by Beck, Jamie
I checked my hair one last time and spritzed La Vie Est Belle on my wrists, then spun around to make sure the miniskirt didn’t hug my butt too tightly. Rich Polanti’s fashion-designer career created extra pressure. I did not want to be a walking billboard of a “Fashion Don’t.”
Tonight marked a giant step toward ending my lonely streak and creating a better life for myself and my son. I’d made inroads with some women these past weeks, and now I had a real date with a respectable man. One who wasn’t too young for me, wasn’t married, and wasn’t a loudmouth. I’d call it personal growth in spades. Unlike Dirk, Rich might also be someone Sam would get along with—a real bonus for Grace and me. Granted, this was a lot of weight to put on one dinner, but I couldn’t stop myself from projecting. The life I wanted was within my reach as long as I didn’t screw it up.
After shoving my feet into my spiky ankle boots, I clomped down the steps to find a cluster of four boys already arguing over the Xbox remotes.
“Hey, boys!” I waved while scanning the room for my purse.
“Hi, Mrs. Gillette,” a chorus of deep voices sang out as I crossed to the sofa table to collect my black leather clutch.
I’d known them since grade school. Good kids. Tough and committed to the team. Now most of them towered over me, so I could no longer lean down to kiss the tops of their heads.
“Rowan, I’ll leave some money for pizza.” I waited for him to look up. When he did, I gestured toward the kitchen with my head.
He reluctantly tossed Deshaun a remote and followed me. “What?”
“I’m going out, so don’t do anything stupid.”
“Okay.” He didn’t meet my gaze, so I touched his chin.
“I mean it. Don’t leave a huge mess in the kitchen, and if you leave, make sure to lock the door.”
He wrenched free of my hold. “Okay.”
I slapped thirty dollars on the counter. “This should buy you two large pizzas and a liter of root beer.”
“Thanks. Can I go back now?” he asked.
I grabbed his shoulder and kissed his cheek. “Have fun.”
It occurred to me to remove the beer from the refrigerator, but I didn’t want to embarrass Rowan in front of his friends. There were eight or nine cans in there. Even if they drank them all—which they wouldn’t risk because it’d be too obvious that they drank without adult supervision—that was only two per person, not enough to be a real danger.
Before he left, Rowan’s gaze grazed me. “Why are you so dressed up to go out with friends?”
I lied, but only because Grace was right: Rowan didn’t need to know about any man until one became significant. “I’m in a fancy mood.”
He made a face but didn’t question me further. I grabbed my keys off the hook and went out the side door toward my car, which was parked in the driveway.
“Hey, Mrs. Gillette.” Carter Phillips smiled as he crossed the yard, stopping me in my tracks. His breath fogged around him but didn’t obscure the rosy tip of his nose.
“Hi, honey.” I gave him a hug. He seemed taller every time I saw him. “What are you doing here?”
“Rowan invited me over.” His earnest face lit up.
I blinked, trying to cover my surprise. Reflexively, I glanced at the house. My talk with Rowan yesterday must’ve sunk in. He hadn’t been very enthusiastic at the time, but maybe he was more introspective than I realized. The glimmer of compassion in my otherwise stubborn teen warmed my heart. Grace was right about that, too; I ought to give him more credit in the future. “Well, isn’t that nice. I left you boys money for pizza and soda. I think they’re already arguing over the Xbox remotes, though, so good luck.”
“You’re going out?” Carter caught his lip in his teeth.
“Dinner plans.” I opened my car door. “But I won’t be too late.”
His brows pinched together. “Oh, okay. Have a nice time.”
“You too.” I slid onto the seat and closed the door, not thinking much of it. But when I backed out of the driveway, Carter remained rooted in the yard, staring at the house. I started to roll down my window, but then he ambled up the walkway and knocked on the door.
Well, shoot. Seven forty-five. I was now officially late for my date. No matter how I aimed to be punctual, something always delayed me. Gunning it would save me only a minute or two, and I couldn’t afford a speeding ticket. Rich might as well get used to my fluid relationship with time if this was going to work out.
