by Rhonda Bowen
I finish getting dressed in my navy blue pants suit then use a light hand to apply some cover-up on my face. I am careful. Makeup makes me look more like Carina Bell and less like Carrie-next-door. I definitely did not need that happening.
My mood follows me to work, and I am barely able to crack a smile for the receptionist in the lobby of the building although we usually chat for a couple minutes. I nod at Dutch who is on the phone, before settling in at my desk and burying my face in the computer. I will spend most of the day putting together the documents from the business trip anyway, so there won’t be much interaction between us. Thank God it is Friday. I need the break.
I am thinking of skipping my whole lunch hour, so I can leave early when Dutch appears at my desk with my coat in his hands.
“Come on, let’s go.”
I look up. “Excuse me?”
“We need to leave now or we’ll be late,” he rolls my chair back from my desk. “Let’s get moving.”
“Late for what?” I ask, even though I am already standing.
Dutch holds my coat open. “The lunch meeting.”
“We don’t have a lunch meeting.”
“Not we,” he corrects. “I have a lunch meeting. And I’m pretty sure you need to be there.”
“But I already had my lunch.” I argue.
“That sad little salad looking thing in that tiny container?” His brow wrinkles. “That was not lunch. That wasn’t even a respectable snack.”
“But, Dutch...”
“Come on, Carrie,” he leads me gently by the elbow towards the elevators. “We’re gonna be late.”
I try more arguing, but it is futile. By time we get to the sidewalk, I give up on the whole thing. I lift my hand to hail a cab, but he grabs it and pulls it down.
“Nope, we’re walking.”
“But it’s cold,” I whine, having to power walk to keep up with his long easy gait.
“Not cold, brisk.” He grins. “God sent this perfect weather to wake you up and put some pep into your bones.”
“More like some arthritis into my joints,” I murmur. But I scurry on beside him, and to be honest, as I breathe in the chilled fresh air, my nasty mood begins to lift a little.
I don’t know how far we walk. Dutch is chattering on about the weather while I am trying hard not to slip on the ice and crack my skull open. We turn down some unfamiliar alleyways, and tiny side streets until we pop out on a street corner that is teeming with people but which I am sure I have never been to before.
“We’re here.”
Here turns out to be a tiny cafe called Kitchen Six that is slightly below street level.
The weather is freezing, but once the heavy wooden doors open and we are inside, warmth surrounds us like a glove. I let out a sigh of relief and close my eyes to soak it in.
“You are not a cold weather girl at all, are you,” Dutch says as he helps me out of my coat.
“Nope.” I shake my head. “Summer is my season.”
“But you’re a New Yorker!” He drapes both our coats across his arm. “New Yorkers love winter.”
“Who told you that nonsense?”
I am treated to his laugh again as we head further inside and secure a small table.
“So, who are you meeting here?” I look around once we are both seated.
“You.”
My gaze rockets back to him. “Huh?”
“I thought I would get you out of the office a bit.” He sits back and rolls up his sleeves. I can’t help but notice the tiny golden hairs on his strong forearms. “I was hoping maybe that would get you out of your funk.”
“I’m not in a funk.”
“You were crouched so low over your desk I was afraid your nose was going to get a paper cut.”
I roll my eyes. “Are you always this dramatic?”
“Only with the present company.”
The waiter comes around and hands us menus. I scan it briefly before looking up at Dutch who has abandoned his and is watching me.
“You’re not ordering?”
He shrugs. “I already know what I want.”
Any other man on any other day, and I would have understood those words in a whole different way.
I swallow back the lump in my throat. “What are you having?”
He leans forward. “Do you trust me?”
I mull over the question for a few moments. “Generally, yes. Except when you go shopping for gifts for the staff.”
He takes my menu from me and signals the waiter. He orders for us both, getting the Eggplant and Smoked Mozzarella for me and the Suadero Torta for himself.
“So why do you get the fancy sounding one and I get the veggies?”
“Cause you eat like a girl,” Dutch says leaning back in his chair and loosening his tie. “When you start bringing something more than grass and nuts for lunch then you can graduate to an adult sandwich.”
My mouth fell open. “You did not just say that to me, Dutch Haverford.”
“I sure did, Carrie Bishop.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You are gonna let me have some of your lunch, Dutch.”
He chuckles. “Maybe I’ll consider it, if you tell me what’s eating you.”
I pick up a sweet potato fry from the complimentary basket the waiter set on our table.
“Why do you think something’s wrong?”
“Nothing really, other than the fact that you came in looking like someone ran over your dog.”
“I would never have a dog. I can barely be around Morgan’s.”
“I know,” Dutch rolls his eyes. “But theoretically...”
“I wouldn’t theoretically have a dog either.”
“Okay, your cat.”
I point a fry at him. “So now you’re saying I look like a cat lady?”
“Nice try, Care,” he smirks. “You’re not going to throw me off this one. What’s going on?”
I sigh and stick the fry in my mouth. I can feel Dutch’s eyes on me and a part of me actually wants to tell him what’s going on.
“It’s my sister,” I finally let out. “I’m a little worried about her.”
