by Lisa Daily
“Hello … Mr. Boudreaux,” I call loudly into the depths of the restaurant. It’s dim, with only minimal light coming from the stunning but dingy arched windows.
“I hardly recognized you without your tiara,” says a man from behind the bar, more gorgeous mahogany. I’m startled at the sound of his voice, and it takes me a second, and then it dawns on me where I’ve heard that melodic Southern accent before: Sterno Man. From the pantry.
“Uh, hi. Hello. You were at my party the other night,” I say, flustered.
He comes forward into the dining area, brushing dust or something off his hands and onto his pant legs. He wears a black T-shirt emblazoned with a band I’ve never heard of. It looks soft and worn in, revealing just a hint of his well-muscled arms and strong chest. His close-cropped brown hair is a bit disheveled, which is sort of cute, and just makes him seem down-to-earth and approachable. Dear gawd, what is it with me and gay men?
“Please, it’s Daniel. I’d shake your hand, but I’m all grimy from trying to get things set up in the kitchen.” He grins, and his whole face lights up. “Construction and cooking do not mix.”
“Nice to see you again,” I say, glancing around the restaurant-to-be. At least it’s in much better shape on the inside.
He absentmindedly brushes his fingers against the cleft of his chin. “Sorry for crashing. I’m new in town and my friend Carter invited me to a divorce party. I’d never been to one, so I thought it might be fun to check it out.”
“Any friend of Carter’s is always welcome! Or, uh, companion.…” I say awkwardly. “He’s one of my favorite people. It was my first divorce party too. What did you think?”
He smiles and his cerulean eyes sparkle. “I loved the concept, and the upside-down wedding cake was a masterpiece, but I thought it didn’t seem like very much fun for the bride.”
“Oh no, I was just … tired,” I explain. And humiliated. And heartbroken. And practically the only straight person in a fifty-mile radius. I take a deep breath and refocus—Daniel is a client. “At least the groom had fun,” I say.
“What a complete dick,” he says, shaking his head.
“What?” I ask, unsure I’ve heard him correctly.
“He’s a dick. What kind of selfish jackass lies to everybody he knows for ten years and then expects a party afterwards? I’m sorry,” he says. “That’s not very politically correct of me to say, and you don’t know me from Adam. You seem very supportive, and I admire that. I hope I haven’t offended you. I just have a tough time celebrating outright narcissism and selfish disdain for everybody else. We’re not living in the Dark Ages or some third-world country. The CEO of Apple is gay. Ellen DeGeneres is gay. Anderson Cooper is gay. And I can’t even imagine what this all must feel like for you.” He pauses and sighs. “I’m sorry, it’s not my place. Where are my manners?”
His eyes are kind, which is unexpected after his little speech. His directness is softened somewhat by his gracious Southern accent, but I feel utterly exalted by his candor. It’s the first cool burst of sanity in this whole, rotten mess. He is the one and only person through all of this to say exactly what I feel. Who didn’t tell me over and over again how brave Michael is, or how hard it must be for him, while completely discounting how all of this feels for me. I’ve barely met this guy, and he just gets it.
I look at Daniel Boudreaux, stunned. Jesus, I like him a lot. He is some fantastic, truth-telling kind of man.
“Thank you, that is unbelievably kind,” I say awkwardly. “More than you know. I’m so glad you were able to make it the other night. My grandma Leona made the cake, I’m sure she’ll be thrilled by your compliment. Anyway, I hope you at least had fun.”
“I did,” he says. “And I didn’t mean to be ungracious. It was a lovely party. The transvestites and the tiaras reminded me a little of home.”
“Where’d you grow up, a brothel?” I quip, and instantly regret it. “Sorry.”
He laughs out loud. “Close,” he says. “New Orleans.”
Well, that explains the dreamy accent. And why transvestites would make him feel homesick.
“Would you like to sit down?” he asks, leading me toward a small round table in the corner with five or six chairs pulled around it haphazardly.
“Absolutely,” I say, pulling out my notepad and pen. “Tell me all about your restaurant.”
