by Maria Geraci
“Of course I know Brandon Farrell. He’s a regular customer,” Felix said. “He also happens to not be here tonight.”
Brandon was running late too? “That’s Saturday night traffic for you,” she said, laughing nervously. “Can you just go ahead and seat me? I’ll wait for him at the table.”
“Sorry but we’re completely booked and there’s no reservation.” Although there was no one around to hear them, he lowered his voice. “When Farrell wants a table he calls ahead and we always accommodate him, regardless of how busy we are. I’ve been manning the phones all night and I can guarantee you he hasn’t called.” He gave her the same consoling look he’d given her earlier when he’d brought up the alligator tooth display.
“There . . . There must be some sort of mixup.”
“Grace, you don’t have to make up a story to come see me. The truth is I’ve been thinking about you too.”
“Felix, I really do have a date with Brandon Farrell.”
“Then why don’t you call and find out what’s holding him up?” Felix challenged. “Like I said before, Farrell’s an excellent customer. If he tells me to seat you, there won’t be a problem.”
Only there was a problem because Grace didn’t have Brandon’s phone number. She’d been so giddy when he’d asked her out last Thursday night after Zumba class that she hadn’t thought to get it. Come to think of it, he didn’t have her number either, but there was no way she’d tell that to Felix. She tugged on the dress again and tried not to fall off the unfamiliar four-inch heels. Working in sneakers all day put a girl at a distinct disadvantage in the heel department.
“Um, funny thing, Felix. I don’t know Brandon’s number by heart. It’s programmed in my cell but I accidentally left it at home.” Not the truth, but not exactly a lie either. In her haste to get out the door, she really had forgotten her cell phone.
The house phone rang. Felix put a finger in the air to signal he wasn’t done with their conversation. “Chez Louis.” Was it Grace’s imagination, or did Felix suddenly have a French accent? “Yes, of course,” Felix said into the receiver. He glanced at her, his hazel eyes wide with amazement. “She’s right here.”
“Is it Brandon?”
Felix nodded and handed her the phone.
Grace squelched the urge to say “I told you so.”
“Grace, listen, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to be able to make it,” Brandon said. “I had a rugby game scheduled for four. I thought we’d be done by six but the game went into overtime and we just finished. I didn’t realize until now that I don’t have your number.”
Grace didn’t know which was worse. Her disappointment over the broken date or the embarrassment of being stood up with Felix as a witness.
“It’s okay,” she said, trying to sound mature about the whole thing. “Maybe we can do it some other time.”
“Damn, you’re being too nice about this.”
Grace wasn’t about to argue with that.
“I really want to see you tonight. The thing is . . . I’m heading over to this bar across from the field. I scored the winning try and the guys want to buy me drinks. I wish like hell I could get out of it, but they won’t take no for an answer. I know it’s not Chez Louis, but . . . maybe you could meet me there instead?”
Grace knew the bar he was talking about. She’d never been inside the Wobbly Duck but she’d driven by a few times. From the outside it looked like it was falling apart. Probably not the best venue for her shrinking black dress and her four-inch heels. But the alternative was to go back to her place and spend the night alone, or worse, go back to the store for her book club meeting and have to face Sarah and Penny and Ellen and tell them she’d been stood up. On the other hand, if she went to the bar, she could show Brandon what a terrific sport she could be. Fifty years from now, at their golden wedding anniversary celebration, it would be one of those cute “first date” stories to tell their party guests during the toast.
“I know the place,” Grace said. “Sure, I’ll meet you there for a drink.”
“Really?” he said with such boyish enthusiasm that Grace couldn’t help but be convinced she was doing the right thing. The Wobbly Duck might not be Chez Louis, but she was still technically going out on a date with Brandon.
They said their good-byes and she handed the phone back to Felix.
Grace put on a fake smile. “Silly me! I got everything totally confused. We’re meeting somewhere different.”
