Love on the Back Burner

by Barbara Oliverio

  “And the lady?”

  “Club soda and lime.”

  The server left to get our drinks, and John removed his leather bomber jacket. He was wearing a forest green cashmere sweater and jeans, and looked every inch at home in the lodgelike atmosphere.

  “So. I got some news today,” he said. “I’m being transferred.”

  “No! I thought you liked Austin!”

  “Well, sure I do, but this is a good transfer. I’ve got lots of reasons. Same western territory, but even expanded. Plus I can’t beat the area. I’ve been hoping to get closer to the mountains. You know what a snowboard fanatic I am.”

  John spent a lot of time hitting the major slopes both in the U.S. and around the world.

  “Wait. Does that possibly mean you are coming to Denver?”

  “Not coming. Practically already there! Packed up the townhouse before this show, and everything will be there when I drive in next week.”

  “John, that’s great!”

  “I’m glad you’re happy. I’ve always thought you were a fantastic girl. It will be great to have you as a friend when I move there.”

  He shot me a wink. Whoa. Had I missed signals in all the times we had seen each other over the past several years? Maybe. I needed to check this out a bit further.

  “Well, John, I’ve always thought you were pretty special, too.”

  John put one arm on the back of the couch behind me and ran the other hand through his dark curls. He stared into the fire.

  “Yep. Special people are hard to find,” he began, then continued in a musing voice. “Especially special ladies. You know, when you find that special one you really need to grab on and hang tight. You have to go where they go.”

  Oh my gosh! After all the times we had seen each other at professional functions … I never knew! I tried to recall … yes! He did usually make the effort to sit near me at cocktail parties! He did send me e-mails and texts. Sure, not frequently, but maybe he was old- fashioned like me and didn’t want to move too quickly.

  That was it. Under that smooth exterior, he was just an old-fashioned guy. After all, he was second- generation Syrian. His grandparents had immigrated back in the fifties, just like my Italian grandparents had. They probably were very traditional.

  Maybe he didn’t want to ask me out until he was in the same city?

  “Um, John, when you get into town, why don’t you come over for dinner? You know, you won’t be settled into your own place, and you’ll be tired of restaurant food all the time.”

  “Really, Alex? That would be awesome!”

  I tried to decipher his look.

  “Sure, John. You’ll be there by the end of the week? Let’s say next Saturday? At eight?”

  “It’s a date!”

  A date! I knew it. He did have more feelings for me than just as a work acquaintance.

  We finished our drinks, hugged good night, and left the fire to go to our rooms. Who knew—maybe he was thinking about our future as well.

  Chapter Five

  “Why exactly do you need Mrs. Olikara’s number? I’m pretty sure our eighty-five-year-old Syrian neighbor is not a marketing consultant.”

  My mother. Never one to miss the obvious.

  “No, Ma,” I said, “I just want to ask her about how she makes her hummus.”

  I could see my mother shaking her stylishly trimmed salt-and-pepper curls through the phone line.

  “Alexandria, why do you need her hummus recipe so desperately that you can’t wait until you come home for baby Elisabetta’s party and ask her for it in person?”

  “Ma, I just want to make it for a … a party.”

  “Hmm. Why she no make-a nice manicotti? That no good enough for a party?” came from my grandmother in the background in her broken English.

  See? What did I say? My family could out-CIA the CIA, if they wanted to, and wear someone down in an interrogation. My mother and grandmother somehow knew I wasn’t just making a dish for a random potluck.

  “Tell Nonna I just want to make something different, okay?”

  “Well.”

  “Ma! Can you give me the Olikaras’ number?”

  “Sure, love, but if you tell me more about the party, maybe I could help.”

  Oh, that was all I needed, for my family to know that another fellow was in the picture and my new plan was to cook something from his background. I would be subject to regular phone calls, faxes, texts, etc., about Syria, the history of Syria, and its cuisine.

