Amelia smiled warmly when I opened the door, and I saw George’s eyebrows rise in surprise again. I winked at him and held out my hand to Amelia after I carefully walked down the stairs. While I’d worn heels once or twice in the past, I was by no means an expert and fairly certain I’d trip at least once tonight.
“You look incredible,” she finally said, squeezing my hand in both of hers.
“Do I meet with your approval?” I tried to keep my tone light, as I wanted to let her know I was kidding, but the question ended up sounding earnest.
“Completely. I know it sounds terrible to say this, but when I saw your clothes during our interview the other day, I was afraid it would never work out.”
“My appearance means that much to you?” I asked, sliding into the car.
Amelia climbed in after me and then nodded, somewhat sheepishly. “I’m afraid it does.” Seeing my face, she looked embarrassed and began to explain. “In sales you’re doing more than selling a product. You’re also selling an image. At first contact, this image is actually more important than whatever you sell, because it creates a fantasy for the buyer: if I buy this thing they’re selling, I can be like them.” She paused, obviously trying to read my expression. “I’ve worked very hard to cultivate the Winters Corporation image, and my clients know what to expect.”
She paused again. “Anyway, I’m sure you’re tired of talking about clothes at this point, and that’s not what tonight’s about.”
“What is it about?” I tried to keep the mounting impatience out of my voice. “You said something about table manners?”
“Yes. Fine dining requires that you follow a lot of rules. As we’re attending a dinner on Friday together, I thought we should practice first tonight.”
I sniffed and looked out the window, more than a little peeved. Who does she think she is? I asked myself. More to the point, who does she think I am? Does she think I’ve never eaten out before?
“I can tell you’re becoming annoyed with me, Doctor,” Amelia said, squeezing my hand again. “I simply want to see how you approach the table. Perhaps we don’t even need the practice.”
I turned to her and tried to make my expression calmer to reassure her. “I’m sorry—I’m being incredibly rude. You’re taking me to one of the nicest restaurants in town, and I’m pouting like a child.”
“An incredibly beautiful child.” After this compliment she stared at me, almost boldly, as if waiting for a response.
My heart skipped a beat, and I tried to smile. “Thank you for saying that,” I finally said, not meeting her eyes. My face was hot.
“It’s completely true. You’ll have clients eating out of your hand in no time,” she almost whispered.
“That explains why you’re so successful.” I looked up at her, and her cheeks colored slightly.
We rode the rest of the way in silence, looking out our separate windows. My heart was racing, and I wasn’t sure if was nerves or something else. What the hell has gotten into you? I asked myself. Were you actually flirting with her? I glanced over at her again and my stomach dropped a little. Flirting with her had never crossed my mind until it happened. Or at least that’s what you want to tell yourself, I thought. The truth is, you were waiting all day yesterday for her to make a move. I realized that was entirely true, but I also wasn’t sure what it meant. Except perhaps in jest a few times with friends, I’d never even considered flirting with a woman before. And what happens if she takes you up on it? I asked myself. The thought was too much to deal with, and I was happy when George finally pulled over next to the restaurant.
Broussard’s is a New Orleans institution. Located in a seemingly incongruous place a block off the party capital of Bourbon Street, its elegance and fine food are world-renowned. When we entered, the dim lights cast a dreamy ambiance over everything, suggesting candlelight kisses and intimate privacy. The host knew Amelia, and without being asked he escorted us to a remote part of the dining room, far away from the rest of the tables. My chair was pulled out for me, and I sat down, the excitement of actually being here finally catching up to me. That’s the thing about a lot of cities—when you live there, you often don’t get to go to the very places that make them special. It was obvious from the start, however, that Amelia was a regular.
Almost before I’d had time to get settled, a sharply dressed young man appeared next to us, almost as if out of thin air. “Madam and mademoiselle,” he said, bowing slightly.
“A bottle of Perrier-Jouët’s 2004 Belle Epoque Rosé, please,” Amelia told him. He nodded and dashed away, and she turned back to me. “It seems as if you’ve never been here,” she observed.
“No, I haven’t. My aunt would never have taken me here as a child, and I didn’t exactly date the kind of guys who could afford this when I was in college.”
“What kind of guys did you date?” she asked.
I swallowed a sip of my water and almost choked on it, more than a little uncomfortable with the question. Still, she’d suggested that we should become friendly, and friends shared things like this. Trying to sound breezy, I said, “Oh, you know, the scholarship kids like me. There was a distinct separation at Loyola between those that came from money and those that didn’t.” I took another sip of my water to avoid making eye contact. Still not looking directly at her, I steeled myself and asked, “What about you? Did you date a lot in college?”
“Not a lot. I may have had the opposite problem, Doctor, and still do. My name always precedes me, and it usually intimidates people.” I could feel her eyes on me but couldn’t meet them. “Do I intimidate you?” she asked quietly.
I looked up at her hastily and felt myself blush. “Of course!” I said before I could stop myself.
She laughed at my candor, and after a moment I joined her. The laughter helped me begin to relax with her, but I was grateful for an interruption when the waiter reappeared with the wine. Amelia went through the process of approving the bottle with a small sip poured in her glass. “It’s delicious,” she said, and the waiter filled our glasses before putting the rest of the bottle in a small bucket of ice.
She held her glass aloft and I did the same. “To the future,” she said.
I almost laughed, hearing the echo of an earlier toast, but managed to respond, “To the future.” The wine was tart and light, the bubbles kissing my palate. I closed my eyes, rolling the taste of it on my tongue and savoring it. When I opened them, Amelia was staring at me, her eyes dark with something I couldn’t quite recognize.
