. One of those romantic extras a place like this has…an on-site photographer to capture the mood of a good date.
I shake my head but Jace has already nodded approval. The photographer steps over to get both of us in the shot. It is not an instant camera that spits out the image in seconds. This moment is recorded on real film.
We are having a good time, but I really doubt Jace wanted a memento of this evening. He probably sends the photo, autographed, to the women he brings here. “I’m just curious. How does the restaurant then get the photos to the guests?”
Jace motions for our dessert plates to be taken away. My torte is replaced by a cup of after-dinner tea. It takes him a few thoughts to get what I have asked. “That wasn’t a staff photographer. That was Kevin Milano.”
Kevin Milano. Kevin…Milano. I can hear Sadie and Angelica discussing that name. He came to one of Sadie’s events. He’s…oh, no. “From the Style section?”
“That’s the one,” he confirms. “I hope that is okay. You aren’t hiding from the mob, are you?” Chuckle, chuckle.
Oh, man of food. Don’t you know the fashion police are more brutal and less forgiving than the mafia?
Apparently not. Jace couldn’t be happier about what just transpired.
Our return trip in the limo is relaxing. I realize that this man of influence and cooking savvy, who is successful enough to be able to name a restaurant after his own mother, has managed to put me at ease over the course of several courses. The conversation is familiar and not at all forced. I feel what I assess to be “normal” in this moment…even in this slightly moronic outfit.
At my front door, he kisses my cheek with friendly affection.
“Thank you, Jace. It was such a nice time.”
“It couldn’t have been more perfect,” he says, and I see his mind begin to shift elsewhere as he makes his way down the stairs.
I have a sneaking suspicion that it is the idea of getting on the society page he deems as “perfect.”
As I remove my military boots, I cannot decide if the angst I try to express to God is associated with my important visit to the resort tomorrow or the fact that I may have single-outfittedly destroyed a man’s reputation.
It’s a toss-up.