He begins to explain his vision for the restaurant and I’ve never seen anyone so animated about anything in my entire life. He talks about food the way other people talk about their children. Two hours later we’ve opened a bottle of wine and are noshing on warm corn bread and the best jambalaya I’ve ever eaten in my life. Apparently construction and cooking do mix.
“So how did you become a chef?” I ask. “Oh God, this is good.”
“Family business,” he says, smiling, “going back four generations. My family owns several well-known restaurants in Louisiana, mostly round New Orleans. Chevalier, The Crab Pot, Royale. I’ve been in the kitchen most every day since I could walk. You know how some people need the TV on when they’re home alone?” he asks. I nod and he continues, “I’ve always got to have a pot boiling on the stove to feel right.”
“Why not stay in New Orleans?” I ask. “Why start from scratch in Sarasota?”
“I wanted to do something a little different than the traditional New Orleans cuisine,” he says. “I love it, but I’ve been doing the old Boudreaux family recipes all my life. I want to do something new, something all mine, a mix of the old and the new. There’s a great creative culture here in Sarasota, a lot of new talent, and of course the Gulf, so we’ve got some of the best seafood in the world right here in the backyard.”
I’m mesmerized by the way he speaks—New Orleans is pronounced N’awlins. When he says backyard, it’s backyaaad. It’s the kind of voice that makes you feel instantly at home, like you’re a close friend or part of the inner circle. It’s marvelous.
“Why the boat?” I ask.
“You mean, why this boat?” He laughs.
I smile and nod. “It’s going to be a lot of work.”
“Things worth doing usually are.” He smiles. “It was owned by an old man named Archer up near Charleston, a friend of my family’s going back forever. We used to go there when I was a kid, and I always told my folks I wanted to buy this boat when I was all grown up. My family’s full of amazing cooks, but old Archer made the best fried catfish I’ve ever eaten in my life. The old man was set to retire, he didn’t have any kin of his own. He knew I loved this place, so he called me first. I bought it on the spot. The old girl needs some work, but she’s gonna be the belle once we get her in shape.”
His enthusiasm and vision are infectious. By the time I leave I feel more excited about this project than I’ve felt about anything in a long time. This is proof, I think, that throwing myself into my work is the key to being happy again, even without Michael.
I take some photos of the interior and exterior so that I can put together my plan book for the restaurant, and then Daniel and I say our goodbyes. Just as I’m leaving, he disappears into the back and emerges with a loaded paper bag.
“For later,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say, “I could get used to this.”
“I hope you do.” He grins.
Ahhhh. He cooks. He has dreamy blue eyes and a chin like a movie star. He cooks … Why do all the great guys have to be gay?
On the drive home I think about how charming and fun Daniel Boudreaux is. And I think about the cute busboy with the nice eyes. And the restaurant host with the great smile. Jesus, what’s wrong with me? It’s like I’m a hormonally charged teenager or living in a bad romance novel: I suddenly can’t stop myself from noticing every man around me. Which means that Darcy, Samantha, and Michael are probably right. Plus, there was that disturbing dream about Voldemort this morning. I need to lose my gay-husband virginity before I lose my mind entirely. I need to find someone to sleep with me. And the fact that I don’t ha
ve the faintest idea how to make that happen is just further proof that it needs to.
21
“You were right,” I tell Darcy on the car ride home. I’m driving over the Ringling Bridge, so my cell reception is a little fuzzy
“Of course I was,” she replies. “I’m always right. About what?”
“I need sex, apparently.”
“Say no more,” she says. “I’ll be at your place around nine-thirty or ten. I’ve got a congressman who’s in trouble and I need to save his ass, and then I’ll be over. Fucking Republicans, they preach all this high-and-mighty pro-marriage, anti-sin shit and they’re the first ones to get caught in the men’s room at Dulles with their pants down and their dicks in a hole.”
I’m tempted to ask her who, but I know she’ll never tell.
