by Beth Orsoff
The man said, “Thanks for the tip,” and returned his attention to his dinner partner.
Dylan turned back to me. “I just couldn’t listen to that guy massacre the name.”
Why were you eavesdropping on the conversation at the next table when you should’ve been listening to me, your date? I listened to all your boring stories. The least you could do is pretend to listen to my mildly entertaining, if not completely mesmerizing, tale.
“What is Titlist?” I asked, making sure I pronounced the name correctly.
“A company that makes golf equipment. I have a set of their clubs. They’re terrific.”
“How long have you been playing?” I knew nothing about golf and had no interest in the sport, but I didn’t want to keep talking when he made it so obvious that he wasn’t listening. I’d let him talk so I could eat. At least the food was good.
I was relieved when we’d both finished our pastas without another incident. I planned on turning down coffee and dessert, so the end of the evening was in sight. Until the busboy came over to clear our plates and accidentally dropped a fork in Dylan’s lap.
“You idiot!” Dylan screamed.
The restaurant became momentarily silent as the other diners stared. The busboy grabbed the fork and smiled apologetically.
Dylan continued his tirade. “You think just picking it up makes everything okay?”
The busboy appeared neither to speak nor understand English, but he realized from the tone of Dylan’s voice that it wasn’t good. He quickly cleared the rest of our plates and hurried towards the kitchen. I wished I could go with him.
“Don’t you walk away from me,” Dylan yelled after him. “I can have you fired for this.”
“Dylan, it was an accident.”
“Don’t defend him. If he can’t clear a table without dropping the silverware, then they should send him back where he came from.”
The waitress arrived seconds later and the maître d’ a few minutes after that. They both apologized to Dylan over and over again in fruitless attempts to calm him down. His anger only subsided when the maître d’ agreed to take his entree off the bill.
* * *
I tried to say goodbye to Dylan in front of the restaurant, but he insisted on walking me to my car. As I fumbled for my keys, he shocked me with, “We should go out again.”
What was up with this guy? First he bores me, then he ignores me, then he embarrasses me, and now he wants a second date? I knew guys that always asked women for a second date even when they had no intention of ever seeing the woman again. But that was just because, according to them, they were being polite. I was sure that wasn’t Dylan’s motivation.
“You have my number,” I said and prayed he wouldn’t use it.
Then he leaned down toward me. I turned my head. No way was I kissing him. What was he thinking? Not only was this a first date, but he ate garlic chicken for dinner.
Dylan kissed my cheek and then moved over to my mouth. I pulled away.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Take a hint, buddy! “I don’t kiss on the first date.”
“If your friend told me she was setting me up with a prude I never would’ve agreed to this.”
“Trust me,” I said, “if she had told me what a rude jerk you were, I would’ve said no too.”
“Your problem is you’re a tight ass bitch who doesn’t know how to have a good time.”
I thought of all the nasty things I could’ve called him in return. But what was the point? Plus it was already five minutes to ten. I needed to get home to watch CSI and tickle Elmo.
I got off one “drop dead” before I slammed my car door shut and sped away. Even when I took the high road, I still needed to have the last word.
Chapter 34
Thank God It’s Friday
I loved Fridays. Not only was the weekend mere hours away, but it was the only day of the week I could wear jeans to work and have breakfast waiting for me when I arrived. The firm had a standing order with the bakery on the first floor to deliver two dozen bagels and three varieties of cream cheese to the office every Friday morning. Rosenthal thought this proved to everyone what a generous guy he was. No one was fooled.
By the time I arrived Friday morning all the popular flavors (i.e., anything with seeds, raisins, or cheese) were gone. I grabbed a plain bagel and a cup of coffee and headed back to my office where I found Simone waiting for me. She was already halfway through her sesame seed bagel and coffee.
“You’re late,” she said.
“I know. I tried on five different outfits this morning trying to decide what to wear tonight.”
“I almost forgot, tonight’s the date with the lawyer. But first I want to hear about last night. What did you think of Dylan?”
I set down my bagel and coffee so I could use both hands for emphasis. “I cannot believe you set me up with that guy!”
“Why? What did he do?”
I told Simone the whole story.
“Sorry about that,” she said. “But I can make it up to you.”
“How?” With Simone, you never knew.
“Todd told me there’s a guy in his office he wants to fix you up with.”
“I’m not sure I trust your taste anymore.”
“It’s not mine, it’s Todd’s. I’ve never met the guy. All I know is that he works with Todd and he’s good-looking.”
“How do you know he’s good-looking if you’ve never met him?”
“Todd told me, so you know he must be. Guys never say that other guys are good-looking unless they’re drop-dead gorgeous.”
“That’s true,” Greg said as he walked in with his poppy seed bagel and a container of apple juice. “We’re completely clueless.” Simone moved her feet off the other guest chair so Greg could sit down.
“Then how do you know when a guy is drop dead gorgeous?” I asked.
“Because whenever we have one among us, all the women flock to him and tell the rest of us that he’s gorgeous. Then we know.”
“Do you have any gorgeous friends to set Julie up with?” Simone asked Greg.
