Chapter 8
I sat on my couch, staring at my laptop next to my sleeping cats, surrounded by the things that brought me the most comfort in life. I had just finished washing my hair, rinsing and repeating several times, scrupulously trying to make the color fade, but I’d made very little headway. I wasn’t particularly tired, and it was early on a Saturday night, so I drained my glass of pinot grigio and I set it back down on the coffee table. It hit with a hard cling. I was apparently a little more impaired than I’d thought.
It was times like these that I couldn’t stand being without my cell phone. I picked up Robert Reid’s card, which I remembered him having given to me when the chamber of commerce welcomed me to town. I had scoured my home earlier that evening and had found it at the bottom of my kitchen junk drawer, where I put all kinds of business cards and take-out menus, the surviving paper detritus of the modern age.
I was touching the gold embossed lettering of his name when I happened to notice there was an e-mail address on the bottom. It was his name @nashville_national.com, but if he was anything like me, he checked his business in-box more often than his personal one. And I was pretty sure he hadn’t called yet to set up that Shakespeare in the Park date, but I hadn’t recently checked my voice mail, so I couldn’t be totally positive. Obviously, he was weighing heavily on my mind. I sort of wished he were here right now, though I wasn’t sure if it was because I liked him or was in need of his pleasant distraction. Then I got jealous, thinking it was a Saturday night and he must be out with some hot society shiksa.
I decided to shoot him a quick, harmless little, wine-goaded e-mail. I’d simply ask if he had happened to find my phone, even though I doubted I’d left it there. But it would get the point across that I was phonally restricted. If I were interested in someone, I’d want to know that.
I settled my laptop on my legs, which were comfortably stretched on the coffee table, where I happened to get the best Wi-Fi reception.
That was ridiculous.
Subject: Quiet Saturday night
That was desperate.
Subject: Did you happen to find my phone? If so e-mail me.
Too long. And impersonal.
That worked. I went on.
Hey!
Just wondering if you came across my cell.
Can’t find it!
Hope you had a great day.
Gwen
P.S. Any plans tonight?
I hit SEND before I had a chance to think about what my fingers had written without me. As I refilled my glass, I realized that since it was Saturday, maybe he wouldn’t check his work e-mail until Monday. I suddenly felt foolish and wished I could un-send it.
I took a sip of wine, then filled the cats’ bowls so they wouldn’t wake me in the middle of the night. I heard a “you’ve got mail” ping. I hurried back, and the world seemed very warm and sweet and fragrant. It was from Robert!
Re: Phone
Hey, pretty lady!
Negative on the phone. I don’t know how
you can stand it!
I would be lost without mine.
Want to meet up? Lady’s choice.
RR
RR? Rrrrrr, I thought.
I felt like I was sixteen years old again. I took another swig of wine and sat staring at my screen, my face flush from his invite. My fingers were raised on the keyboard like I was about to begin playing Chopin, not scales. What did I want to do?
Hell, I knew what I wanted to do, and I did it.
Re: Re: Phone
Sounds good! Maybe food?
G
It took a whole thirty seconds for him to respond.
Re: Re: Re: Phone
Great! I know a fantastic deli. J/k.
Meet me downtown at Fourth and Broadway
in an hour.
RR
Bingo. And yet the girl-brain part of me that wasn’t rational wondered why he didn’t offer to pick me up. I wondered if I would ever be satisfied with anything.
I slid into a trendy pair of dark jeans, slipped on a tank, layered a few necklaces, and grabbed my new royal blue pumps, since I made the mistake of wearing nice shoes at work only once. I called and requested a taxi to pick me up in twenty minutes, as I was in no condition to drive and was secretly hoping not to need a car after arriving at my destination. After applying my makeup and singing along to a medley of pop songs on the bedroom clock radio, I covered my weird hair color with a black fedora, slipped into my leather jacket, and shoved keys, lip gloss, ID, and cash into the pockets as I locked my door. I was excited, and it felt good.
The cab dropped me off on Fourth Avenue just short of Broadway, and as I rounded the corner, I saw what used to be the old Merchant’s Hotel. It was now a several-story restaurant. Most of the strip was cluttered with souvenir shops and touristy bars with live music and fried pickles. But this place stood out. I had never actually been in there but had always wanted to check it out. I saw Robert immediately. He was smiling at me, the corners of his eyes crinkling and his sexy teeth sparkling. When I reached his side, he kissed my lips lightly, put his hand on my shoulder, and whispered, “You look beautiful.”
I felt it, too.
We walked through the front door, past the diners seated by the windows, and straight to a hostess stand in the back.
“Two for upstairs please.”
“Yes, Mr. Reid.”
Robert’s voice sounded like butterscotch, and he smelled amazing, like a warm tropical breeze, which contrasted with the cool winter’s night odor de Grant, which I’d sort of gotten used to. And his jeans were just tight enough, and his blue button-down shirt looked fantastic with his eyes. I noticed a Rolex on his left wrist.
