by Neal Jones
Laura grimaces as she walks to the end of the hall, adjusting her blouse once more. As she rides the PTL to the ground floor she pulls out the hairpins, letting her auburn mane tumble naturally about her face and shoulders. She slips the pins into her pocket, and then checks her reflection one last time in the clear surface of the com panel just before the door opens.
Cadet Gabriel is waiting in the lobby, flowers in one hand and a small gift box in the other. "Hi," he says, holding them both out at the same time.
"Wow," Laura replies. "Flowers and candy. Very nice. Thank you."
"You're welcome. They're chocolates. You look nice."
"Thanks. So do you." She expected him to be in his dress uniform, but instead he's wearing a suit and tie. On the right lapel is a gold and silver pin, the emblem of the naval academy.
He escorts her out the front doors, and the night is pleasantly cool, with barely a hint of an autumn breeze. "How was your day?" Marc asks.
"It was good, only two classes. I have to choose my masters' thesis by the end of next month, and I'm trying to decide between a dissertation on the recent technological excavations on Aginusk-two, or a traditional research project on the use of Bosley's dating in current anthro-tech regulations." She chuckles when she sees Marc's expression. "Anthro-tech is a shortened term for anthropologic technology. It's the division of the Federation Corps of Engineers that I eventually want to be hired in."
Marc nodded. "Those are the teams that unearth the technologies of ancient civilizations?"
"Mm-hmmm. I think it's fascinating how the machinery and the technology of a civilization can exist long after its creators have passed away. In some cases, thousands of years have passed and we're still able to unearth whole cities or planetary outposts! So where are we headed anyway?"
They've arrived at the transport kiosk, and Marc steps up to the control panel to enter his access code and destination. "It's a surprise." The cardon field materializes, and he motions for her to step through first.
Laura finds herself on West 59th, only a block from the entrance to Central Park. "A picnic?" she asks as they cross the street.
"Something like that," Marc replies, smiling mischievously. He presses the panel beside the cast iron gates, and they swing open. The antique street lamps, fashioned in the style of those of the 19th century, cast their pleasing, amber glow upon the stone pathways that wind throughout the massive park.
"So," Laura says, "is this our second date?"
"I was thinking of that night at the bar as a trial run," Marc replies. "Sort of like taking a new hovercar for a test drive."
It's a lame joke, but Laura finds it endearing. "Oh really? Well that's good, because I haven't decided yet if you're worth a second date."
"I guess I'll have to cancel those tickets to the next gravball tournament," he quips, steering her left onto a path that disappears into a grove of towering oaks and maples.
"Gravball tickets?" Laura echoes, but the rest of her response is cut off as she catches sight of their destination. Two dozen gazebos are arranged in a circular pattern in the large open area at the center of the grove. More antique streetlamps are spaced at even intervals throughout the grove, and a maitre d' in a tuxedo steps forward as Marc and Laura approach the entrance. His name pin says 'Theodore'.
"Welcome to the Central Park Grove," Ted says, smiling warmly.
"Marcus Gabriel. I have number twenty reserved."
The young man glances at his compad, frowns, scrolls through the list a second time, and then looks up at Marc. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't have a reservation for a Marcus Gabriel."
"What? Are you sure? I was just here about three hours ago. I dropped off the picnic basket at number twenty."
Ted nods. "Yes, I remember." He scrolls through the list on his pad screen once more, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. I don't see your name."
"Oh, come on," Marc says, frustrated. "I reserved number twenty for the 17th, nineteen hundred hours. You know what? While you're confirming that, we're going to go sit and start dinner. Thanks."
Ted is too flustered to follow them, pressing his earpiece to activate his commlink while scrolling through the reservation list on his pad yet again.
As Marc and Laura approach the gazebo that's labeled number twenty it's apparent that another couple is already seated at the table inside, and they've already started dinner.
"What the hell?" Marc points to the wicker basket beneath the table. "That's my basket!"
