I checked my Back Bay Dates mailbox and found a note from my mystery man to confirm our plans for tonight and to tell me his name, which was Eric. The service had advised against sharing any identifying information until we were comfortable, and it said to meet in a public place. Eric didn’t give a last name but did go on to write that he had blond hair, was six feet tall, and would meet me at our table, which would be reserved under his first name. I wrote back that my name was Chloe and that I was five-five, had red hair, and looked forward to meeting him.
I puttered around the house for the rest of the afternoon: tidying and organizing, moving furniture, and paving the way for a new life of order and simplicity. Any woman who cleans her house before a date has the secret hope that the man she’s going out with will return with her to her spotless abode. According to some women, though, if you prepare for intimate encounters by shaving your legs, cleaning the apartment, and buying condoms, then absolutely nothing will happen; to guarantee a hot night of passion, you need hairy legs, a messy house, and faith in the rhythm method. Screw that. Clean-shaven neat freaks on the pill have sex, too. But my messy, half-painted walls might even things out in my favor. God, I’d love to have someone’s car parked behind mine all night. That would stick it to Noah. Not that I was in the habit of one-night stands with strange men. Still, I could make a sacrifice this one time if it meant causing Noah any unpleasantness whatsoever.
A full two and a half hours before I was to meet Eric, I began my preparations. I yanked down all my hair supplies for a repeat of yesterday’s marathon styling session and then hopped in the shower to scrub and douse myself with all my products. I even shaved about seven times. Clean and buffed, I turned off the faucet and wrapped my hair in a towel.
I have never understood the policy on applying lotion after a shower. On the one hand, you’re supposed to apply lotion to damp skin immediately after showering, and on the other hand, you’re forbidden to apply lotion after shaving because it can irritate the skin. Risking irritation, I slathered on gobs of Sweet Pea Lotion and even rubbed a little in places that a first date theoretically shouldn’t get near. When my hair was finally flatironed and the front clipped back, I dove into the Lancôme bag, spread my glorious cosmetics across the sink, and followed Dana’s application instructions precisely.
Finally, the blue dress and matching shoes. Since I’d been the model for the dress, it fit perfectly and showed off all the right places. I did look pretty good, I had to admit. I sauntered out the back door and down the stairs, off to meet this blond Adonis named Eric who would whisk me off in a romantic whirlwind.
I ran smack into Noah, who was outside watering his puny little plants.
“Hey, gorgeous.” He flashed a hungry smile at me. “Where are you going all dressed up?” As though I could possibly be dolled up for any reason other than to please him. The nerve. I paused on the landing and with a great sense of superiority announced, “First of all, it’s none of your concern. And second, I really don’t want anything to do with you.”
As I stepped past him, he looked at me in some confusion. One of his harem not drooling over him? “All right . . .” he said slowly, drawing out the words to give himself time to regain his composure. He smiled flirtatiously, as though I were joking.
“Noah, I’m not an imbecile,” I said calmly. “I started my day yesterday by looking out my window to see a blonde tart emerging from your apartment.” Why did I say tart? Who says that? What am I all of a sudden, British?
But Noah’s face fell. Caught.
“Christ, Noah, do you think I don’t have feelings, that it wouldn’t be weird for me? Did you forget that I live upstairs?” I asked cooly.
“Chloe, I’m sorry you saw that, but I did tell you I didn’t want a girlfriend, and you seemed to be okay with that. I guess I should’ve known you’d get hurt.” Pig.
Before he could elaborate on his supposed sympathy for my wounded feelings, I cut him off and nailed him with a lecture on considerate behavior. “You know, I don’t care what you said to me. You don’t get to feel okay about behaving badly because of a technicality. I know you said all the necessary things, but you also acted like you were dating me, like you were interested in me. I don’t care so much about you in particular. What I care about is how little respect you’ve shown for me. I mean, honestly, it’s just rude to parade other women around in front of me. I take responsibility for my part in setting myself up for something like this, but you need to take responsibility, too. You’ve been all cuddly and cute with me, which, in the human world, indicates interest and a certain level of caring. You have an obligation to be careful with people, and you didn’t do that.”