  “Actually, Alex, how about if I do this for you, honey. I’ll go over and get the recipe myself and send it to you. This must be some important ‘party’ if you just don’t get a recipe from the Internet or a cookbook.”

  Was I hearing things, or did my mother pause for the barest second when she said the word party? She couldn’t have figured out that I meant I was making this for a new guy, could she? No … I was just overthinking. I had to take her at her word.

  “Thank you, beloved mother! Oh, and her recipe for tabbouleh and baba ghanoush, too, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course, baby girl.”

  “Thanks! Call me when you have talked to her.”

  I hung up before she could bring even more reinforcements into the conversation and leave me totally defenseless in an interrogation.

  “So, explain to me again why you are dashing around the Middle Eastern market to cook for a guy who just moved to Denver?” asked Keira.

  She was still in San Francisco, but her questions came to me through my Bluetooth earpiece as I filled my cart with tahini, bulgur wheat, and other specialties I needed to prepare a meal for John. The fresh veggies and meats I could get at a different market on my way home.

  “IF you recall,” I said as I pulled packages of homemade pita into my basket, “it was YOU who suggested that I step out of my comfort zone and not always cook like an Italian grandmother with the stains of the grapes on her feet from stomping wine.”

  “I never said that!”

  “Well, you implied it, or something like it.”

  “Ali! Has anyone ever told you tend to overdramatize and blow things out of proportion?”

  “Yes, you reminded me of that very fact all through college. But I will remind you that while you were the Ice Princess and I was the Drama Queen, you needed my fire to keep you from being stuck in that Notre Dame dorm room for four years.”

  “And you realize that, in that metaphor, if the fire is too hot, the ice melts and disappears, which I never would. And for the millionth time, why do YOU get to be a queen and I only get to be a princess?”

  We both stopped and laughed. This was a timeworn mock argument that started one night after a fraternity kegger and would never be settled.

  “Anyway, QUEEN Alexandria, how many dates have you had with this guy before this?”

  “This is the first one.”

  “Ah.”

  “What do you mean ‘ah’?”

  “Well, in typical dramatic Alex fashion, you are coming out, pots and pans blazing. Sure, it’s not with Fettuccine Alfredo, but you’re still hitting the guy over the head with your cooking prowess.”

  “But YOU said—”

  “No, what I said was that WHEN you cooked him

  meals, to vary it. I NEVER said to invite him over for the first date to the Food Network kitchen.”

  I paused in the spice aisle.

  Was she right? Was I moving too fast?

  Nah. She wasn’t there. She didn’t see the wink. Even if this was our first “date,” we had been on other “dates” over the past couple of years. They were just with other people around (well, sometimes hundreds and thousands of people, on a trade show floor).

  “Keira. I think you have a good point,” I said as we prepared to finish the call, “but I really think I have a good intuition on this. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?”

  Right. What’s the worst that could happen?

  My table was covered in a bright re
d cloth overlaid with my white linen tablecloth. I set everything buffet style in colorful bowls. There was an array of delicious Middle Eastern delicacies—thank you, Mrs. Olikara, for sharing your family recipes. Thank you, Ma, for always coming through with your assistance.

  I looked just right for a first date. I had on my favorite black wool crepe trousers and French Connection sweater in shades of black, red, and white. At-home elegant.

  “John!”

  He came through my front door looking fabulous, carrying a bottle of wine.

  And his date was breathtaking.

  That’s right. His date. The woman on his arm looked like she could have been Miss America. How did this happen?

  “Alexandria, I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Naomi.”

  Fiancée?

  “Hi.” I could hear Nonna’s voice in the back of my head telling me to close my mouth or flies would buzz in. I pulled myself together.

  “Come in, you two. Sooo. Engaged? When? How?”

  Hmm. Maybe I didn’t pull myself together all that well.

  “Alexannndreeea,” drawled Miss America. “Ah have bin so anxious to meet yew!”