“No,” he said. “I’m plum out.”
“What good are you?” I asked.
“Very good,” Greg said. “I have some information on your new beau that I think you’ll want to hear.”
“What new beau?” If I had one, it was news to me.
“I told him you had a date with Steve Rogers,” Simone said. “I didn’t think it was a secret.”
I shot Simone a we’re-going-to-have-to-discuss-this-later look, but she’d already fixed her gaze on piece of lint clinging to the hem of her skirt. She and Greg were getting awfully chummy lately. I still thought that Simone could keep a secret, but Greg definitely couldn’t. He was the biggest gossip I knew.
“We’re just going out for a drink,” I said. “It’s no big deal.”
“Does that mean you’re not interested in my information?” Greg asked.
“Of course I’m interested. Spill it.”
“According to Carr Geary and Rogers’ receptionist, your man is thirty-six, divorced, no children and is a very nice guy. She says he doesn’t date a lot, but she thinks he’s definitely ready to settle down and get married again.”
“He’s perfect,” Simone said.
“They’re all perfect on paper. Let’s see how the first date goes before we start planning the wedding. By the way, how did you come by this information?”
“Pillow talk,” Greg said and took a huge bite out of his bagel.
I shook my head in disgust while Simone gave him an appreciative glance.
* * *
When I arrived in the lobby precisely at seven o’clock, Steve Rogers was already waiting. He was wearing the same casual Friday outfit he’d been sporting the week before, except this time he left out the white T-shirt underneath the short-sleeve, plaid button-down.
“I thought we could go to O’Grady’s,” he said, “if that’s okay with y
ou?”
“Fine,” I replied.
O’Grady’s was an Irish pub on the first floor of our building. I’d been there a few times when I’d first started at Rosenthal & Leventhal. But that was six years ago. I’d always thought it was too close to the office for true relaxation. I must’ve been the only person in the building who felt that way. The place was packed.
Steve led me through the throng at the bar and into the restaurant. The hostess, whom I assumed from her accent really was Irish, greeted Steve warmly and led us to a booth. The three other parties waiting ahead of us didn’t look pleased.
“I didn’t know this place took reservations,” I said.
“They don’t,” he said. “Lori did me a favor.”
I guess that meant he was a regular.
When our waitress arrived, Steve ordered a Killian’s Red and I ordered a glass of sauvignon blanc.
“Don’t you like beer?” he asked.
“I do, I just felt like wine.” I wasn’t about to tell Steve that although I liked beer, I couldn’t make it through half a bottle without belching. I could never figure out how guys trained themselves not to do that. If I got to know Steve better, I’d ask him. Assuming, of course, he didn’t spend the evening belching in my face. I no longer took good manners for granted.
Steve spent the first hour peppering me with the usual first date questions about my job, my family and where I was from. He even asked follow-up questions, proving to me that he had actually listened to my answers. I was impressed.
When we ordered the second round, Steve suggested dinner too, and I agreed. Two hours later we were sipping Irish coffees and I still thought he was a nice guy. In the three hours we’d been together, he hadn’t said or done anything rude or offensive. This guy was a keeper for someone. I just didn’t think that someone was me.
It’s not that he was unattractive, I just wasn’t attracted to him. But I thought it was a good sign that my opinion of him was improving as the evening wore on. Of course, that might’ve had something to do with the wine and the spiked coffee.
Chapter 35
Beach Blanket Bingo
Although I’d had two dates that week, I still had no plans for the weekend. And neither did Kaitlyn. It was nice when life worked out that way. I picked Kaitlyn up Saturday afternoon and we headed to the beach. Since neither of us could afford a $3,000 per month membership at a private beach club, we had to slum it at the state park with the rest of the working stiffs.
After Kaitlyn had arranged our towels so that we were perfectly aligned with the sun, we lathered up with sunscreen. I applied a thin layer of SPF 15, while Kaitlyn doused her body in SPF 45. After three months of tanning, Kaitlyn was still only one shade past milky white. I was my usual end of the summer golden brown.
“Dylan’s clearly history,” Kaitlyn said. “But the lawyer sounds like he has potential. What’s his name again?”
“Steve Rogers. I’m thinking he’s probably not Jewish.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He’s from Michigan, has five brothers and sisters, and Rogers isn’t exactly a Jewish name.”
“So? That doesn’t mean anything. I’m from a large mid-western family named La Rue, and I’m part Jewish.”
“Your great-grandmother was half Jewish and you were raised Roman Catholic. It doesn’t count.” I don’t know why she refused to believe me about this.
“So what if he’s not Jewish? You’ve said before you’d marry someone who wasn’t Jewish.”
“It’s not really about religion. He’s just not my type.”
“Maybe he could be if you gave him a chance.”
She was starting to sound like my mother. “Even setting aside the wardrobe issues—“
“Which are easy to fix.”
“Agreed,” I said. “But he has no edge.”
“Then you’d probably like Adam,” she said. “He’s got lots of edge.”
“Is that the E-Cards guy?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s his last name again?”
“Rosen.”
