by Gigi Blume
But after Colin listed the several attributes about me he found alluring, the word ‘but’ didn’t follow. Nor did he make any mention of any complaints by Will or any other company member. What he said next both distressed and diverted me.
“I know I’ve been a little too obvious, but I can’t help it. I wear my heart on my sleeve.” Here, he folded his hands around mine. “But almost from the first moment I saw you, I said to myself, that girl is the one. We have chemistry, you and me.”
He clasped my hands with renewed strength as his thumb drew circles over my knuckles. Fortunately, the sweat on my palms gave me the moisture needed to pull free from his grip, and I did so with confusion and dread. I was still not entirely sure where he was going with this and not wanting to jump to conclusions, I said, “I don’t understand.”
Almost immediately, his composure shifted from one of supplication to haughty self-confidence, and he grinned.
“Oh, my dear Beth,” he said. “You little kitten. That’s one of the things I love about you.”
Kitten? I was so occupied with the office of restraining my laughter, I couldn’t find a moment to reply and so, he went on.
“I like a measure of modesty in a girl. I find it extremely attractive.”
“Whoa.” I stopped him right there. “I don’t know what you were thinking, but I’m not that kind of actress.”
He was taken by surprise at my declaration, and he paused for a moment to understand my words. He laughed. He cackled so hard he could hardly breathe, and after a full minute, he composed himself the best he could and said, “You are hilarious. You’re not only beautiful, you’ve got a great sense of humor. You’re everything I’m looking for in a woman. And let me tell you, there are lots of women who want to date me. Lots. But I choose you, Pikachu.” He gave me a cheeky wink and sighed in relief having said what he came to say. Confident enough to assume I’d accepted his overtures, he added, “When can I meet the parents?”
I was so taken aback by his soliloquy, words were slow to form in my addled brain. First, he wasn’t there to fire me. That was good. Second, he wasn’t suggesting what I thought he was. That was also good. Third, he was… was he… asking me out? That was unexpected. That was also improbable since it was obvious to me and I’m sure everybody else that he played for the other team. Which was perfectly fine. But I was in such a shock, I didn't think before I blurted, “You’re gay.”
I immediately regretted my words, hoping I hadn’t offended him. Unsure what the politically correct way to say it was, I apologized. Then I questioned everything I thought I knew about people and stereotypes, second-guessing my impression of him. Was he, or wasn’t he? Maybe he was a swing hitter. Maybe he was in the closet. No. Not in the closet. Not with a faux-fur collar and Lemondrop Rothy’s. Nothing in the world made any sense. Charlotte was right. My gay-dar was screwy.
“Gay?” He laughed. “You’re adorable. I’ll admit, though—I get hit on all the time. Can I help it if men find me attractive?”
He waved his hands over his chest with a flourish.
“I’m hot. As much as I like the attention, I have to be true to myself. I love the ladies too much.”
I was so mortified I could hardly form words except, “Oh.”
He didn’t seem affected by it, however, as he continued his overtures without much restraint. His spirits were animated as he pattered on about all his remarkable attributes, most of which he attributed to his affiliation with the Rosings Institute of Dance and its founder, Catherine de Bourgh. It was as if he were on an interview for the position of being my boyfriend. His long list of reasons why he was the best candidate for the job flowed from his lips with such liberty and indulgence, I hardly could utter a sound in edgewise. He was so sure of himself and in turn, sure of my approval, he made plans for our future, notwithstanding as he put it, “Our cohabitation.” He actually asked which side of the bed I preferred. Yeah. That was a hard pass. Bed was my favorite place in the world. Why would I want to share it with anybody?
I had to bring him round to reality somehow, but unable to get a word in, I abruptly stood. This put a brief pause to his speech, which gave me a succinct moment to say, “Look, I have to get back to work. You’re a really nice guy, but you’ve got the wrong girl. I’m just not—”
Mr. Lucas cut my rejection short by his appearance tableside.
