by Hazel Parker
“Copy that.”
“Still no hints as to what he has planned for the evening?”
“Nope. I don’t have a clue.”
She laughs. “You sound remarkably okay with that.”
“Not much choice. He’s keeping his cards pretty close to the vest on this outing.”
“So he could be planning on flying the two of you to Paris for a couple of hours?”
“No, nothing that exotic. I told him I had to be up early tomorrow morning, so he promised we’d go somewhere local so I could be in bed at a decent hour.”
“You party pooper, you. Speaking of bed and decency—” she begins.
“Whoops,” I interrupt. “I’m home. Gotta go.”
“Call me later?” she asks, sounding disappointed. She obviously wanted to tease me some more.
“I’ll update you on the state of my underwear, yes,” I tell her, figuring that the statement is dirty enough to satisfy her at the moment, which it is. She hangs up happy.
As I get ready, I wonder again what, exactly, the evening will entail. I also wonder if Tira’s lewd suggestions might not be off the mark after all.
The last time Trent and I had had dinner together, it had metamorphosized into our first date so fast, I hadn’t had time to think about it. And I had slept with him, technically on that first date, which I never do.
Actually, since I haven’t dated at all in years, it feels like the fact that I slept with him so quickly almost is a moot point in terms of timing.
You’re just good at cutting to the chase, said the devil on my shoulder. You don’t have time for small-talk and slow-dancing, so you proceeded directly to “Go.” Nothing wrong with that.
Was there nothing wrong with it, though? On top of our bedroom shenanigans—living room shenanigans, you mean, the devil smirked—I was forced to consider my emotional state as well. Simply put, are things moving too fast?
I decided I would take Tira’s advice, handed out during one of our many conversations between last weekend and tonight, which was that I should live in the moment for a change.
“Stop overthinking and overplanning and just go with the flow,” she had advised me. “Enjoy the moment and don’t worry about what comes next.”
Even though that ran completely against the grain of my character, I resolved to give it my best try. I would go with the flow and see where it took me.
At the appointed hour, there is a knock at my apartment door. Trent is on the other side of the door, looking as out of place in my generic hallway in his charcoal Armani suit as a Martian. He is carrying a bouquet of pale pink tulips and white viburnum, as though he had carefully clipped a choice selection of springtime on his way here.
“Hi,” he says, offering me the flowers. “You look beautiful.”
“I’ll have a hard time keeping up with these,” I reply, indicating the bouquet. “Come in while I put these in some water.”
There is a small thrill that shivers up my backbone when he steps across my threshold. It’s the first time anyone’s been in my personal living space in a long time.
“This may take a minute,” I tell him. “I got a delivery a couple of days ago that severely depleted my supply of flower vases.”
I had tried to thin out the boatload of sunflowers by putting them into smaller, separate containers so they wouldn’t seem like so much of a Tuscan snowdrift in my small apartment. I didn’t want to evict any of them from their holders in favor of the newcomers, so I had to content myself with perching the tulips and viburnum in a glass bowl of water. They leaned dramatically to the left, like an exercise in Japanese flower arranging.
“I think I may have gone a bit overboard with the sunflowers,” Trent says, surveying the room.
“If your goal was to bowl me over,” I answer, “consider that objective accomplished.”
“Yes?”
“Yes, indeed—color me bowled. But why sunflowers?”
He hesitates. “At the risk of sounding cheesy—” he begins.
“Trust me; I don’t think there’s any cheese to be found anywhere in this.”
“The thing I remember the best about my first trip to southern France,” he says, “is this one particular field of sunflowers. I had been passing by farm after farm with fields of lavender and peonies, lots of whites, pinks, and purples. Then, all of a sudden, wham! The car goes by a huge crop of sunflowers, and it was like someone had spread out a slice of the July sunlight down there on the ground. Then it was gone, and the view went back to the monotonous whites, pinks, and purples again. They seemed positively washed out next to the flamelike yellows I had just seen.
“Just like everything looks washed out next to you,” he finishes.
I’m suddenly glad that I’ve got the flowers stowed in water on the kitchen table. I’m feeling so flustered by what he says that I would surely have dropped them by now.
“I’m surprised you didn’t show up with more of them tonight, then,” I manage to say.
He shrugs and smiles. “The florist is currently suffering a marked lack of sunflowers in their stock. I had to make do with something else.”
“Do I look all right for wherever it is we’re going?” I ask. “I was kind of dressing blind for the occasion.”
“I repeat, you look beautiful. And don’t worry, we aren’t going to be going far.”
This inflames my curiosity all the more. I know all of the places within shouting distance of my apartment building like the back of my hand. He must have figured this, so if we were going to one of those, then why was he being so secretive about it?
He sees me thinking on this and puts a hand on my upper arm. “Just entrust yourself to my care for the evening, okay? Everything’s taken care of.”
“Okay,” I say. I get my purse and he proceeds me out into the hallway. As I’m locking up, who should happen to come by at this moment but my neighbor, Mrs. McKinney, and her dog, Charlie.
“Hello, Stephanie,” she greets me. “On your way out?” She eyes Trent without embarrassment, then turns her gaze fully onto me.