The guy earned big points for choosing Bistro Henri. Swanky with a capital S. After handing my keys to the valet, I straightened my skirt and then drew a deep breath before opening the door. Rich stood near the maître d’s station with a pleasant smile on his face.
“Wow, Mimi. You’re even prettier in person.” He offered his hand. Starting off with a compliment, and he wasn’t grabby—no hugs or cheek kissing. Two more checks in the pro column.
And a fourth, because he’d used an accurate profile photograph. Rich’s oval head shape made the most of his cropped, thinning hair. He wore charcoal-gray slacks, a white-and-pink-checked shirt, and a casual black blazer. I smiled at the pop of neon-pink socks revealed when he rocked back on his heels. Our mutual love of bright colors was a good sign.
“Thank you, Rich. It’s nice to meet you in person.” We shook hands; his was dry and warm. His friendly expression, colored with the slightest hint of anxiety, probably mirrored mine.
No sparks, but it was early. Sparks might come through conversation.
“We have your table ready,” the maître d’ said.
We followed her as she weaved through candlelit, white-linen-covered tables to seat us in the far corner, near a large window that overlooked the street. It was a classic, romantic dinner-date setting. The aromas of wine and butter and fresh bread stirred my appetite.
Rich stood while the maître d’ pulled out my chair, sitting after I’d been seated, then promptly placed his napkin across his lap. Nice manners. Another check in the pro column. Grace would love everything about him so far. If only my heart would flutter a bit. But flutters or not, dating a suitable man like Rich could only bolster the social progress I’d made this month. How great would it be to live like Grace, with a partner who’d be emotionally able to discuss serious things—a smart, ambitious man in my life to help me raise Rowan? My hopes rose like soap bubbles.
“Your waiter will be right with you to take your drink orders.” With that, the maître d’ left us alone.
My pulse kicked from nerves. “So, Rich, this is lovely. I’ve eaten here once before—years ago. I remember the trout amandine to this day.”
“I’m glad you’re pleased. My wife—ex-wife—never appreciated French food.” He looked at his manicured hands for a second before sipping his water.
Hm. Referencing his ex before we even ordered might be a check in the con column. The jury would remain out unless he brought her up again.
“My ex’s favorite was KFC.” I laughed. Rich didn’t. Either he hadn’t heard me or he didn’t find it funny. My knee started to jiggle beneath the table.
A young waiter brought us menus and a wine list, then gave my cleavage a brief appraising glance before addressing Rich. “Good evening. Welcome to Bistro Henri. My name is Alan and I’ll be your server tonight. Can I interest you in drinks or some wine?”
Rich looked at me. “Do you have a preference?”
More manners. Another pro to consider.
“I’m easy.” I waved, then made an “oof” face. “I mean, I drink anything.”
Not that that sounded much better.
Rich nodded, maintaining his composure, and ordered a bottle of Sancerre before handing the wine list over to Alan.
“Certainly.” Alan affected a slight bow, this time meeting my eyes with a friendly gaze. “I’ll be back to take your orders.”
The downside of first dates at fancy restaurants: the slow pace that’d be perfect with a good friend or second date might be excruciating with a str
anger who couldn’t relax. I wanted this to work out, so there had to be some way to get Rich to unwind.
I sipped my water and decided to get him talking about his work. “I’ve been looking forward to this all day because I’m dying to learn more about your job. You’ve been mysteriously vague in email, but now you can’t avoid me. Tell me all about what you do. Would I be familiar with your work?” I leaned forward, genuinely interested.
He folded his hands neatly on the table, his spine still straight. “Well, to be honest, I do love my job. I’ve been working in fashion since graduating from Kent State in 2000.”
“You must’ve lived in New York or LA when you started, ’cause Potomac Point isn’t a hotbed for the industry.”
He finally chuckled. Good. “Yes, I worked in New York for Ralph Lauren for years.”
An electric charge raced through my veins. Granted, that conservative brand wasn’t exactly my style, but who couldn’t appreciate its elegance?