  What is it about women with piles of lush blonde hair? They ALWAYS sound like they’re from Texas or Alabama (Denver native Keira being the exception, of course—she was blonde and patrician and as accentless as they came). And this girl was dressed like she’d just stepped out of the Houston Galleria in her teal leather slacks and matching jacket with a fuchsia blouse. On anyone else it might have looked a little over the top, but on her, the color combination was stunning, right down to the fuchsia stilettos. Huge gold bangle earrings completed her ensemble.

  I ushered them over to the sofa.

  “Well. I’m pleased to meet you! John, you never shared your good news!”

  “No? I can’t imagine that I didn’t talk your ear off about this special lady.”

  His eyes shone on her as if she were the crown jewel. And why not?

  Wait … special lady. There it was! In Boston, when he said he wanted to hold on to a “special lady,” he meant Miss Universe here. He meant that he would follow HER anywhere. I just barely escaped saying “duh” out loud.

  “So, Naomi, have you been in Denver long?”

  “Oh, mah heavens no! Ah was transferred here a month ago from mah office in Austin. Johnny and I thought we could keep seein’ each othah long distance, but he surprihzed me this weekend bah movin’ up heah lock, stock, barrel, an’ engagement ring.”

  She held out her left hand to display a two-carat, perfect emerald cut stone set in platinum.

  Humph. Showy.

  I felt the invisible hand of my nonna on the back of my head twice—once for assuming that he was moving here for me, and a second time for losing my manners.

  “That’s a gorgeous ring,” I said. “Well, where are my manners! Come over to the table you two. I have a few things prepared.”

  “Gosh, Alexandria!” said John, as he took in the spread of Middle Eastern delicacies. “You didn’t have to go to so much trouble!”

  “Yes, Alexandria darlin’. Well, y’all are just the sweetest friend to Johnny and me. You’re going to make some man verrah lucky someday!”

  Yep. That’s me. Some man’s dream—or possibly nightmare?

  “So, let me get this straight,” said Elliott, piling hummus and tabbouleh in a pita as I set out leftovers from my ill-fated “date” with John in the break room on Monday. “You thought this guy was swooning after you, and all along he was making fast to the Mile High City to propose to another girl?”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Well, exactly what was it like, then?” Natalie balanced a plate precariously on her stack of paperwork.

  “Well, I just wanted to make him feel welcome. I just thought it would be nice. I … I …”

  “You were just you,” Elliott finally said, not unkindly.

  “And that’s why we love you. This is all fantastic, by the way! Not your usual Italian feast, but fantastic nevertheless.”

  “Thanks, Elliott. But you guys know that I’m more than just manicotti and meatballs, right?”

  “Who has manicotti and meatballs?”

  This came from none other than our new tech guru himself, Cam Grayson, who chose that moment to walk into the break room.

  “Wow! What restaurant catered this spread?” he asked, as he grabbed a plate and began scooping up a little of everything. The amount of food he piled on his plate belied his trim waistline.

  “Not a restaurant. Our own little Alex here. She’s quite the amateur chef. Usually she wows us with Italian goodies, but today it’s a Middle Eastern feast,” Natalie said walking out toward her desk.

  “Italian, huh?” Cam said as he continued to help himself to bits and pieces. “So you think you can cook Italian?”

  What? Some pretty boy called Cameron Grayson was going to waltz in and question the Italian cooking skills of a D’Agostino?

  “Yes,” I said. “Since my grandmother immigrated from Italy, we’ve been known to throw together sauce for pasta occasionally. Or did you think that spaghetti sauce only comes from a jar?”

  That should put him in his place.

  “Wouldn’t know. Never thought much about it.”

  With a lopsided grin, Cam shrugged and gathered his plate and left.

  I stared after him.

  “What! The nerve! His idea of good food is probably frozen instead of canned!”

  “Pull it back there, tiger.” Elliott finished his last bite.

  “Come on. You can fume at your desk just as easily as you can here. And at the same time, you can help me edit the copy for the new brochures.”

  “You're right. I'll just channel this energy into my workout at the gym this evening.”