“I’m sorry you see it that way, Chloe,” was his lame response.
“I’m sorry it is that way.” Feeling pretty damn smart, I pivoted sharply and strutted sexily down the steps. Unfortunately, I managed to weaken my first-class moralizing when I reached my car, looked up to see Noah back at work on his plants, and shouted moronically, “You’re no Tom Hanks, you know!”
“Are you sure you—?” started Noah, and I could see he was trying not to laugh.
Dammit, I meant to say Tom Cruise. Although, now that I thought about it, Tom Cruise had turned into a raving lunatic. I’d spent my formative years with Tom Cruise behaving like a normal, gorgeous celebrity and still couldn’t wrap my brain around the new nutjob he’d become.
“Yes,” I stammered. “Tom Hanks. A man known for his upstanding morality and loyalty. He’s been with the same woman for years. Mr. Cruise, on the other hand, ditched his wife, ran off with Penelope, and had a Scientology-laced manic phase in which he jumped on Oprah’s couch and hooked up with Katie Holmes after seeing her supposed work on Dawson’s Creek! Mr. Tom Hanks is a well-behaved citizen with ethics. And you, Noah Bishop, are no Tom Hanks!” Hoping I’d recovered, I ended with, “And I’m going on a date!”
I opened the car door.
“You watch Oprah?” he called down after me.
“Shut up!”
I replayed my talk with Noah on the way to Essence. All in all, not disastrous, minus the severely fouled up Tom Hanks part.
I reached the South End and by the grace of some parking angel managed to find a space. Because it was Labor Day weekend, half of Boston was on the Cape, but I chose to see the parking availability as a good omen. If so, it foretold only short-term luck. What’s more, the good luck was strictly mine and certainly not my blind date’s.
FOUR
EVEN from the outside, Essence was a beautiful restaurant. Large windows faced the street. Through them, I could see the glimmer of candlelight flickering on the walls. A menu was encased in glass next to the front door. I snuck a quick peek and glimpsed the words Baby Artichoke and Shallot Ragout, enough to send me flying into the entryway. If Eric turned out to be a big loser, I would still get a scrumptious meal out of this night.
I was surprisingly relaxed as I told the hostess I was meeting someone named Eric. My usual first-date nerves were nonexistent, probably because I felt I had nothing to lose. The anonymity provided by Internet dating meant that if I chose, I’d have an easy way never to see this man again; I’d just cancel my Back Bay Dates account and vanish. The hostess introduced herself as Joelle. She was in her thirties, with short, curly dark hair. She had the look of a mom, a combination of warmth, huggability, and an air of parental authority you didn’t mess with. In other words, she struck me as a person to whom I could run screaming if this date sucked.
I followed Joelle to the back of the long restaurant. The walls were deep burgundy, and a long panel of ivory velvet hung from each window. The tables were covered in simple white linen with coordinating dishware, and tealight candles added a romantic glow to the cozy dining spots. Dark wood flooring led the way to an open kitchen at the far end of the restaurant. Joelle took me straight to the high-backed stools at a counter that separated the kitchen from the dining area. She gestured to the man seated there and said, “
Mr. Rafferty?”
“Ah, you must be Chloe,” Eric said as he swiveled around in his chair. “I’m Eric Rafferty, your fellow food afficionado for the evening.”
Hm, not immediately drop-dead gorgeous, but not monstrous either. Eric was as tall as he’d said, about six feet, with neatly trimmed dirty-blond curls and wire-rimmed glasses that framed brown eyes. His features were, well, normal—nothing distinctive, but nothing alarming either. No huge nose or enormous ears protruding from the sides of his head. But no smoldering eyes or sensuous mouth. Hardly the blond hunk I’d conjured. I quickly reminded myself that storybook love-at-first-sight attraction was purely fictional and that I’d better stop judging him and my potential attraction to him until the night was over.