“Oh, its Purple Label fabrics are sumptuous and the lines so classic.” Not that I could ever in a gajillion years afford an eleven-hundred-dollar shirt. “How thrilling it must’ve been working for a major American design house.” Did he work with models and celebrities? Would he share juicy gossip?
“Well, it wasn’t without corporate challenges and stress. Frankly, one of the benefits of my divorce was the chance to leave New York. I moved here almost two years ago and started my own company.”
I nearly clapped my hands together. A risk-taking entrepreneur—that deserved two checks in the pro column. Not only could he help me with Rowan, but we could help each other with small-business issues. “How exciting, although I know how hard starting your own business can be. I thought I could open a storefront and cut hair, but my God, all the paperwork and filings and insurance and tax issues.”
“There are complications, to be sure. I mostly work from a home office at this point, although I’m considering leasing a small retail space now.”
“That’s super, Rich.” I sat back, filled with joy. Few things were more inspiring than when someone achieved a long-held dream. It’s why I hoped Rowan would be drafted by the NFL despite my concerns about injuries. “You must have an online store now. What’s it called so I can look it up? I’ll rally all my customers to check it out.”
He cleared his throat. “I certainly welcome any support, although unless they’re buying for their husbands or sons, I’m afraid you’ll all be disappointed.”
“So you design men’s clothing?” Slightly less exciting, but still creative and cool.
“In a manner of speaking.”
What did that mean? “Well, my friends have boyfriends, sons, and husbands, so what’s the name of your company?”
“Foot Forward,” he said, chuckling again, this time at his apparent cleverness. When I blinked in confusion, he added, “You know, as in ‘put your best foot forward.’”
“You design shoes?” I loved shoes, like most women I know. Of course, to my untrained eye, many men’s shoes looked alike.
“Heavens no. Socks!” He jauntily stuck his leg out from under the table and pulled up his slacks to reveal his flamingo-patterned neon-pink socks. Unfortunately, his gesture nearly tripped Alan, who’d returned with the wine.
“Please excuse me, sir,” Alan said, finding his balance. His sandy bangs fell across his forehead. “Although those socks are quite something.”
“Aren’t they?” Rich said as he dug his hand into his jacket pocket, pulled out his wallet, and handed Alan a business card. “I have seventy-three unique designs currently available.”
Meanwhile, my chest sank like a pricked balloon. Socks? Not that there is anything wrong with socks. Even that Kardashian guy had started a funky sock brand. However it wasn’t the glitzy design job I’d envisioned—no one-of-a-kind sexy gowns or tops would be inspired by or created just for me in my future. It didn’t make his accomplishments any less impressive—I knew that rationally. But the thrill factor? Gone.
“Thank you.” Alan spared me a curious look before taking the card. For the first time, I took stock of him. Physically speaking, his wavy blond hair and high cheekbones were more my type. But Rich was obviously intelligent, polite, and ambitious. I could do worse. Heck, I had done worse. “I’ll have a look when my shift ends. Now, would you care to sample the wine?”
Rich studied the label and gestured toward his glass, then swirled and sniffed and sipped like a real pro. He held up his hand, making an “okay” gesture with his fingers. “Perfection.”
“Wonderful.” Alan poured the wine. “May I take your orders?”
Rich looked at me. “Are you ready to order, or would you prefer more time?”
Such nice manners. If only they made him more interesting to me. The truth was that, despite my inner pep talks, Grace’s good advice, and my efforts to get Rich to show some personality, the past twenty minutes had been a lot of effort. There hadn’t been any true sense of connection despite him being as sincere and nice in person as he’d been in email. “No, I don’t need more time.” A lie. I’d barely looked at the menu but saw no point in lingering longer than necessary. Grace’s and my differences did add richness and stability to our friendship, but friendship didn’t require romantic sparks and energy, so her logic that those differences would be good in a love match had been off. The most Rich and I could ever be was friends. “May I have the trout, please?”
“Excellent choice.” Alan nodded with a grin. “Would you like a soup or salad? We have a special lobster bisque tonight—”
“This wine pairs exceptionally well with goat cheese,” Rich interrupted, “so you might like the field greens salad.”