“Jewish, right?”
“Yup. And he’s from New York. He’s actually back there this weekend for his nephew’s bar mitzvah.”
“How many times have you gone out now?”
“Three,” she said, “if you count the time we just met for coffee.”
“That counts. But why are you wasting your time with him when you know you’ll only marry someone Christian?”
“I didn’t find out he was Jewish until the second date.”
“His last name is Rosen and he’s from New York. You couldn’t have guessed?”
“I suspected, but I wasn’t sure. Not until he told me about the bar mitzvah.”
“Then if you knew on the second date, why go for a third?”
She rolled over onto her stomach and handed me her sunscreen to rub onto her back. “Because he’s a lot of fun. But I know I need to break it off. We had the religion conversation before he left, and he told me he would only marry a shiksa—”
“That’s a non-Jewish girl.”
“I know,” she said, and probably rolled her eyes but I couldn’t see behind her sunglasses. “Anyway, he said he would only marry a shiksa if she converted because he wants his kids to be Jewish and just raising them Jewish wouldn’t be enough, which I didn’t really understand.”
“It’s because in the Jewish religion, children are considered to be the same religion as their mother. Technically speaking, even if the kids are raised Jewish, if the mother isn’t Jewish, then neither are the kids. Although I think the Nazis took a much more inclusive view of Judaism.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Sorry,” I said. “But I’m Jewish so I’m allowed to make those bad jokes. What I think is really funny is that a nice Catholic girl like you is dating a nice Jewish boy from New York and I’m dating a good Christian man from Michigan. Too bad we can’t switch.”
Kaitlyn sat up on her elbows and peered at me over the top of her sunglasses. “Why can’t we?”
“Because I’m an olive-skinned brunette and you’re a freckle-faced red head. I think they’d notice.”
“I don’t mean show up for each other’s dates, I mean fix each other up.”
“Don’t you think they might be a little offended if we called them and said ‘Hi, I don’t want to go out with you anymore but I’d love to set you up with my girlfriend?’”
“We can’t do it like that.” I could practically see the gears shifting in her head. “What we need to do is go out with them again and arrange to run into each other somewhere. That way you can meet Adam and I can meet Steve.”
“And what? We start flirting with each other’s dates?”
“No, they’re not going to hit on us. We wouldn’t want them if they did.”
“True.”
“After the next date, we break up with them. Then, after we’ve waited a respectable amount of time, maybe two or three days, I’ll call Steve and ask him out and you can call Adam and do the same.”
“You’ve never asked a guy out in your life.”
“That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t,” she said.
“What makes you think even if we did ask them out, they’d say yes?”
“They’ve just been dumped and two days later some cute girl calls them up and asks them for a date. Of course they’re going to say yes.”
Probably. “Assuming that’s true, don’t you think it’s a little manipulative?”
“You’re the one who said if we told them the truth they’d be offended. We’re just sparing their feelings.”
I loved that about Kaitlyn. She could justify anything.
Chapter 36
The Sting
Steve picked me up Saturday night at eight o’clock. This time he wore brown chinos, a tan, button-down Polo shirt, and penny loafers. Still too preppy for me, but I knew Kaitlyn would love it.
At my request, Steve had made dinner reserv
ations at Ocean Avenue Seafood. Kaitlyn told me she and Adam would be having dinner two doors down at I Cugini. The plan was that after dinner, we’d each suggest to our respective dates that we try The Perfect Cup, a new coffeehouse on Ocean Avenue, where we would accidentally bump into each other. After that, we’d leave it to fate, at least until we reconvened for breakfast the next morning.
Steve held open the door to his dark blue Mercedes and I sunk into the supple tan leather upholstery. Perhaps I’d been too hasty in agreeing to pass him on to Kaitlyn. I could always tell her I’d changed my mind. It wasn’t too late.
* * *
This time, I peppered Steve with questions. He told me stories about growing up on a farm in rural Michigan as one of six children with his homemaker mother and minister father. He said his passions were religion, politics and music, preferably Classical or Christian Rock. His hobbies were golf in the summer, snow skiing in the winter and watching sporting events all year round.
He seemed surprised when I told him I was Jewish. He said he thought I might be Italian. I got that a lot. Especially in the summer, when I have a tan.
By the end of the meal, I knew this would be our last date. Our backgrounds could not have been more different, we had few common interests, and after half a bottle of chardonnay I still didn’t want to jump his bones.
After dinner, we walked the length of the Third Street Promenade, enjoying both the window shopping and the people watching, before heading to The Perfect Cup. The place was crowded and tiny. After fifteen minutes of standing by the door, a table for four opened up and I wanted to grab it, but the waiter wouldn’t allow it. He said it was reserved for parties of three or more. I couldn’t mention in front of Steve that we would be a party of four any minute.
Steve and I were seated at the next available table for two and I made sure to grab the chair with the view of the entrance. If Steve noticed me constantly glancing at the door, he didn’t mention it. We ordered two coffees and a slice of chocolate mousse pie. We were still waiting for our dessert when Kaitlyn walked in with a man I presumed was Adam.