“Hi, Mrs. McKinney…yes, going out to dinner. This is Trent Stone. Trent, this is Mrs. McKinney.”
Trent nods to her once with an easy smile. “And who is this?” he asks, stooping to scratch behind Charlie’s ears. The dog goes into an ecstasy of attention-reception, rolling over onto his back and kicking his little legs into the air.
“Charlie,” Mrs. McKinney replies. “And he’ll have you scratching his belly all night if you let him. You and Stephanie look like you have places to go.”
“And things to do,” Trent acknowledges, straightening again. “But it was good to meet you, ma’am.”
“Be careful out there, dear,” Mrs. McKinney says to me. “There’s all sorts of no-goods out there in the world these days. Pretty, young thing like yourself—”
“Don’t worry,” Trent interjects. “She’ll be well looked-after. And you should be careful yourself, ma’am…there’s more than one pretty thing about, it seems.”
Mrs. McKinney takes her leave then, and fairly levitates off down the hallway, Charlie trailing behind her. I could swear that she’s blushing, something I can completely empathize with.
“Shall we go?” Trent asks.
“Oh, yes,” I say. “You’ve got my curiosity piqued, Mr. Stone.”
This statement, true to begin with, becomes even more so when we emerge onto the sidewalk. Curtis is nowhere to be seen, and Trent is making no move to hail a cab. I look at him questioningly.
“It’s a beautiful night,” he declares. “I thought we could walk.”
“Where to?” I ask.
He offers the crook of his right arm. “Not far. Not far at all. Just up around the corner, in fact.”
I am now officially mystified. There’s nothing up ahead around the corner except one thing, and a restaurant isn’t it.
He sees the confusion on my face.
“Trust me,” he reassures, and I take his ar
m.
Everything looks different by streetlight, including the entrance to the city park where we are standing a few minutes later.
“I had no trouble getting us a reservation here for tonight,” Trent says, leading me through the open gates and along the path that runs parallel with the park’s bordering hedge.
“I guess not,” I reply. “No need to wait in line, either, for dinner on the grass.”
“It’s just a shade more formal than that,” he says, pointing.
I look. There is a large gazebo a short distance away. I haven’t spent much time in the park in the past, but I’m pretty sure that gazebo didn’t come equipped with candles, which this one is sporting in abundance.
There are candles lining the railings, throwing wavering shadows onto the surrounding area. More candles line a candelabra, of all things, which is parked in the middle of…an elegantly-set table for two in the center of the gazebo. Multiple forks, knives, and spoons flank china plates on either side of a smallish, round table, which is itself covered with a snow-white tablecloth. Off to one side stands a server, who welcomes us with a smile and a “Good evening, sir, ma’am,” and a separate table bearing an assortment of low, covered dishes.
You could knock me over with a feather.
Trent pulls out my chair for me. I seat myself, shaking my head in wonder.
“Surprised?” he asks.
“You could say that,” I say. “If you had arranged to have the meal parachuted down from the sky, I think that’s the only way I could be more surprised!”
“It’s a little dark for that. I should be glad you were at work all day—the company I brought in to set this up looked like they were decking the place out for a wedding.”
“Well, I am floored.” I look around. “But how did you keep someone from running off with anything before we got here?”
He nods his head towards the waist-high hedge surrounding the park’s perimeter. As if on cue, a white sedan with a bank of lights on top, dark now, cruises silently past.
I look back at Trent. “You rented the police?” I ask, incredulous.
He laughs. “Private security company. They’ve been patrolling for hours now. They’ll also go by every now and then while we’re here. They won’t make any noise, though. Hybrid cars. It’ll feel like it’s just you and I.”
“Well,” I say, “and…er…”
“Louis,” the server says, stepping forward with a bottle of wine. “And don’t worry, ma’am, I’m classically trained in staying in the background. You’ll barely notice that I’m here.” He pours and then recedes just as advertised, becoming a part of the shadowy scenery.
“This is…” I fumble. “You went to all this trouble…”
“I knew I was already at a disadvantage trying to pick out a restaurant to take you to, so I decided to concentrate on the venue.” He looks around. “I think it’s got ambiance, don’t you?”
I try my wine. It’s an excellent dry white. “Ambiance galore,” I agree. “So what did you settle on as far as food? I’m dying to find out what’s made its way out here tonight.”
Louis steps forward again with one of the covered dishes. “Toro roll with caviar, ma’am, made with Bluefin tuna belly.”
I lean over slightly towards Trent as Louis begins to serve. “No place in the city makes this,” I stage-whisper. “In fact, I think there’s only two restaurants in the whole country that do.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Trent confirms. “One in New York, one in Las Vegas. The chef in Las Vegas was even more stubborn than you when it comes to catering a private meal, but the one in New York was a little more accommodating.”
“You flew in the food from New York?” I ask, incredulous all over again.
“I flew in the chef,” Trent clarifies. “He prepared the food in a mobile kitchen that was removed just before we got here.”
I shake my head. “I’m just flabbergasted that you would go to all this—”
“It wasn’t trouble,” he says. “Just a matter of some phone calls. The only trouble was racking my brain to come up with something special for tonight, something that you haven’t seen, or worse, done a hundred times yourself. Like I said, I was at a real disadvantage.”