“Thank you,” I said. “That salad sounds nice.” It would give me something to occupy my time. “And will we get some of that bread I keep smelling?”
“Of course. I’ll send a basket over,” Alan said.
“Thank you.”
Rich ordered le gigot d’agneau in what sounded to me like a perfect French pronunciation, and then Alan left us alone. Seconds later, a staff member set a small basket of fresh-from-the-oven baguette slices on our table.
I reached for one and smeared it with butter. “I noticed how nicely you pronounced your meal, Rich. Did you spend much time working in Paris?”
“Mais oui!” he teased. “I traveled to Paris frequently. I admit I’m a bit of a geek. I love languages, so throughout my career, I made it a point to become slightly conversant in French, Italian, and Chinese.”
“Wow. I’m barely conversant in English.” I laughed. Smart people made me anxious. School had never been my thing, although if my parents had lived to my thirteenth birthday, I might have approached it differently. Uncle Tommy had put more emphasis on religion than academics and didn’t bother to help me with homework, which had made it easier to give up on school. Mike Mathison, the high school quarterback, had also been a pretty big distraction . . .
Rich smiled sympathetically; his brows scrunched together with more confusion than humor. A brief pause ensued as he searched for something else we might discuss. “You have a son, correct? A teenager?”
“Yes. He’s at home tonight with a few friends playing some zombie video game.” Rolling my eyes, I added, “I hope my house is still standing when I return.”
He nodded. “Is he into socks?”
“Oh, no.” I tried not to laugh in his face at the thought of Rowan—whose entire wardrobe consisted of athletic wear—being interested in designer sock patterns. If I told Grace about this, she would laugh her butt off. “He’s into football, hoodies, and TikTok. If you designed games instead of socks, you’d be his new hero.”
Rich shook his head. “Everything I read about video addiction is quite troubling. What will this young generation do in adulthood when all they know is how to consume things instead of creating them?”
Oh, Grace would definitely like Rich’s perspective on this topic. She’d tried like heck to get Rowan to take a
n interest in piano. In fact, she still couldn’t believe she failed. On the other hand, Carter had been a star student. Kim not so much.
“Well, they’re still kids. They’ll grow up eventually.” I slurped my wine down quickly, which, if Rich’s raised brow said anything, he didn’t like.
“I tried hiring a college intern last summer, but goodness, she was useless.” He readjusted the napkin on his lap. “She needed direction on absolutely everything. Not that she didn’t do a credible job when given explicit instruction, but she lacked any ability to think for herself or add value with original ideas. Very disappointing.”
I nodded because arguing would be useless. Now he was starting to remind me of Uncle Tommy. Not a bad man, but not an open-minded one. At this point, it was clear that Rich and I were not a match made anywhere near heaven. Grace would tell me to hold off judgment and give him a fair chance, but sometimes you simply know when it isn’t meant to be. I would do my best to enjoy my meal and hear him out, but this night was a bust. Maybe Alan would meet me for a drink sometime . . .
“You have a child, right?” I asked, remembering that he’d mentioned one in our email exchange.
“Yes—Haley—but she’s still in New York with her mother. I see her at holidays and on certain weekends, and for a month each summer.” He glanced out the window, but not fast enough to hide his pained look. A contrast to Dirk, who didn’t seem to miss his son.
“That must be hard. Do you think about moving back so you can spend more time with her before she flies the coop?”
He sighs. “I can’t afford to live there, pay alimony and child support, and run my own business. Not yet, anyway. I grew up nearby, so returning was a homecoming of sorts, and Haley likes to spend July at the bay.”
“Divorce is hard—on grown-ups and kids.” I took another piece of bread, forcing a smile. “Let’s change the subject before we both end up depressed.”
Rich nodded. “Would you like to know the current trends in men’s socks?”
“Why not? I’ll share it with my clients so they can keep their mates in style.”
He smiled broadly. “Retro. Tie-dye, neon . . . things like that. For men and women. And men, in particular, will be looking for high-quality feel and moisture-wicking fabrics.”