My doorbell rings at nine-thirty and Michael, Samantha, and Darcy are on my doorstep. It seems weird that Michael would ring the doorbell, but he doesn’t live here anymore, and I guess it’s what people do.
He smiles as he comes inside and my heart skips a beat. I wonder if there will ever be a time in my life when I’m not in love with him.
“What’s with the Tony Stark facial hair?” I ask. Michael looks different every time I see him now. Tonight he’s sporting an elaborate goatee. He grins but doesn’t respond.
As usual, Darcy has brought a nice bottle of wine. Sam grabs some glasses from the kitchen and the four of us gather around the dining room table.
“Prepare yourself for the horrid world of online dating,” she says.
“I don’t know if I’m ready for online dating,” I say. “It seems so desperate and gross.”
“Desperate and gross it is,” she quipped. “But online dating is basically one big man market. It’s the fastest possible way to track down those nine guys you need before you meet Mr. Right.”
“Definitely.” says Michael.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Michael, “but we’ve only been divorced for three days. Do you really think you’re an expert on this particular subject?”
A sheepish grin washes over his face.
“I’ve made significant progress in the area,” he says.
“Eww,” I reply. “Too much information.”
“You mantramp!” exclaims Darcy, raising her glass to Michael. “With the Cuban guy?” He winks as he returns the toast. He has club stamps on the back of his hand. More than one.
“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” he says. “But yes, let’s just say that I am now approaching mantramp status.”
This is a shock for me. First, because Michael always seemed pretty satisfied with once a week, although what the hell did I know about that. And second, it crushes me that he’s moving on so fast without me. Doesn’t he miss me at all?
“Seriously?” I ask.
He gushes, “It’s like I’ve been parched in the desert for all this time, and now there’s sparkling water all around me.” My heart sinks, as I never really thought of my lady parts as comparable to the Sahara. I’m trying very hard not to feel pitiful, unwanted, and left behind. Screw him, I’m moving on.
He sees my expression and reaches out to pat me on the arm. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. I know this must be hard on you.”
“Nobody’s hard on her,” cracks Darcy. “That’s the problem.”
I roll my eyes and the four of us start cracking up.
Darcy yanks my laptop out of my bag and sets it up on the dining room table.
She opens up the page to Match.com, types in some details, and then pushes the laptop over to me so I can start filling out my dating profile.
“We need a photo,” says Darcy. “A good one.”
“You can just pull one off my website,” I say.
“Terrible idea, Dr. Wiggins,” says Darcy. “We’re not trying to get a man to hire you for a consulting project. We’re trying to get him to want to sleep with you. Or at least take you out for martinis.”
“What’s wrong with the photo on my website?” I ask, slightly offended.
“Nothing,” says Michael, “it’s gorgeous. It just doesn’t send the right message. If anyone knows how the right environment can impact behavior, it’s you. And right now we need to create an environment to inspire someone to buy you dinner and rip off your clothes.”
“Someone’s been reading too many bromance novels,” says Darcy. Sam snickers.
“Ooh!” Michael says. “We should use the one from St. Lucia last year, the one where you’re wearing the white halter dress on the beach. It makes your boobs look fantastic.”
“Thanks,” I say, “although I’m not sure I should take a gay man’s advice on what makes my boobs look great.”
“Yes, you should,” he says. “I still love breasts.”
I’m so conflicted. Gay man. Loves boobs.
“Let’s have it,” says Darcy. Michael sends the photo to Darcy from his phone, and she posts it on my profile. I like the picture; the setting sun brings out the highlights in my dark brown hair, which blows in the ocean breeze so naturally you’d think I was in a photography studio with a carefully placed fan.
“That’s perfect,” says Sam. “Do you have one where you’re riding a horse or a camel? Or sitting on a rocket ship? Those are always wildly popular with men looking for sex,” says Sam.
“Aren’t all men looking for sex?” asks Michael.
“Thanks, that’s so helpful,” I say sarcastically. “Ugh. There’s so much stuff they want you to put in here: what you’re looking for, all about your job and personality, likes and dislikes … This is going to take me hours.”