His eyes grow serious. “Why, is she in trouble?”
“No...yes...” I lean back in my chair. “It’s complicated.”
He leans forward, placing his elbows on the table. “Try me.”
“I don’t think the... environment... she’s in right now is a good one for her,” I say. “And I end up worrying all the time that she’s going to be forced to do things she won’t want to do...that she might regret later.”
Dutch frowns. “You seem pretty certain she might end up this way. Why?”
I shrug. “Because I used to be where she is. And it took me a while to find a way out.”
In fact, it had taken a hard slap of the truth to realize that I had to get out. It was an experience I wished I had never had. One that I would move heaven and earth to make sure Delia never had.
“Have you talked to her about it? Maybe shared your concerns with her?”
I bite my lips and pick up my napkin. “No...yes...not directly. Like I said, it’s complicated.”
“What about your mother? Does she feel the same way?”
I grimace. “Mother and I don’t really see eye to eye. It’s been that way since I got older. Plus, Delia is her natural daughter, so whenever anything with Delia comes up...”
“...things get tense,” Dutch finishes for me.
I nod. Dutch knows my birth mother disappeared from my life early on and that I spent most of my time in foster care. But I try not to talk much about Cordelia. With the circles Dutch ran in, it is entirely possible he could hear a whisper of her name and the services she provides. I don’t need him or anyone I know outside of my family making that connection.
“You said your sister is at university now, right?”
“Yes.”
“That means she’s old enough for you to have a frank conversation with her,” Dutch contin
ues. “I know in your heart you still think of her as a little girl, your baby sister. But she’s a grown woman now, making her own life decisions. So, share your concerns and give her the chance to make an informed decision. Maybe even share your experiences with her so she knows that you understand exactly where she is right now.”
I nod. Everything Dutch is saying makes sense logically. But emotionally, I’m not sure I can go there with Delia. If I have that frank conversation with her, if I really share my experience with her…
“You’re afraid.”
I look up and find Dutch watching me; his brows drawn together in concern. I open my mouth to deny it, but I can’t. He reaches over and gently separates my hands which are clasped so tightly together on the edge of the table that my knuckles look pale.
He is still holding my hands when he asks the question. “What are you afraid of, Carrie?”
Sometimes I wish I didn’t have the memories. That they didn’t linger in my mind vividly, clear as if it all happened yesterday instead of eight years ago. I was nineteen then.
The same age Delia is now.
I feel it coming like the tension you get in your stomach right before you hurl. I suck in a deep breath and pull my hands out of Dutch’s reaching for my napkin. I can feel his eyes on me as I fold the soft white paper at angles.
“You know when I was only five, my mother - my birth mother - taught me how to make art out of paper napkins.” I focus on the lines as I fold the napkin in half to make a triangle then open it again. “I think she did it just so she could keep me busy anytime we had to wait.”
Dutch sat back in his chair. “Oh, you were that kind of kid, were you?”
“If you mean the energetic kind? Yes.” I glance up long enough to smile at him. He knows I am avoiding his question. I am grateful that he is letting me.
“I am sure she had another word for it.”
“I could never get it at first.” I fold the two sides in then flip it over. “But I guess that was the idea. Whether we were in the doctor’s office or in line at the supermarket, she would find a napkin in her purse and challenge me to make a swan.”
Dutch raises an eyebrow as he watches me. “Looks like you’re still trying to figure it out.”
I make one last fold then slowly open it out, setting the napkin swan upright. “Nope. I learned it.”
Dutch grins and claps. “Bravo, Miss Bishop. Very impressive.”
“And very useless outside of the restaurant circuit,” I say dryly.
“But beautiful nonetheless.”
I hand it to him. “Consider this my thanks for lunch.”
He looks at it carefully before setting it next to his water glass. “I will treasure it always.”
“One Suadero Torta for the gent and an Eggplant with Smoked Mozz for the lady.”
The plates land on the table in front of us, and my eyes fall out of my head at the size of both.
“This isn’t a sandwich; this is a stuffed loaf,” I squeak. “There is no way I can finish this.”
Dutch shakes his head. “And you wanted an adult sandwich.”
I am about to dig in when Dutch reaches for my hands again. “Do you mind?”
“Of course not.” I place my hands in his and lower my head, knowing what is coming next.
“Dear God, thank you for this meal and for this time we can pause from our work to break bread together. Bless it for our bodies even as you bless this time of refreshing for our souls.”
Anticipating the end, I begin to pull away, but he holds tight.
“And please be with Carrie’s sister in a special way. You know Care’s concerns, but we know that you love her sister more than she ever could. So, protect her and keep her from harm. Keep her on the path of right and away from wrong. Take care of Carrie and her sister. And may they both come to know and trust you completely. Amen.”
I usually echo his amen back, but I am so thrown off by his prayer that I can’t speak. When I finally find my voice, Dutch has already let go of my hands and started in on his food.
“Thank you.”