Ted has caught up to them by now, and he's still talking into his commlink. "Jeff? Hey, will you check the reservations computer for me? Tell me what name is scheduled for number twenty tonight? Nineteen hundred?"
The other guy looks to be a little older than Marc and with thirty more pounds on him – all of it muscle. He glares at Ted and then at Marc. "What did you say?"
"I'm sorry, Mister Gabriel," Ted says to Marc. "It looks like there's been a mix-up in the reservations. You were scheduled for next Saturday night, not tonight. The 24th."
"No, the 17th," Marc replies.
Ted's face becomes flushed. "I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do. We don't have any other gazebos available tonight. According to our reservation system, you reserved this gazebo on the 24th at nineteen hundred."
"Well, that's your fault," Marc replies, more embarrassed than angry. "I said the 17th."
"Do you all mind?" the other guy interrupts. "We'd like some privacy here."
"I want my picnic back!" Marc demands. "That's mine. I dropped it off three hours ago." He points to the wicker basket with its red felt cover beneath the table. "You remember me, right?" He turns to Ted. "I asked if I could drop it off here, and I told you what time I was coming back with my date."
Ted consults his compad once more. "Mister James, is that your dinner?"
James glares at Marc. "Buddy, I'm sorry you got your dates wrong, but my wife and I are trying to enjoy our first anniversary."
"You brought your wife to Central Park on your first anniversary?" Laura blurts.
"What's this?" Ted asks, pointing to a small gray cooler in the grass beside the foundation of the gazebo. It's on the back side, almost out of sight.
Gabriel marches over to it and opens it. "This isn't mine. I had a loaf of rye bread, three different kinds of cheese, a bottle of chardonnay, and a cheesecake with fresh strawberries for the topping."
Ted glances at the table where every one of those items has been laid out. Only half the loaf of bread is left, the two wine glasses are nearly full, and all three wedges of cheese have been sliced into as well. Only the cheesecake and strawberry topping have been untouched.
"What are these?" Marc asks, holding up what appears to be two chicken salad sandwiches. Beside them is a bottle of wine, but a cheap kind, clearly purchased from the discount shelf of a liquor store. Beneath the sandwiches is a tin of butter cookies, probably bought at the same place as the wine. Two plain, glass tumblers are resting next to the cookie tin.
"Sandwiches and cheap wine on a first anniversary," Laura remarks. She glances at the other woman. "You got yourself a true romantic, ma'am. Don't ever let him go."
Marc plops the cooler at the entrance to the gazebo. "Just give me my cheesecake and strawberries," he growls.
Ted steps forward, pointing to the gray cooler. "Is this yours, sir? Yes or no?"
James gives a surly, grudging nod.
"I don't fucking believe it!"
All heads turn – including those of the couples in the nearby gazebos who, until now, have been ignoring the scene at number twenty. A tall, bearded fellow is striding quickly across the grove, and his furious expression is locked in on the crowd at number twenty.
"Excuse me, sir," Ted steps in front of the gazebo to intercept the intruder. "Do you have a reservation?"
"So this is the guy?" Beard thrusts a meaty finger at Mister James.
James' date has gone pale, and she starts to rise. "Sy, I can explain -"
"Don't! I do
n't want to hear it. I want a fucking divorce, you hear me, you lying bitch! Fuck you!"
As quickly as he appeared, Sy vanishes, and Ted – who looks more flustered than ever – is rapidly searching on his pad screen, and Marc has finally had enough. He seizes the picnic basket, the cheesecake, and the container of strawberry topping and turns to Laura.
"Let's go!"
The other woman has started to cry, and she shoves Mister James away as he tries to comfort her. Ted is talking into his commlink, and the other couples are returning to their respective dinners with something new to talk about.
"You really know how to show a girl a good time," Laura teases as they walk out of the grove.
Marc is still scowling. "I'm sorry about this." He realizes his rudeness and he slows his pace, holding out his elbow, allowing Laura to link her arm with his.
She laughs. "It's all right. This is the most fun I've ever had on a first date."
"It's the shortest date I've ever been on," Marc replies dryly.