“Do you like it?” she asked softly, swallowing.
“I love it.”
“It’s one of my favorites,” she said, visibly relieved. “I actually asked the sommelier to carry it here when I discovered it in Paris a few years back.”
I couldn’t keep the surprise from my face. A few years ago, judging by her face, she would have been too young to drink. She raised her eyebrows. “You look surprised. You’ve never special-ordered a wine before?”
“No, I haven’t, but it’s not that,” I said, embarrassed. “It’s just, well, to put it simply, you barely look old enough to drink now.”
She laughed loudly, throwing her head back in her amusement. I glanced around the room and saw several other tables look over at us curiously, but it was clear that she didn’t care who looked at her.
“Just how old do you think I am, Doctor?”
“Twenty-two, twenty-three?” I suggested. In truth, she could pass for younger.
She laughed loudly again and for a long time, finally clutching her stomach and doubling over. I tried to smile at the other tables, embarrassed but strangely pleased by her reaction. Her laughter seemed, from the short time I’d known her, uncharacteristic.
She finally managed to calm down and wiped her eyes. “You kill me, Doctor,” she said. “If I didn’t know better, I would think you were flattering me on purpose.”
“Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know. Why would you?”
My stomach dropped again and I blushed under her shining gaze. Luckily, before I could say or do anything stupid, the waiter appeared again. Neither of us had a menu, but of course Amelia knew it by heart.
“We’ll begin with two servings of the oysters and foie gras, followed by the strawberry salad. For our entrees, we’ll both have the ostrich.”
“Excellent choices, madam,” he said, bowing again before walking away.
“I hope you don’t mind the liberty, Doctor,” she said. “You’ll love the ostrich.”
“I’ve never had it.”
We spent the rest of the dinner enjoying some of the best food I’d ever eaten. She coached me briefly on the various different plates and silverware, but the “training” part of dinner was casual and unobtrusive, and really, I didn’t mind it nearly as much as I thought I would. In fact, considering I would be eating in front of a large group soon, I began to feel grateful that she’d thought of practicing.
While I’d dined widely in Paris, my heart always stayed with the Southern flavors of my upbringing, and Broussard’s was a nice mixture of two cultures, French and Creole. My family is French Creole, which meant that, though I’d never been to Broussard’s, I could expect the food to resemble the foods Aunt Kate cooked at home. New Orleans always fashions itself as the daughter of France, and the restaurant also seemed to understand that concept. The dishes themselves were ostensibly French, but the seasonings came from the holy trinity of Creole cooking—onion, celery, and bell pepper. By the time they took away our last plates, I was pleasantly satiated and my head was spinning a little from the bottle of wine. I’d noticed over the course of the dinner that she’d been drinking a glass of wine for every two of mine, but I didn’t say anything as I enjoyed it so much. Now I started to think I should have watched myself a little more closely with the booze, as I began to feel a little silly and loud.
“Do you want dessert?” she asked.
“I don’t think I could eat another bite,” I said. “It was all so delicious. Thank you for bringing me here.”
“It’s my pleasure.” She squeezed the top of my hand and left hers there for a long, extra moment. My face grew hot, but I didn’t draw my own away. After a moment she released it.
“I’m going to order dessert anyway,” she said. “You haven’t lived until you’ve tried their crème brûlée.”
“Really, I couldn’t.” I laughed. “I’d burst wide open.”
“I like watching you eat,” she said, smiling. “You enjoy it so much.”
I didn’t respond except to blush and look away from her. With the wine buzzing around in my head, I found it hard to react properly, and, even sober, I couldn’t imagine a response that would fit. She called the waiter over and ordered the dessert, and we sipped on espresso as we waited.
“I’m going to be up all night now,” I said, indicating the drink. “I really can’t have caffeine at night anymore.”
“So what will you do with yourself?” She leaned forward, her eyes soft, the lids slightly lowered. Her voice had a touch of huskiness. She seemed to be fishing for a specific answer, but all I could do was laugh.
“I’ll probably paint,” I said. “That’s always what I do when I can’t sleep.”
“You paint?” She seemed surprised.
“A little,” I said, cursing myself. Very few people knew about my pastime, and I hadn’t been prepared to talk to her about that part of myself. I considered it a private activity.
“I’d love to see your work sometime,” she said.
“It’s terrible, really. That’s why I moved on to art history in my masters. I knew I’d never make it as an artist.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re so modest that naturally I think you’re probably very good.”
I was once again relieved to see our waiter. He dropped off the dessert with two spoons and disappeared once again.
“Please try it,” Amelia said, picking up her utensil.
I nodded, picked up mine, and cracked the top, digging out as much of each layer as I could. It was, of course, heavenly, and I barely suppressed a groan of pleasure. I opened my eyes to find Amelia staring at me again, and I smiled back at her, embarrassed.
“It’s incredible,” I said.
“I could tell.” Her voice was quiet and her face serious.
I was uncomfortable, once again unsure how to respond. Despite my wine-muddled head, I could see that she was flirting with me.
Desperate to change the topic, I blurted out, “What time do you want me there tomorrow for work?”
She frowned slightly but said, “I’ll have George pick you up at eight thirty. Is that all right?”
“You don’t have to do that. I can get a ride from someone.”
“I’ll have a car for you to use soon, but until then, I insist.”
The rest of the meal passed more comfortably. By the time she was dropping me off at my place, I’d almost convinced myself that I’d imagined anything beyond friendliness.
Almost.