“Welcome, weary Knight,” he announced. “If it is sustenance you seek, Lucas Lodge has a royal feast prepared. Come sup with us at our buffet table, drink ale and make yourself known at court.”
He bowed low to Colin with dramatic flair.
“I am Sir William Lucas. And what may we call you, good sir?”
Colin took about five seconds to take in the sight of Mr. Lucas in his medieval costume and finding himself quite equal to a man as ridiculous as he and fitting in magnificently, he returned the greeting with a bow of his head.
“Colin Hunsford at your service.”
Nerd alert. If any two humans were ever so perfectly matched, it was those two. I might have believed it if I were told we were teleported to Renaissance Faire, but the turkey legs at our buffet weren’t big enough, and the hippies at table five waved for their check.
Mr. Lucas, noticing the table void of a place setting and the condiment tray, turned a severe eye to me and scolded, “Lady Elizabeth, what is the meaning of these inhospitable accommodations? Where are the table ornaments?”
The table ornaments, I would have liked to say, were put away because the section was closed. My shift was also a mere ten minutes from ending. I also wanted to add that the last time I checked I wasn’t on the menu, but Colin ogled me like Wiley E. Coyote looked at the Roadrunner.
“Lady Elizabeth,” said Colin, “is all the ornament needed.”
He batted his eyes, fluttering them over his rosy cheeks. No human could have eyelashes that long. He had to have been wearing falsies.
“I see that you’re a man of taste,” replied my boss.
Oh, brother.
Turning to me, he said, “Put in an order of York Buffalo Wings for our guest. On the house.”
Should I have reminded him the cooks were gone for the day? Maybe. I’m sure the dishwasher didn’t know how to operate the deep fryer. I didn’t plan on sticking around long enough to get yelled at in Spanish. All I wanted was to grab my yams and head for the door. The hippie table was still waving for their check. Or ketchup. I couldn’t quite tell.
Get the Wizzer out of here before Colin starts wedding plans.
I booked it to the kitchen, hoping he’d get discouraged and leave. Where the Fermin was Charlotte? Ugh! I was so distraught, I was mixing up my musicals. Falsettos and Phantom weren’t even in the same genre!
A minute later, the kitchen door swung open, but instead of Charlotte or even Mr. Lucas, Colin appeared bearing flowers he’d obviously stolen from the cornucopia at the buffet.
“Lady Elizabeth,” he said, wagging his brows. “I like the sound of it.”
No doubt he’d want to add the name Hunsford to my title. He hovered in the doorway with such pathetic hope in his expression, I almost felt sorry for him. He wasn’t a bad person. I just didn’t know how to get through to him that I wasn’t interested. Also, I was sure his presence in the kitchen was a violation of some health department code.
“We’re out of buffalo wings,” I lied.
“Why would I want the wings of a buffalo when I have an angel standing before me?”
Alrighty then.
“Colin, you don’t know me. I don’t know you. And I am no angel.”
“Ah contrary, mademoiselle.”
“What I mean to say is, once you get to know me, you’ll find we probably have almost nothing in common. For instance… I don’t wear rouge.”
He continued to advance toward me, intruding into the kitchen.
“This is a restaurant employee only area. If the health inspector pays us a surprise visit, he’ll shut us down.”
That did nothing to deter him. In fact, I think my rejection gave him more encouragement. “I like a girl who plays hard to get. It’s part of your charm, really.”
At this point, I was backing up so far, the small of my back collided with one of the stainless-steel prep tables.
“I can promise you, Colin,” I said as I felt my way around the counter to put a barrier between us, “I’m not playing hard to get. I’m not the kind of girl that plays games. Ask my best friend Charlotte. She can make you another Shirley Temple and tell you how NOT interested I am.”
“Maybe if I come back tomorrow—”
“No. Definitely do not come back tomorrow.”
“—you will change your mind.”