“Grace, I know the . . . incident last February must have been a blow to your ego, but you shouldn’t let it drag down your self-esteem. I couldn’t live with myself if I thought I’d done that to you.”
Grace felt her face go hot. Of all the conceited . . .
“Good news, Felix. You can go on breathing, because my self-esteem is just fine, thank you. Now, where’s your bathroom?” She needed to check out the hem situation. And touch up her lipstick. And empty her bladder. She certainly didn’t want to do any of that in the bathroom at the Wobbly Duck. She wasn’t even sure the place had running water.
He sighed and pointed down a hallway to her left. “Remember, Grace. I’m here whenever you need me.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Just a quick touch-up and she’d be on her way to meet Brandon. After tonight the Felixes of the world would be behind her forever.
She took the first empty stall and pulled the tiny shrink-wrapped tampon from her black clutch purse. Trying to balance herself midair (Abuela had always warned her against the evils of actually letting any part of her anatomy touch a toilet seat she hadn’t personally cleaned herself), she tried to work the shrink wrap off the tampon by wiggling it between her fingers, but the outer wrap didn’t budge. Grace blew out a frustrated breath and tried again, this time working the plastic more vigorously. Nothing happened.
Obviously, she was dealing with a defective product.
She fished around the bottom of her clutch to produce a lipstick, her driver’s license, a credit card, dental floss, car keys, and two pieces of unwrapped bubble gum. Ew, gross. She tossed the bubble gum and upended her purse, but no more tampons. She had no choice. She’d have to open this one.
She tried to use the edge of her car key to rip into the plastic but that only ended with her jabbing herself in the palm of her hand. She could always use her nails, of course, but she’d gotten a manicure for tonight’s date and she didn’t want to chip her color. Bringing the end of the tampon up to her mouth she gnawed on the plastic with her teeth. After a minute of struggling, the plastic finally gave way.
Thank God!
Still, someone in the feminine hygiene department of Procter & Gamble was going to be the recipient of a very serious e-mail come Monday morning.
She finished up in the stall and washed her hands. Huh. Something felt weird. It wasn’t her contact lenses, was it? She blinked. No, they felt fine. She rubbed her tongue against the edge of her bottom teeth. There was something stuck in there. It was probably a little piece of the plastic shrink wrap that had dislodged itself while she’d done her beaver imitation. Good thing she always carried dental floss in her purse.
She checked herself out in front of the full-length mirror. It was just as she suspected. The dress was too short. It had looked fine back at her town house with Sarah urging her on, but she could see now that she was showing too much leg. At least too much leg for Grace O’Bryan. Despite being a jeans and sneakers kind of girl, she did occasionally dress sexy. But this was too sexy, and she wasn’t the kind of girl who could pull off “too sexy” without worrying that she looked ridiculous while doing it.
She grabbed hold of the dress by the back of the neck and twisted around to read the label. There was a giant P next to the size. Of course. Sarah was barely five foot two. The dress was a petite! No wonder the cut felt strange. Kind of the like the plastic stuck between her teeth. There was nothing she could do now about the dress, but she could do something about the plastic. She gave
a great big smile to expose her teeth and leaned her face into the mirror to get a better view.
What she saw made her freeze. There was no plastic stuck between her teeth to get rid of. What felt so weird was that a tiny piece of one of her bottom teeth was missing.
Grace snapped her eyes shut. This wasn’t happening. Maybe the lack of food today had made her delirious. Yes, that was it. She’d open her eyes and find the whole thing had been a mirage. She was like those people who wandered through the desert, dehydrated, and thought they saw a swimming pool—only instead of seeing something good, she’d conjured up something bad.
She took a deep breath and slowly opened her eyes.
It wasn’t a mirage, because there it was, staring right back at her. Her previously even row of straight white teeth was no more. Somehow, she’d chipped off part of her tooth while unwrapping a tampon.
Who did that happen to?
People who were cursed.
That’s who.