We took the elevator to the second floor. The ride was a little awkward since the hostess was riding up with us and making eyes at Robert. He wasn’t making them back, but still. Everything felt better when the doors opened and he put his wide hand on the small of my back and led me in front of him. The hostess had to ride down alone. Ha. My knees were so wobbly, I felt like I was going to fall right off of my new heels.
We sat next to the window overlooking Broadway. The only other lighting was small twinkling candles placed around the room and a dim chandelier in the middle of the room. The waitress brought over a silver bucket on a stand with champagne in it and poured us each a glass.
“Fancy,” I blurted and quickly regretted it. Show some friggin’ class, girl!
“I have a weak spot for champagne,” Robert said.
“I have a weak spot for mac ’n’ cheese gnocchi,” I said after the menus were passed out and I had a chance to study one.
“You’ll have to let me taste some.” He smiled.
My heart sped as I thought of his lips on my fork. I felt warm. I unzipped my jacket and put it on the back of my chair, and I thought I caught Robert sneaking an admiring peek at me.
“I’m surprised you got my e-mail, since it’s a weekend and I sent it to your work address,” I said.
“BlackBerry,” he explained. “I’m always available. Have to be.”
We chatted about inconsequential things that suddenly mattered, like where we went to school and what sports he played and what instruments I tried to learn— badly, to the distress of my otherwise musical family. By the second glass, the bubbly was starting to go to my head, and we began to talk about relationships. Robert had never married, had no kids, and was not seeing anyone special.
“So I take it you are not with that cop anymore,” he said.
“Did I tell you about that?” I wondered aloud.
“It was in a news piece we did about L’Affair Hopewell.”
“Do you remember every article you read?”
“Pretty much,” he said. “Photographic memory. Technically, it’s called eidetic memory. I remember most of what I read. I was tested for it in college.”
“I’m impressed. I can’t remember people’s names without a mnemonic trick of some kind.”
“So?” he said.
“So?”
“The cop?”
“Oh!” I said. “Oh, no, that’s over. I ended it. Well, actually he did. But I wanted to.”
I was getting nervous and tongue tied. Thankfully, my gnocchi and Robert’s sea bass arrived. Conversation slowed a little while we savored our dishes. Then Robert broke the silence.
“What happened here?” he asked, running his finger diagonally along a scar across the back of my forearm. I figured that telling him about being attacked with a knife by Mollie Baldwin’s little girl was not great first date material.
“Oh, nothing,” I said. “I was attacked by a poodle.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“Do you like dogs?,” he said. “They’re very sensitive to how we react to them.”
“Uh-huh. I’m just allergic to them. You have any scars?”
“Nothing that impressive. I cut my pinkie once with a jackknife.”
He held it out for me to examine. If I hadn’t just filled my mouth, I’d’ve kissed it.
We decided to skip dessert since we were stuffed and fully carbonated. Without waiting for the bill, Robert handed his card directly to the server—who had referred to herself as our waitress—making her angry and delighted at the same time. She returned quickly. Too quickly. The night could be ending.
Robert excused himself to go to the bathroom. While he was gone, I opened the slender black case and noticed he’d left a very generous tip.
Was there anything wrong with this guy?
He took a little longer than Grant used to, but I guessed that the amenities here were a little better than in the Kentucky Fried Chicken loo.
We led ourselves to the ground floor, and as Robert opened the door for me, I noticed a framed certificate boasting “Voted Best Fine Dining 2011 by the Nashville National.” Robert saw me looking at it and gave a sly smile that revealed a sexy dimple, which I’d never noticed.
It was a gorgeous night out. The music poured out onto the street, and there was a slight breeze coming from the nearby Cumberland River.
“What should we do now?” Robert said.
“I may have to walk off that gnocchi.”
“Fair enough,” he said and grabbed my hand.
Suddenly I was out of my body and looking at us holding hands and strolling down the Nashville streets. I could not wipe the stupid grin off of my face. We came up on the Hermitage Hotel, where a group of people was huddled around, taking pictures and listening to a tour guide tell what sounded like a ghost story.
“Oh, this is great!” Robert said. “Have you ever been on the haunted history tour?”
“No. I just recently heard about it, though.”
We tagged along with the group, but by our third stop my feet were killing me. Stupid heels. I explained the situation to my date, who grabbed my hand and led me around the corner to Printer’s Alley. Before I knew it, we were in the Bourbon Street Blues and Boogie Bar.
“Wait here,” he said, putting me at a table for two and tipping the waiter.
“Robert, wait—”
“Just stay there.” He smiled, running out the door.
I looked around the room, avoided making eye contact with the single men—or the married men pretending to be single or not caring, because they were in Nashville for a convention and a good time. I was tipsy, I was tired, I was swooning, and I was surprised when Robert came back holding a white plastic bag.
“Give me your foot,” he said as he kneeled down.
I placed my foot on his knee while Robert pulled out a pair of fluffy white spa slippers with HOTEL INDIGO sewn on them. I felt like a fairy-tale princess.
As if reading my mind, Robert looked up at me and said, “A perfect fit, Cinderella.”