Seriously, it was like having a one-sided conversation, like when you accidentally press the mute button on your cell phone and the other person just keeps talking. Furthermore, he was inching his way around the prep table I was using as my makeshift barricade. Beyond the Barricade lyrics from Les Mis ran through my head in the worst possible way. The song played in a loop as I shuffled behind the counter in a stand-off with Colin. I’d scoot to the right and to the left like a basketball player, and he’d match me step for step. You know that scene from the first Jurassic Park movie? Yeah, it was like that. I was that brave little girl, and Colin was the velociraptor.
We could have gone on like that for hours had I not found a distraction. It wasn’t my finest moment, but I saw the opportunity, and I took it. The cooks had left a half-used bottle of cooking wine on the counter. It was the only defense I could find. I know what you’re thinking, but you’d be wrong if you guessed I used the bottle as a weapon. No, I didn’t break the bottle on the counter and point the jagged glass edges at Colin. That only works in movies. All I did was uncork the wine and splash it in his direction. Some got on his face, some on his furry collar. I didn’t stick around to see for sure, because I ran out of there as fast as I could. I stopped at the bar to retrieve my purse, grabbed the foil tray of yams I was saving and made my way with brisk steps towards the door. Unfortunately, Sir William Lucas cut me off at the pass.
“Where are you going?” he questioned. “We have customers.”
I glanced at the grandfather clock behind the bar. “My shift is over.”
He looked at the clock, looked at my yams, looked around the restaurant, then looked back at me.
“You’re not going anywhere until you close the check at table five.”
Ugh! Table five. The hippies. I needed to get out of there before Colin got it in his head to follow me home. I reached in my apron with my free hand, marched over to the hippie table, retrieved the plastic check holder, and placed it on their table.
“Thank you for dining at Lucas Lodge,” I said rapid-fire fast. “Our bartender will collect your payment when you’re ready. Please take your time.”
I exchanged a conspiring glance at Charlotte whose wide eyes betrayed her confusion. I was sure she’d figure it out once I was gone. I was backing away from the table when the hippie man stopped me. “I can pay right now. Hang on a sec.” He reached into an overstuffed backpack, pulling random items out to get to his wallet. He took forever. I shouldn’t have told him to take his time. I tapped my foot with nervous glances toward the kitchen when I caught the sight of Colin emerging with a damp towel in his hand. The entire front of his shirt was wet with red wine diluted with water where it looked like he’d tried to clean it but just made it worse.
Great.
I wondered how small I could make myself and how long I could effectively hide under the table—although the hippies might have had something to say about that. Seriously, how much further did he have to dig to find his wallet? Sir William appeared at my side with a plastic smile plastered across his face.
“Allow me to relieve you of your load, My Lady,” he said, taking hold of my tray of yams. I only clutched it tighter.
“No, thank you, Sir William Lucas,” I replied through my teeth. “It is no burden to me.”
“Nonsense,” he said, tugging the foil edge of the tray. “I insist.”
“The lady doth protest,” I said curtly, tugging it back.
I’m sure you can see where this is going. I don’t know what his deal was, but he continued to play tug of war with my yams until the flimsy aluminum tray buckled under the strain and gave way to a shower of yams, which flew in syrupy clumps into the air. It seemed to happen in slow motion. The metallic crinkle of aluminum, the golden, sweet goodness flying out of reach, the eyeballs bulging out of Sir William’s sockets. I could have sworn someone cried Noooooooo Luke Skywalker style. It might have been me.
But then time stopped, and everyone’s attention was fixed on the hippies who had yams dripping down their faces and hair. My yams. My beautiful yams.
This is why I hate working holidays. One year on Mother's Day, I dropped an entire plate of Eggs Benedict on a woman’s lap. True story. I was just a disaster magnet.
Sir William’s face went from white to fire-engine red in three seconds. I swear he had steam shooting out of his ears. The hippies weren’t even as angry as he was.
“Get. Out!” he growled.
Wonderful! I’d wanted to leave five minutes ago.
“I can clean this,” I said with an apologetic look towards the hippies. They shrugged at me, licking the yams from their faces.
