The Future Is Not Enough

 

The double celebration of Lynda’s promotion and our engagement found us that Saturday night at Ricoletti’s Ristorante, Erin’s most elegant eatery. The maitre d’ showed us to an intimate dining room, one of a dozen or more in the old building. Perched on a hill overlooking the river, it had once been a captain’s house and - like Mac’s place - a stop on the Underground Railroad.

“I’ll have a Knob Creek Manhattan,” Lynda told the waiter taking our drink order. He looked Vietnamese. “Straight up, very cold, don’t overdue the bitters. Shaken, not stirred.” I wish I’d said that.

“A cherry, ma’am?”

“Why not two? We’re celebrating.”

“And you, sir?”

This was no time for caffeine-free Diet Coke or a light beer, so I ordered a glass of the house red. It’s Chianti. That’s Italian, right?

Tonight Lynda’s curly hair was hanging free around her oval face, making her look a little like Lucia Schiaparelli in that famous commercial where she stood in the almost-altogether on a sea shell in homage to Botticelli’s Birth of Venice. Was it just the long hair or Lynda’s northern Italian heritage that made me think of the stunning model?

La Schiaparelli is much older, probably around fifty, but that steamy thirty-second video - still wildly popular on YouTube - inspired millions of American males to buy bottles of the outrageously expensive Birth of Venus perfume for their beloveds without ever having smelled the stuff. I stood in line to get Lynda’s, and I still hadn’t smelled it. Apparently she preferred the scent of Cleopatra VII, her favorite fragrance and therefore mine.

Lynda was wearing Cleopatra VII now. The effect on me was intoxicating, something like listening to Boléro. I liked everything else she was wearing that Indian summer evening, too.

Her outfit was a smashing black number that was a dress the way Da Vinci was a painter, with a scoop neck and a slit down the side. Her dangling earrings and matching necklace were silver filigree, delicate like lace, which I suspected had some family history. Open-toed platform heels showed off her pretty feet and red-painted toenails.

And we were going to be married!

If there were a happier guy in the world at that moment . . . well, there wasn’t.

“So,” I said.

“So.”

We smiled at each other.

“So when’s our Big Day?” I asked. We hadn’t even had a chance to talk about a timetable.

“Soon after the wedding, I promise.”

“Cute.”

“I was thinking of spring nuptials, maybe May.”

“That works.” The second semester would be over, or close enough. “Where?”

“St. Edward the Confessor, of course.” Her parish church. “I suppose we have to invite the parents?”

“I suppose.” Finally, then, the mystery of Lynda’s seldom-discussed mother and father would be solved.

As I was musing on this, Lynda announced, “I’m going to ask Polly to be my maid of honor.”

“A nun?”

“Why not? She isn’t married.” Always a bridesmaid . . . “Besides, the Daughters of St. Augustine are not technically nuns. They are women religious.”

“Whatever.” I didn’t know the difference. Maybe nuns don’t do taekwondo. Anyway, Lynda’s choice of maid of honor was fine by me. I actually like Triple M. She’s one of the sweetest people on the planet. She’s also cute, but I try not to notice.

“Are we going on a honeymoon?” I hated to be nosy, but I was curious.

“You’re so adorable when you’re trying not to be domineering. I’m taking you to Italy.”

“Benissimo. Do I have to pass inspection with your relatives?”

“By that time it will be too late, tesoro mio. I’ll have you and I’ll never let you go again.”

The waiter brought our drinks and took our orders - pine nut crusted salmon over fettuccine for me, and veal scallopine in a lemon caper white wine sauce for Lynda. When he left, I raised my glass of wine in a toast.

“To your new position. You’ll do a spectacular job, my sweet.”

We clinked glasses and drank. I wanted to say something like “saucy, but not too impetuous” - meaning the wine, not Lynda - but I had another toast in mind. I raised my glass again.

“To us, and to the future.”

“The future is not enough, Jeff. I say, ‘Until death do us part. Cin-cin!’”

Feeling buoyant, I might have ordered a second glass of wine, but I never had the chance. Enzo Ricoletti himself came by, oozing European charm and looking more comfortable in a tuxedo than I felt in my khakis.

“Buona sera,” he said.

“Buona sera,” Lynda replied. “Come va la vita?” And so forth. They yakked in the lingo of Dante, grand opera, and Sophia Loren for a while until Enzo must have noticed my eyes glazing over.

“I understand you are celebrating a special occasion,” he said.

“Once in a lifetime, in fact,” Lynda said. She gave me a threatening look, as if daring me to contradict her.

“Congratulazioni. Please enjoy this, compliments of the house.”

He waved to a bottle of iced Asti Spumante, which a waiter had brought along with our food. Then he and the waiter discretely disappeared, followed by our effusive thanks.

So we drank sparkling wine and ate our fabulous dinners. Before I knew it I was feeling really good.

“You know I don’t normally drink this much,” I told my fiancée.

“I’ll walk you home. Then you’ll either fall asleep or try to get fresh. Being skilled in the martial arts, I can handle either.”

We’d see about that.