"Who says it's over? We're in lower Manhattan on a Saturday night."
"Well..." Marc hesitates.
Laura stops and faces him. "You've never been to New York city have you?"
"I grew up in rural Idaho," he replies, sheepish. "This other guy in my squad told me about Central Park Grove. He said he takes all of his first dates there."
Laura nods. "It was pretty romantic. Maybe we'll save that for the second date."
"So there's definitely going to be a second date?"
Laura links her arm in Gabriel's. "Stick with me, cadet. There's this nice little club just around the corner that I think you're going to love. You enjoy live music?"
"Sure. But um..." He holds up the cheesecake and strawberries. Then he motions to the bouquet and chocolates she's still cradling in her other arm.
"Oh don't worry. Jack doesn't mind if we bring in outside food, and I'm sure he's got an empty pitcher behind the bar to put the flowers in."
Marc chuckles, shaking his head. "You're not like the other girls, are you?"
"And just how many girls are you comparing me to?"
Marc's cheeks redden. "Not many."
"How old are you again?"
"Nineteen. You?"
"Twenty-three. I've never dated a younger man before."
"And you're my first older woman."
"Tell me more about Idaho. I've never been out west."
( 2 )
Commodore Gabriel pressed the door chime, and then checked his breath by puffing into the palm of his hand. He'd stopped by Grax's on the way here, figuring that a Batarian sunrise - or two or three - wouldn't be so bad. It was happy hour, after all, and Marc had had a long - but productive - day. And for the second night in a row he'd had almost six hours of sleep. He popped a mint into his mouth and chewed quickly.
The door slid aside and Jeanette appeared. "Hi, dad." She smiled.
Marc smiled back. "Hello, Jeanette. You look lovely."
"Thank you." She stepped back far enough to allow him to enter, but then placed both of her hands on his shoulders and leaned in close, sniffing. "How much have you had to drink already?"
"Thank you for your concern," Marc replied, gently removing her hands. "But I'm not drunk." He kissed her forehead, and then handed her the bottle of scotch he'd brought with him. "Slightly buzzed, but not drunk."
"Oh good," his daughter replied dryly. "Gods forbid this evening be completely boring."
"Hello, Marc," Laura said, emerging from the kitchen. She accepted the bottle of scotch from Jeanette. "Dinner will be ready in a few minutes."
"Good. I'm starving. Where's Keith? I've been looking forward to meeting Keith all day."
Laura glanced at her daughter.
"He stopped by Grax's for happy hour."
"Yes, I did," Marc confirmed. He plopped into the easy chair and stretched out his legs. "Are you going to open that or use it as a paperweight?" He nodded to the bottle.
"I'll get us some glasses." Laura disappeared back into the kitchen and Jeanette sat at the end of the couch closest to her father.
"You are going to be nice aren't you?"
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"I just don't want you making a fool of yourself. I know how you feel about mom."
"Your mother and I are just friends, Jeanette. But I appreciate your concern."
"Commodore!" Keith walked into the room, two glasses of scotch in hand. He offered one to his stepdaughter and then to Marc.
"Please, call me Marc. I'm off duty." He stood and accepted his glass, and then shook hands with Keith. "It's nice to meet you."
"You as well."
Laura joined them, handing a glass to her fiancée, and then taking a sip from her own. "Keith is preparing dinner."
"Oh really? What are we having?"
"Baked lamb and mushroom risotto. My grandmother's recipes."
"Sounds delicious." Marc glanced at Laura. "I thought you only ate chicken and fish these days."
"Normally, yes, but I discovered a vendor on the promenade that sells bio-farm meat and produce. I was quite surprised, actually."
Jeanette rolled her eyes. "This is the twenty-seventh century, mom. We do have modern methods of storing meat that ensure freshness and nutritional value."
"Yes, thank you for the commercial," Laura replied dryly.
Marc raised his glass. "A toast."
The other three raised their glasses, and Laura exchanged a nervous glance with her daughter.
"To family. And to love."