He nods without looking up. Nonetheless, I can’t help but stare at him. In my few years on the earth, I had met a lot of men - many of which I would rather not see again. But, I had managed to whittle them all down into categories, boxes they fit into that taught me how to deal with them, and I was almost never wrong. But with Dutch, it was different. He didn’t fit any of my boxes. And as soon as I thought I had figured out his game, he threw me another curveball.
“Eat,” he orders between bites. “You gotta taste it hot to get the flavor.”
I smile and take a bite of my sandwich. The flavor of the smoked mozzarella combines with the meaty eggplant filling my mouth. I close my eyes and savor the mouthful, almost forgetting Dutch is there.
“Oh my goff.” I hold my hand over my mouth to keep Dutch from a less than ladylike view. “This is amaffing.”
Dutch nods, his mouth too full of lettuce and veal to respond. “Omph huff hiff plaff.”
We don’t try talking to each other anymore but focus on the food. I wasn’t a big fan of sandwiches in general, but this one was about to change my mind. I got through half of mine before deciding it was time to sample Dutch’s. While he has one half in his hands, I grab his plate and switch it with mine.
“No...” He chokes down his bite. “Carrie!”
I take a huge bite out of his torta, leaning to the side out of his reach as he stretches across the table in an attempt to grab my plate. I almost choke at the expression on his face.
“Sharing is caring, Dutch,” I say, after I swallow the first bite. It has a different, more savory taste than mine, like a Mexican party in my mouth. A really good party.
He purses his lips before reaching down for the other half of my eggplant sandwich, now sitting in front of him.
“I am never taking you to lunch again.”
I roll my eyes. “So you say.”
We joke around as we eat. I am only able to get through half of Dutch’s half sandwich before my stomach calls time. He is right. Most days I do eat like a girl.
“Think you have room for dessert?”
I collapse back in my chair. “Only if you want me to fall asleep at my desk.”
He grins. “That’s not the kind of dessert I was talking about.”
Before I can ask more, he wipes his hands and stands up.
“Where are you going?”
He pulls his tie over his head and drapes it on the chair. “You’ll see.”
I watch as he heads up to the stage set up further back in the cafe. I have been so busy eating I hadn’t noticed a whole band set-up, or the three other guys who were plugging in guitars and playing with microphones.
“Testing, testing. Good afternoon, ladies and gents. Hope you’re enjoying your lunch.”
There was a light cheer of response to the slender man with longish blonde hair standing at the mic with a guitar around his neck.
“As usual, we, your Friday Lunch Boys, are here to provide you with some tunes for your listening pleasure, so sit back and enjoy.” He adjusts his guitar. “And if you have any requests...well...keep them to yourselves cause we’re not that good yet.”
I laugh with the other patrons and lean forward curiously. I don’t know where Dutch found a fedora, cause he hadn’t brought one, but it is perched mischievously on his head as he takes his place behind a five-piece drum set. He winks at me, and I can’t help but chuckle at the boyish grin on his face. If the guys at work saw their boss now, they would never believe it was the same man.
They start off with Let It Snow then slip in some other carols along the way. I recognize the guy on the keyboard as our waiter. And at second look, I am almost sure the guy at the mic, who turns out to be the lead singer, was one of the chefs. But all my attention is on Dutch.
Dutch the drummer. Never in a million years would I have guessed he had this side to him. It’s almost like he is a different person
. And God help me, I like it.
When they wrap up the last song, I clap like crazy with the rest of the diners. Then watch as Dutch heads back to the table. His sleeves are still rolled up and there is the slightest sheen of perspiration on his forehead. But if the light in his eyes is anything to go by, he is on top of the world.
“You have been holding out on me,” I say as soon as he sits down. “I had no idea you could play like that.”
He gulps down half a glass of water. “Well, I do have a couple secrets left.”
“Apparently.”
“So, what do you think?” He finishes the glass, watching me.
“Well, I wouldn’t boo you at the Apollo,” I say.
Dutch stands and holds out my coat. “You think we’re that good, huh?”
“Of course.” I slip my arms in. “Plus, the lead singer’s pretty cute. In fact, a good boss would help an employee out and make an introduction.”
“No way,” Dutch slides his arms into his own coat as I return the favor. “I could never let you date a musician.”
“Why not?” I ask as we head to the door.
“Because they make terrible partners,” He says matter-of-factly. “They’re moody, unreasonable, and all they care about is their music. It would never work.”
I laugh out loud. “Maybe I need to give Gina a heads up then.”
As we step into the cold, I grab his arm briefly. “Thanks, Dutch.”
He smiles. “For what?”
“For getting me out of my funk.”
He shrugs. “No problem. Although I must tell you I had purely selfish motives.”
I turn left, thinking I am heading back the way we had come. “Is that so?”
“Of course,” Dutch grips my elbow pointing me in the opposite direction. “A happy employee is a productive employee. I don’t keep you around for your looks you know.”
I knew. And he would never know how happy that made me.
Chapter 9
I’m late.
Somehow, I missed my alarm and now I am racing around my apartment trying to get ready before I miss the train that will get me to work on time. I am almost out the door when my cell phone rings. I dig through my purse frantically. Not there.