“I am Chloe, and it’s very nice to meet you.” I smiled at him.
When Eric stood up, I put my hand out to shake his. Unfortunately, Eric leaned over to put his hands on my shoulders and kiss my cheek, and my outstretched hand slipped inside his jacket to rub against his waist. Even though I have now inadvertently fondled my date, I will not die of embarrassment, I assured myself. Mercifully, Eric appeared as flustered as I was and chose to ignore our fouled-up greeting. He pulled out a stool for me next to his and then repositioned himself in his seat.
“Well, I hope you’ll share your opinions with me about my potential investment tonight.” He waved his hand around the room. The hostess, Joelle, reappeared with a bottle of wine and held it out for Eric’s inspection. “Ah, Joelle, thank you,” Eric said. “I ordered us a bottle of sauvignon blanc. I hope that white’s okay with you?”
“Absolutely,” I replied. “I’m not much of a red wine drinker, so that’s perfect.”
Eric intently examined the bottle and nodded his approval. Joelle poured a bit into Eric’s glass, and I tried to avoid cringing as he staged a display of swirling, sniffing, and tasting. There was a long pause as Joelle and I silently awaited his judgment. I felt for Joelle, who had to humor customers who’d taken wine-tasting courses and now viewed themselves as amateur sommeliers.
Eric peered seriously off into space as he presumably garnered the effect of the wine on all his senses. I prayed to God he wasn’t planning to spit it out. Mercifully, he finally issued the opinion that the wine was fit for consumption. The hostess and I both sighed with relief. I smiled apologetically at her, and she gave me a knowing smile back. She filled our glasses and rushed off to seat a group of diners waiting by the entrance.
“Joelle does a nice job. Excellent hostess, as you could see. I like that in a restaurant. The hostess is the first person you have contact with when you go out to eat, and that encounter really sets the stage for the caliber of establishment,” Eric explained to me.
“I suppose you have to get a good feel for all aspects of a business if you’re considering investing?” I asked him. So far I was not into what struck me as Eric’s pretentious analysis, but if he was going to be dropping a bundle of money into this place, research and judgment were necessary. But pretension? Was it necessary, too?
“Of course. Timothy Rock, the owner, will come over, I’m sure. And we’ll talk with the chef, too. His name’s Garrett, and he does nice work. I used to eat at Magellan all the time, Tim’s old restaurant. Now that place will blow you away.”
Magellan was way out of my price range, but I’d read countless mouthwatering reviews in the papers and on the Internet. If things went well tonight with Eric, maybe I’d actually get a chance to eat there myself! Just the thought of a meal at the famous Magellan brought out the flirt in me. Smiling, I leaned in close to Eric. “So, you know Tim from dining at Magellan? Is that how you became a potential investor at Essence? I didn’t know Magellan had even changed hands.”
Eric took a slow drink of his wine before answering. “Yeah, I love Magellan. Great place for business dinners, and I took clients there all the time, so I got to know Tim pretty well. He was always out on the dining floor, talking to guests and making sure they had everything they needed. I mean, usually when you go out to eat, you don’t see the owners that much. Or maybe you do when the place first opens, but Magellan had been open for a few years, and Tim and his wife, Madeline, they owned the place together, and those two were always in the dining room, meeting people, talking. If you ate there once, they’d remember you when you came back, and that’s part of the reason Magellan has done so well. People like to feel important, that they’re ‘in’ with a restaurant, you know?”
I nodded. One person who clearly loved to feel important was Eric himself.
He continued. “Tim and Maddie never left things up to the general manager. They were at the restaurant every night. Probably one of the reasons they got divorced—too much time together working and not enough time away from the restaurant.” Eric took off his jacket and gestured for Joelle, who immediately swooped over, took his coat away, and left us with menus.