2
Beware of Bars Named After Drunken Birds
The parking lot of the Wobbly Duck was nothing more than a muddy field. By the time Grace trekked her way to the front door, her shiny black patent heels were filthy. She tried to get as much mud off them as she could before entering the bar. The mingled sounds of laughter, football on TV, and singing blasted her ears.
We sailed the good ship Venus,
You really should have seen us!
The maidenhead was a whore in bed
And the mast was an upright penis!
Olee Olee Anna! Olee Olee Anna!
Good grief. Were they singing what she thought they were singing? The stench of spilled beer and sweaty male made her nose crinkle, and the floor was so sticky she had to work to lift her foot up. It wasn’t like she hadn’t been in a grungy bar a time or two, but this place was gross. Plus, she was definitely overdressed. Or underdressed, depending on how you looked at it.
Maybe she should leave. Coming here now seemed like a bad idea. But she couldn’t just not show up. Not after Brandon had sounded so pumped to see her.
She tried to make him out among the crowd. Despite the fact that she appeared to be the only woman in the bar, no one paid her any attention. So much for the allure of a shrinking black dress and four-inch heels. Still, she should be grateful. This wasn’t the kind of bar she wanted to draw notice in. She tried to flag the bartender down, but he was busy listening to two guys in the middle of an animated play-by-play.
A male voice from somewhere behind her interrupted her futile attempts to get the bartender’s attention. “What’s a nice pair of legs like yours doing in a place like this?”
Apparently, she’d thought too soon. The magic powers of a little black dress were alive and well. She braced herself and did an about-face to find the man behind the voice.
Tall, broad shoulders, blue eyes. Nice. But she couldn’t let him get away with that butchered cliché.
“I have to admit, that’s original. Most guys notice my ass first.”
He grinned, revealing an identical set of dimples. “Don’t know how I could have missed that. Turn around and let me start over.”
Before Grace could respond, the table in the center of the room broke out in song again.
The cook his name was Freeman
He was a dirty demon
He fed the crew on menstrual stew
And hymens fried in semen!
Olee Olee Anna! Olee Olee Anna!
Grace rolled her eyes.
“The verses only get worse,” said Dimples. A tiny trickle of blood oozed from his chin. Grace resisted the impulse to grab a napkin off the counter and apply pressure to the cut.
“I’m actually looking forward to them.”
Dimples laughed. “I like you.” He glanced toward the table where the singing had originated. “Are you sure you’re in the right place? I mean . . . do you know what kind of bar this is?”
“An Irish pub?”
“That’s currently full of horny, drunk rugby players. And then there’s you. Wearing that dress.” The way he said the last part made her feel naked. Grace didn’t know whether to be flattered or annoyed. She thought of Felix’s reaction to the dress. Were all men really this . . . simple?
“So which are you?” Grace asked. “Horny or drunk?”
“I’m not drunk. At least not yet.”
“Hey, Rosie!” someone shouted in their direction. “Hurry the fuck up and bring us our beer!”
Dimples motioned to the bartender. “Sean, I need a couple of pitchers, fast.”
Sean the bartender smiled at Grace, revealing several missing teeth. Grace pursed her lips together. She was visiting the dentist first thing Monday morning. “Well, well,” Sean purred in an Irish brogue. “What can I get for you, love?”
“Eyes back in their sockets, Sean,” said Dimples. “I saw her first.”
“Rosie!” came another anonymous shout. “What the fuck! Where’s our beer?”
“Get your own beer. I’m busy!” yelled Rosie aka Dimples. “Sorry about that,” he said to Grace. “This place is filled with animals.”
“So I see.”
“Look,” he said, glancing down at his muddy shirt and shorts. “I know I’m a mess, but there’s a bar a mile down the road that won’t kick me out for showing up like this. The drinks are watered down but the atmosphere is a lot nicer.”
Was this guy seriously trying to pick her up?
“How do you know I’m not some crazy serial killer?”