"Amen," Keith replied. They all drank. Keith motioned for Marc to sit, and he joined Laura at the other end of the couch opposite Jeanette. "So, Marc, Laura tells me that you're the fourth generation of your family to serve in the navy."
"That's right. It's a proud legacy."
Keith nodded. "My grandfather served in the Corder Wars. He was an infantry man."
"A devil dog, eh?"
"Yep. Tried to get me and my brother to enlist, but my mother wouldn't hear of it."
"And your father?"
"Was a corporate litigator. Well, still is. He never stepped out of the courtroom long enough to care how his children ended up. As long as we had some sort of decent career, he was happy."
"Oh." Marc sipped his scotch. "So you're having the wedding back on Mars?"
"Yes," Laura replied. "In the Everest Mountains. There's this beautiful resort that overlooks the Shanghai Sea. We're holding the ceremony at sunset."
"It's very romantic," Jeanette chimed in.
"Well, how nice." Marc downed the rest of his scotch in one gulp. "Sounds lovely."
"A refill?" Keith asked, rising.
"Sure."
"I'll help you check on dinner." Jeanette stood and followed her stepfather.
"He's a nice guy," Marc said to Laura once they were alone.
"Yes, he is. Thank you."
"I'm very happy for you. For both of you. Very, very happy."
"Marc, how much did you drink at Grax's?"
"Two. Or three. Or maybe it was four...I can't remember. I do remember that they were all Batarian sunrises."
"Oh lords," Laura muttered.
Marc moved to the couch and scooted close to Laura, clasping both her hands in his. "Relax. I'm not going to ruin this evening. I meant what I said. I'm very, very happy for both of you."
"All right, here's the second round," Keith announced.
Laura jumped as if she'd been shot, yanking her hands out of Marc's grasp and reaching for her glass on the coffee table.
Marc stood and accepted his refill. "Thanks, Keith." He returned to the easy chair.
If Keith had noticed Marc and Laura holding hands, he didn't seem bothered by it as he reclaimed his seat next to her.
Laura emptied her tumbler and stood. "I'm going to get a refill. What's the ETA on dinner?"
"Another five minutes and the lamb will be done," Keith replied.
Jeanette set a plate of appetizers on the coffee
table.
"Ooh, those look delicious," Marc said, leaning forward. "What are they?"
"Mozzarella sticks. It's my meager contribution to dinner."
"So, Jeanette, have you had any luck with job applications?" Keith asked.
"No. But I decided now that mom is senior director, she can afford to pay the rent on these quarters for another few months."
"Excuse me?" Laura entered just in time to hear her daughter's comment.
"Well, okay, a couple months. I'm not going to take just any job. I want something that pays decent. I have an Associate's degree, after all."
"And that's not enough," Laura chided.
"It depends on what you want for a career," Marc interjected. "Have you applied to the local press corps? Their office is somewhere on the promenade, second level I think."
"She could apply for an internship if she was still enrolled at Blue Haven," Laura said. "If that was the case I would be happy to pay her rent for the rest of her schooling."
"I know what you're feeling," Marc said to his daughter. "You're tired of the classroom, and you want to get out and start a life."
"Excuse me," Laura bristled. "There's nothing wrong with four – or even six – years of higher education. Necessary, in fact, for anyone who wants a decent career."
"Oh really?" Jeanette replied. "An office assistant pays pretty decent these days. I put in apps at several corporations that have branch offices here."
"A secretary is not a career," Laura countered, and from the tone of her voice it was obvious to the men that this was an old argument that mother and daughter had been rehashing for quite some time.
"A full time position with paid benefits and two weeks paid vacation a year sounds like a career to me." Jeanette sipped her scotch as she glanced at her father. "What do you think, dad?"
"Sounds good to me," Marc said. "You should also look into a civilian position with the military. In fact, the quartermaster's office here currently has a couple openings for inventory and requisitions clerks."
"I think dinner's ready," Keith interrupted, rising.
Laura stood as well but was determined to have the last word. "An office assistant is an excellent job, as long as you make enough to pay the rent."