The menus were presented in leather-bound folders, suitable covers for the delectable descriptions inside. I looked at the appetizers, but just after drooling over Roasted Porto-bello Mushroom and Arugula with Stilton-Pink Pepper-corn Vinaigrette, I was interrupted by Eric, who resumed his monologue. “And, actually, I was such a good customer there that I ended up partying with the staff after hours. I became friendly with Tim, and when he opened Essence, he called me to invest. Partying there was also how I hooked up with my ex-girlfriend, Veronica. She does the books for Magellan, and now she works here at Essence, too.”
Oh, great, we’ve been here fifteen minutes, and he’s already talking about his ex. Probably hung up on her, and this is his way of letting me know he’s not totally available. Well, if he’d shut up, maybe we could get to eat, which is half the point of being here.
“So,” I said, trying to change the subject, “I’ve never sat so close to a kitchen like this before. It’s fun to be able to watch the chef work. I can’t wait to taste the food.” I took a gulp from my wineglass and surveyed the busy scene in front of me. Our counter curved gently around the kitchen to offer a clear view of the stoves and the prep counter. The chef, who wore the usual white coat, was rattling a pan over a hot flame. In front of us, a cook was mincing herbs with a gigantic knife.
But back to the menu. The appetizers all looked amazing: Steamed Countneck Clams and Nauset Mussels in a Spicy Orange Bouillon, Vegetable Spring Rolls with Spicy Strawberry Sauce and Black Vinegar Reduction . . . Oh, choosing would be impossible! Glancing ahead, I studied the entrées: Seared Trout with Purple Potato Puree; Caramelized Pineapple and a Lemon-Thyme Essence; Grilled Filet with Finger-ling Potatoes, Lobster and Artichoke Hash, and Cognac Sauce. Good God, I’d died and gone to culinary heaven! I kept reading in spite of Eric’s background commentary: “Ah, the pork is a new dish . . . Oh, good, the prawns were taken off. Not my favorite. What else? Oh, dammit, where’s the guinea fowl? And the venison? I thought that would be on by now. They must be saving my favorites for the fall menu,” Eric rambled.
I’d just about narrowed my choice of entrée to the Osso Buco with Sweet Potato Polenta and Roasted Root Vegetables or the Roasted Half Chicken with Warm Potato Salad and Roasted Corn Salsa when Eric snapped his fingers to summon the server to take our order. “Cassie? We’re ready.”
“Oh, sorry. I haven’t quite decided,” I apologized. I glanced up at Cassie and was horrified at how attractive she was. Shouldn’t the ugly servers be sent to take care of couples on a first date? With the way my love life had been going, I didn’t need nearby competition. Worse than just being hot in a Playboy centerfold kind of way, she was way too cute: gorgeous tanned skin, black hair that looked naturally straight, and beautiful dark eyes. Well, if things didn’t work out with Eric, maybe I’d ask her out . . . no, no, I hadn’t given up on men yet.
Eric shook his head while smiling at me. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of things. I just had menus brought over to see how they read from a customer’s point of view.” Funny, since he hadn’t asked me for my supposedly valuable input. H
e looked over at the waitress. “Cassie, why don’t you have Garrett cook us up something special? Anything he wants. But no clams. And no cilantro. I’m tired of cilantro all over everything.” A bad sign. I love clams and cilantro. And his manners! My mother would have had an aneurism. But at least he hadn’t sat gawking at Cassie and her killer clevage.
“Of course, Mr. Rafferty. I’m sure Garrett will prepare something wonderful for you two.” She flashed a perfect, toothy smile, whisked the menu out of my hands, and dashed off into the kitchen to speak to the chef. I had wanted to order off the delectable menu and again felt embarrassed by Eric’s request for special treatment. But having the executive chef create something on his own? How many times would I get that treat?
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