“Just put in your body type, hair color, eye color, basic details, and your boob photo,” Darcy says. “For our purposes, there’s no reason to include your favorite book from college or the name of your first dog. Men only look at the pictures anyway. Oh, put in there that you like Italian food. “
“Why Italian food?” I ask. “I like all types of food.”
“If you put in Italian food, your dates will take you to an Italian restaurant, and it’s hard to find a truly bad Italian restaurant. If you leave it blank, who knows where you’ll end up.”
“Fine,” I say. “Italian.”
Sam reaches for the keyboard. “You have to check all these boxes. We don’t want to eliminate anybody.” From a menu of choices, she selects every possible available option.
“Camping? I hate camping. You know I can’t pee outside! Fishing? And weightlifting? Give me a break,” I say.
“Men love campers. Get used to it,” says Sam. “Besides, you’re not going to date any of these guys long enough to have to go camping.”
Darcy pulls my laptop back toward her and begins editing what I’ve just written on my description. It’s no use arguing with her.
“Michael, give me your credit card,” instructs Darcy. “You should be paying for this.” Michael wordlessly hands it over and Darcy types in the number. He’s outnumbered and he knows it. “A month should do it. Any longer and you’ll want to kill yourself.” She pushes a few more buttons and says, “Done.”
“Now what do I do?” I ask.
“Now you wait about two minutes for the bum rush,” says Darcy. As if on cue, a little window pops up with a chat request. Darcy peers at the screen and clicks a button that says No Thanks. “No photo. No go.”
Michael raises his wineglass “To getting Alex laid. And finding her Naughty Nine guys.”
Darcy, Sam, and I raise our glasses to clink with his. “To the Naughty Nine.”
“Speaking of the naughty part of Alex’s Naughty Nine—Sam, where are you with the tantric yogi?” asks Darcy.
“Ooh, I’d like to meet him,” quips Michael.
Darcy shakes her head at him. “Don’t make me smack you. Michael; have you found Alex a hunky college quarterback yet?”
“I have some possible candidates,” says Michael. “Does it have to be a Division One school?”
“No,” says Darcy. “All we require is a tall, g
reat-looking quarterback who’s chock-full of testosterone. Think you can manage that?”
“And over twenty-one,” adds Sam.
“I’m thinking of two right now,” says Michael.
“Make it happen,” says Darcy.
“Kai the tantric yogi is on board. I gave him Alex’s number this morning; he’ll be calling in the next day or so.”
“I’m really not comfortable with meeting some strange guy just for sex,” I say.
“Oh, he’ll take you out for dinner too.” Sam laughs. “Hope you like vegan.”
Ick.
The four of us have emptied Darcy’s bottle of wine, and Michael pulls another one from the fridge. The laptop dings with window after window from men requesting chats with me. We’re talking and laughing, listening to Darcy’s latest story about one of her clients’ (who remains unnamed) unfortunate incident with his friendly neighborhood drug dealer.
“Fucking Democrats,” she says. “Just because you’re for legalizing pot doesn’t mean it’s okay to go out and score some.”
“You should write a book,” says Michael.
“Maybe I will.” She laughs. “Of course, I’ll have to change all the names to protect the not-so-innocent.”
I tell Darcy, Sam, and Michael about my Closr back-to-back dates with Ferret Guy and Dr. Creepy, and the four of us laugh so hard it feels like old times.
“A few rules going forward since you’re new to this. No Closr,” says Darcy. “You’re lucky you didn’t end up covered in feathers and peanut butter in some weirdo’s storage unit.”
“Don’t communicate online with anyone who doesn’t post a photo; you don’t want to end up with whoever’s lurking behind door number three,” says Sam.
Michael nods. “And remember, no crying on dates. It sends the message that you’re a basket case.”
“I am a basket case,” I say.
“No asking about the five-year plan,” says Darcy. “It freaks them out, makes them think you’re desperate to nail them down and get married, and before you know it you’ve triggered some sort of pre-traumatic shock disorder.”