He looked amused by the turnaround. “I can think of a few worse ways to die.”
“I didn’t say I was going to have my way with you first.”
“Hey, life’s a crapshoot, right?”
“Sorry, but I’m looking for someone.”
He splayed his arms out to his sides and grinned. “I’m right here in front of you, sweetheart!”
Grace couldn’t help but grin back. She also couldn’t help but notice the way the skin around his eyes crinkled when he smiled, and what perfectly beautiful teeth he had. Dimples was more than just nice. He was downright gorgeous. Like a slightly older version of those brooding college-aged Abercrombie and Fitch models. He made even Felix look plain. The comparison to Felix made her lose her smile.
“Do women really fall for that semi-charming baloney you’re trying to peddle? Or am I just that gullible looking?”
“I’ll have you know it’s taken me years to perfect that sandwich meat.”
“I didn’t come in here to hook up with some horny rugby player. When I said I was looking for someone, I meant someone in particular.”
Dimples clutched his hand to his chest like he’d been wounded. “It’s the story of my life. I meet the girl of my dreams and she’s meeting someone else.”
In another lifetime, Grace might have fallen for Dimples’ phony charm. But her stint with Felix had taught her a thing or two. “Maybe you can help me find him,” she said.
“I’m a nice guy, but I’m not that nice.”
“I mean, maybe you know him. Brandon Farrell?”
He hesitated, then pointed to the large table in the middle of the room. “Try over there.” It was the table where the singing was taking place.
Chin up, Grace. She hadn’t fought her way through the parking lot mud to be intimidated by a raunchy song. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, well . . . good luck with that.” Dimples collected his pitchers of beer and made off for the other side of the room.
To get to her destination Grace had to slide between the closely packed tables. No one bothered to scoot his chair to make room for her, so it was either tits one way or ass the other, but at least she was getting some interested looks now. Of course the interested looks were more like leers. By the time she got to Brandon’s table, her face was on fire.
“You made it!” Brandon said. He shoved the guy next to him out of his chair and offered it up to Grace. “So what’ll you have? We have beer. And we have more beer!”
The guys at the table laughed.
This was her opportunity to show Brandon what a great sport she could be. “In that case, I’ll take a beer.”
He slid his mug her way.
She’d meant in her own glass. Oh well. She took a long drag of the warm beer. She’d prefer something colder but Grace wasn’t about to make the jungle trek back across to Sean the bartender, and she didn’t want to bother Brandon with such a silly request. She took a few seconds to study him. His dark hair was adorably mussed and there was a tiny smear of dirt on his right cheek. Up until ten minutes ago, she would have said he was the best-looking guy she’d ever met. She glanced over to the table where Rosie Dimples had deposited his two pitchers of beer. Someone sitting next to him said something that made him smile. Rosie Dimples was even prettier than Felix and Brandon put together. And he knew it too.
A guy wearing a backward baseball cap punched Brandon in the arm. “Hey, asshole. Aren’t you going to introduce her?”
This produced a few snorts among his buddies.
“Sure. Everyone, this is . . . Grace.”
For one horrible moment, she was certain Brandon had forgotten her name.
“Grace O’Bryan,” she clarified to no one in particular.
“This is the gang,” Brandon said, waving his hand around the table by way of introduction.
Something momentous happened on the TV screen that made the room explode in shouts. Guys began jumping up and giving each other high fives. The Tampa Bay Bucs had scored a touchdown. Brandon grabbed her and gave her a hug, beer mug still in hand. Grace felt something wet slide down her back. Ugh! She’d gotten beer on Sarah’s dress. Or rather, Brandon had gotten beer on Sarah’s dress.
She glanced around and noticed once again that she was the only female in the bar. Grace pulled down the hem of her dress in an unconscious gesture. With all the pulling and stretching and now the beer stain that was probably setting itself into the fabric, she might as well buy Sarah a brand-new dress. This one was never going to be the same again.