  “Atta girl. Get out your aggression on the treadmill.”

  Chapter Six

  “’Scuse me, but are you mad at someone?”

  “What?” I pulled my earbuds out of my ears and looked at the person who had just tapped me on the shoulder. But I didn’t slow my pace on the treadmill.

  “I said, ‘Are you mad at someone?’”

  The guy questioning me was athletic and lanky, with closely cropped blond curls and blue eyes, wearing a Georgia Tech T-shirt, and revealing the slightest trace of a southern accent.

  “Why … do … you … ask?” I puffed.

  “Well, it’s just that you are marching like all get out and singing at the top of your lungs.”

  Ooops. I slowed the pace to a walk, turned the volume down on my iPod, and glanced meekly around me.

  “Sorry … I … just … got … carried … away … with … the song.”

  “I’m all for living out loud. But you had your pretty little face scrunched all up. Well, I just wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of whatever you would be dishing out, is all!”

  Pretty little face? I was relatively sure that at that moment, drenched in sweat in my worn-out “Italian Princess” T-shirt, with a sweaty bandanna around my forehead and red cheeks, I could not be classed as pretty in anyone’s book. Yep. One glance in the wall- to-wall mirror confirmed that.

  “Oh, well. I just love that song, I guess.” I attempted a smile but lapsed into a coughing fit.

  He rushed to give me my water bottle and ushered me to the small grouping of chairs in the corner of the room.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he said as he handed me another towel from the stack nearby. “I love me some Dee Snyder myself.”

  Oh right. Twisted Sister. I was listening to Best Rock Anthems that Anthony had downloaded on my iPod. Classy.

  “But the rest of the gym might want to concentrate on their own music.”

  I glanced around sheepishly. My fellow gym goers were trying not to look my way, but looked silently pleased that my one-woman karaoke show had ended. I wiped my brow.

  “Sorry about that. And thank you …?”

  “Rhett.”

  “Rh
ett? As in Butler?” Come on.

  He grinned. “Exactly as in Butler. My mama loved that book, and with the last name Butler, well she just couldn’t resist. I have to admit it worked out better that I grew up in Georgia. Can you imagine growing up with the name Rhett Butler as a Yankee?”

  “I see what you mean. That would be as bad as being called Lucille Ball and not having red hair.”

  He grinned and nodded.

  “My name is Alexandria, by the way. Alexandria D’Agostino.”

  “Ah. Italian.”

  “On both sides. If the name didn’t give it away, the T-shirt would, I guess.”

  “Well, you might not know it by those stunning blue eyes.”

  Wow. Something about this southern boy was indeed charming.

  “So, Mr. Rhett Butler. What do you do when you aren’t patrolling the gym for people breaking the volume rules?”

  “I’m a lawyer.”

  “And how does a Georgia lawyer boy end up in Denver?”

  “Well, after I got my engineering degree at Georgia Tech”—he pointed to his T-shirt—“I got my law degree at Harvard, and I was recruited to work for a company here that develops rare earth technology.”

  An engineer AND a lawyer? I know I shouldn’t have, but immediately I imagined my parents grinning broadly and my nonna baking wedding cookies.

  “What about you?”

  “I’m a marketing manager for Media Resolutions. We make software.”

  “And what makes you so, um, ferocious, this evening?”

  “Oh … that?” I couldn’t very well tell him that I misjudged a potential suitor, could I? “Um … just a rough day at the office, I guess.”

  “You know what the cure for that is? A good meal. I know this is a bit presumptuous of me, but I just moved to Denver. Would you like to go to dinner with me?”

  Hmm. A nice meal with a polite southern gentleman? This sounded promising.

  “Since we have no secrets now, seeing as you’ve heard my singing and all, I’d love to go to dinner.”

  “Great! But since we’re both kinda sweaty at the moment, shall we make plans for the weekend? Say Saturday? It’s the least Rhett Butler would do for a sparkly-eyed Scarlett O’Hara.”