“No,” said Sir William with a bite. “Go home, Miss Bennet. Get out and don’t return!”
I heard Charlotte audibly gasp from behind the bar. Miss Bennet? He never called me Miss Bennet. No more Lady Elizabeth. He stripped me of my title. He was…
“Are you firing me?” I cried. “On Thanksgiving?”
I turned my eyes to Charlotte. She stared at the scene with her mouth hanging open. Colin shrank back into the kitchen, and the hippies took selfies. But Sir William stood his ground, breathing heavily and pointing to the exit.
I took a moment to let that sink in and with as much pride as I could muster, I adjusted the purse strap on my shoulder, snatched the horribly bent aluminum tray from the floor, and walked out of Lucas Lodge. On the bright side, Colin didn’t follow me.
Happy Thanksgiving, Mom. I could have come over with a new flamboyant boyfriend and a tray of yams, but we’ll have to make do with what we can scrape off this aluminum tray. Oh, and I’m unemployed.
Technically, I wasn’t unemployed. I still had my theatre job—for the time being. Colin probably did have some say in that regard if he was vindictive enough, but I held onto a sliver of hope he’d forgive me if I paid for his dry cleaning.
I would have gone home if I hadn’t promised my parents I’d celebrate with them. Dad liked to deep fry the turkey, and Mom made everyone matching t-shirts every year. She’d paint cartoonish turkeys on yellow shirts, and we’d all pose for a photo which made it into the annual Christmas card ‘letter.’ She said the letter was to keep distant family updated, but we all knew it was an excuse to brag about our accomplishments—even if it meant she had to make some of them up. The Lucas family always got one, and they lived a block away. Of course, Mrs. Lucas was just as bad as Mom. She’d adopted the unorthodox custom of sending a bi-yearly letter—one at Christmas and one in June. She’d include Xerox copies of her children’s report cards for good measure. It was the competitive nature of their friendship. No biggie. They were the best of friends, but once Mrs. Lucas would go home, the gossip train would pull out of the station.
“It’s a good thing Charlotte has brains,” Mom would say. “Because she won’t get far in life with the way she looks.”
I’m fairly certain Mrs. Lucas had a thing or two to say about me and my sister, but Charlotte never said anything about it. Still, the Lucases were practically family. All us kids grew up together, attended the same church, went to the same elementary school. Mom and Mrs. Lucas would exchange recipes and go to each other’s candle parties while Dad smoked cigars with Mr. Lucas. We were the quintessential American neighbors. That’s why when
Mrs. Lucas knocked on the front door later in the evening while we were having our pumpkin pie, nobody thought anything of it.
Trailing behind her as she walked into the dining room, was the doleful Mr. Lucas. His head bowed low, we could tell he’d been the recipient of his wife’s tongue lashing.
“Say what you came here to say, Bill.”
The tone Mrs. Lucas employed with her husband was more toddler scolding than wifely. It was clearly evident who wore the pants in that family.
Mr. Lucas hunched his shoulders and sighed and with a roll of his eyes to the ceiling, reluctantly admitted, “I may have overreacted today.”
This wasn’t sufficient enough for his wife, and she prompted him further. “Aaaand?” Her voice was severe.
Mr. Lucas slowly lifted his eyes to meet mine. “And I apologize.”
“Aaaand?”
“And I’d like you to come back to work at the lodge,” he said. And then through gritted teeth, added, “Please.”
I wondered how much resistance Mr. Lucas gave his wife in agreeing to leave his cozy armchair on Thanksgiving to beg me to return to work. What did that woman have hanging over his head? I could imagine Mrs. Lucas holding the spiced cider ransom until he gave in. It occurred to me Lucas Lodge was his version of a man cave, and the Sir William Lucas persona was the lord of that domain.
“Where’s Charlotte?” I asked.
“She stayed back at the house with that boy,” Mrs. Lucas said, waving her hand around dismissively.