“I think you’ve risen above that.”
“Yes?”
“Definitely. I am impressed.”
The food is beyond excellent, melting in my mouth.
“I never thought I’d be eating this kind of food,” I say.
“I thought this would be right up your alley.”
“Making it, one day, sure. But sitting down and enjoying it? No way.”
“So are you the chef who secretly lives on peanut butter sandwiches?” Trent asks.
“Don’t knock it. There’s something to be said for gourmet peanut butter on homemade ciabatta bread.”
“Point taken.” He examines his own half-empty plate. “I still can’t believe that I get to sit down and enjoy food like this.”
“I would think you’d be used to it,” I say.
He shrugs. “If you had asked me when I was a kid, I would have told you that caviar was something that rich cartoon characters ate. Plus, I wouldn’t know where caviar came from.”
It seems like the perfect opening to satisfy some of my curiosity. “So you haven’t always been…”
“Trent Stone, billionaire extraordinaire? Not at all. My folks were about as in the middle of middle class as you can imagine. My dad was a businessman, but my mother stayed at home to raise me.” He looks off into the night, remembering. “My dad worked hard every day of his life. Nights, weekends, you name it, all so he could inch his way up the ladder. It worked, too…he was making a name for himself when he died suddenly.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. I want to reach across the table and touch his hand, but I’m afraid to break the spell of his recall.
“Anyway,” he continues, “when he passed away, I told myself that I was going to make sure that he didn’t work so hard to provide for my mother and me for nothing. As soon as I was old enough, I went to work in the same office that he had been with and started climbing myself. Like father, like son, I guess you’d say.”
“How’s your mother? Is she still—”
“She died two years ago this June.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again, and this time I do reach over and put my hand over his. He pats my hand with his other one, then starts talking again.
“Mom never held my work ethic against me, even though I missed more than my fair share of birthdays and Thanksgiving get-togethers. Maybe she was used to it because that’s the way my father had been.
“Then she died, and it was like I’d lost my biggest supporter. It was right around that time that things started to go bad with Sharon.”
“What’s she doing now?” I ask.
“Sharon? To be honest, I don’t know. I didn’t keep tabs on her once the divorce was finalized. Her friends all got together and agreed to never speak to me again, so I didn’t hear any news from that outlet. Wherever she is, whatever she’s doing, I hope she’s happy.”
“It’s really healthy of you to say that.”
“I mean it. I joke and call her ‘Hurricane Sharon,’ but I respect her point of view. I wasn’t home that much, and there’s no way to dance around that plain and simple fact.” He sips his wine. “Losing my mother and then Sharon bailing on me…it made for a hard time. I thought that throwing myself into my work even harder would fill in the new voids in my life, but on the few occasions I came home, it was to an empty house that just reminded me of my situation all over again.
“So I resolved to spend this year slowing down. Enjoy life a bit more.”
“And how’s that working out for you so far?”
He waggles a hand. “So-so. Business always seems to have a way of piggybacking onto pleasure.” He looks at me. “Well, almost always.”
“I guess there are always exceptions to the rules,” I say. My cheeks feel
warm.
“That there are,” he replies. “That’s why I like spending time with you, Steph. It feels like an honest experience unto itself, with no ulterior motives.” He thinks for a moment, then adds, “I feel like when I’m with you, I’m Trent, not just Trent Stone. Or ‘Mister Stone.’”
“I feel the same way,” I say. “When I’m with you, it’s one of the few times when I don’t think about work in some all-consuming way. Or when I do think about it, it doesn’t pull at me the way it normally does, where it throws a wet blanket over any fun I manage to be having.”
“I’m glad we’re on the same page. And I’m glad I was able to coax you out for dinner tonight.”
“Me, too. You still shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble.”
“Just be thankful it’s nighttime. If it had been lunch or breakfast, I might really have had the food parachuted in from above.”
“Sounds like the kind of thing you’d do if you were on a deserted island.”
“Or if you’re seeing someone who’s ultra-busy and doesn’t want to leave her kitchen.”
Seeing someone. I was being seen. A small flock of butterflies does a lap around my stomach.
Dinner is followed by Japanese crepes for dessert, each one stuffed with ice cream, fruit and nuts and topped with elaborate garnishes. It’s even more decadent than your standard French crepe.
“And look at that,” Trent announces, looking at his watch. “Only nine o’clock. See, I promised you wouldn’t be out late, didn’t I?”
Despite my looming responsibilities, I didn’t want the evening to end just yet. “So what happens now?” I ask.
“Now,” he says, “I walk you home. Thank you, Louis,” he says to the server, who tips him a tiny bow in return.
“My pleasure, sir,” Louis replies. “Ma’am. Have a good evening.”
“I don’t know,” Trent says, but he’s looking at me. “Is it a good evening so far?”
“Yes,” I say. “So far, so fantastic.”
“Good. Now, let’s get you home.”
Chapter 16 - Trent
Steph takes my arm for the second time tonight as we walk along, our heels making soft clicking sounds on the sidewalk.
