Fedora Guy is Darla’s grandfather? Holy crap, my coffin has been sealed.
A bolt shoots through my head. The sick fate of how I am supposed to wind up with Darla is still a push toward the asylum. With a gentle toss intended to look casual, the album lands back on top of the pile. “You two gonna keep hashing it out or are we heading to Mulligan’s as planned? I’m thirsty.” In other words, I need to soak my head in a gallon of whisky.
“Head on over,” Brandon says. “I’m gonna finish helping Shane sort through this stack. There’s some weird stuff in there.”
I am definitely out of here. I couldn’t take things getting any weirder.
Once inside Mulligan’s, I head straight to the bar. Hearing Darla say the name GranGran a few weeks ago was like being staked, but having Fedora Guy turn out to be her grandfather has me praying for my head to get lobbed off. Fate is a cruel and vicious beast.
Then again, I never saw quitting my job as a pit stop on my path to happiness, and there is no denying the weight that flew off of my shoulders was a big one. Darla may be just as good for me.
Yeah, but when it comes to dating Darla, I may have lost a weight only to get killed by a boulder.
“Hey, buddy,” Daryl says. “Harold and I still owe you for playing bartender a few weeks ago. Allow me.” He reaches to the top shelf and pours me some Glenlivet Nadurra.
“Would it be ungrateful to ask for a double?” Given my recent realization about Fedora Guy, seventeen doubles still wouldn’t be enough.
“Not at all. The least we could do would be give you the bottle.”
“Hold it for me,” grumbles out. “With the headache that spun in a few minutes ago, I’ll need it.”
A cheers and thanks slips out before I head to the back, which is probably stupid considering that is where I am most likely to find Darla and probably her boyfriend as well. Everything about the situation makes me want to bathe in acid.
When I round the corner into the back, “Moonlight Serenade” blasts through the air as if Fedora Guy has grabbed a mic and invaded the sound system.
The audio from the TV behind the bar sounds like a whisper, as does the chatter of the patrons. There is no way anyone else hears this humming. If they did, they’d be looking around and as clueless as I am.
People mill about. Others wander among friends or sit in booths. Am I the only one who notices the distinct scent of lime and musk filling the room? He’s here, and he wants me to know it. My eyes keep searching until—
Until they set their sights on a vision—one who has yet to notice me, yet somehow tells my eyes they will never behold anything lovelier. Across the room, in the booth where Brandon and I usually sit, rests pure beauty. The understated elegance of her makeup, along with how her onyx hair flows down her shoulders like she is in an Art Nouveau painting, is enchanting. Her pine green dress gathers below her chest, giving me a peek at cleavage, but it is her tiny sleeves, extending just beyond her shoulder, that tempt my fingers to trace them. I dare not inch closer, because her jazz era dress has me fearing she shares more than her clothing period of choice with Fedora Guy.
Motionlessly I watch, waiting to see if she interacts with anyone or if she will turn my way, only to fade like Fedora Guy always does. Instead, she reaches into her purse. The compact she removes deepens my intrigue. Light reflects off of gold, and the top looks to be adorned in rhinestones. That is not something she picked up yesterday at the drug store. It complements the outfit as if they were all bought together while in style decades ago.
I need to know who she is, and if she is real.
Each step makes me increasingly aware of the presence of my heart and of water escaping my pores. I’m just a few feet away when the music abruptly stops, and a clearing throat halts me in my tracks. One booth to my right, Fedora Guy leans against the table, glaring in a dare for me to cross his path. He walks toward the lady, stops dead between us, and holds his threat. A smile creeps across his stern face, turning his eyes aglow. With a wink, he shoots his finger at me, confirming his warning. This man has seen my ways, and this woman deserves better than the person I was.
Fedora Guy resumes his stride then fades into the crowd. My head snaps back to the booth, and the woman’s beauty makes the ability to breathe evasive. Every pick-up line, every little trick in my playbook, suddenly feels like an insult. I finally see someone who truly takes my breath away, and every word in my vocabulary seems foreign.
#
BAILEY
I started coming to Mulligan’s with Darla before I moved to Toronto. Though I have never understood the appeal of this place, now that I sit here while sipping a surprisingly good Cherry Lemon Drop, I’ve decided to embrace it as my second home. It is sort of akin to accepting you have been locked in a funny farm.
Feeling the need for a touch up, I dig into my purse for a compact. Though a smile crosses my face, my heart sighs in longing when I pull the compact out. GranGran bought me this golden gem with a rose of garnets circled in seed pearls off of eBay. In some ways it is gaudy, in others it is gorgeous, but in all ways it is classic. The energy this piece of art holds is as timeless as love itself. Every time I open it, I wish my GranGran happiness. Now I know she always hears me.
As I close the compact, a tall man with dark skin and short, black, slicked back hair with a classic wave steals my attention. He tries to conceal how his deep-as-sin eyes are peering in my direction under the cover of taking a sip out of his highball glass. The slate grey suit he wears is perfectly tailored, but of all the reasons he has to grab my attention, what stands out is his deep blue, late period, Art Deco tie. It’s funny how a little thing like that can get my heart singing.
Although I hold his gaze, an air of shyness is reflected in the way our eyes don’t quite lock. He shortens the distance between us, yet stops about two feet away. Is he pausing to ask permission to approach me? If so, that is the most charming thing I’ve ever seen.
He slips his hand into his pocket and looks to his shoes. My eyes follow along and find they are perfectly polished. Everything about him is neat is a pin. Most intriguing of all, he seems to have created a personal style, much like what I want to help others do.
Hesitantly, he looks up. At the sight of my smile, he closes the distance with confident steps that lack ego. This guy is sure making an impression.
Softly he clears his throat. “Hi. I’m Dale.”
“Hi. I’m Bailey.”
His nervous chuckle is accented by a hint of color in his cheeks. “I’m sorry, I have absolutely no idea what to say that doesn’t sound like a terrible pick-up line. Got any suggestions?”
That was so sweet a bit of my heart slips away. “Not really,” I reply with a soft laugh and a gentle toss of my hair.
Oh dear God, I did the hair flip thing! What a typical girl move. Here I’ve got this guy trying not to give me a run-of-the-mill approach, and I pull that.
“Are you a—Are you here by yourself?” How he genuinely seems unable to fully look at me is endearing. I’m having a similar problem. For the first time in ages, I’m overwhelmed in the right way.
“For the moment. I am supposed to meet a group of friends here.”
He lets out another chuckle. “Boy, you’re not making this easy, are you?”
I giggle in return.
A giggle? Really Bailey?
He’s right, but making this hard on him is unintentional. Dale has me blindsided. I try to bring myself back to earth. “I am sorry, but I’m really enjoying how sweet this is. Care to join me?”
“Thank you,” Dale says, taking a seat across from me. His words sound like he is breathing relief over the first layer of ice breaking. It steals more of my heart.
Though this man has me somewhat tongue-tied, I’m hardly at a loss for words. “That tie is amazing. Where did you get it?”
“A vintage clothing store on Wilshire. It’s no match for that compact though. It reminds me of one my grandmother had.” The warmth cros
sing his face is that of sweet memories. “Nan was a woman of class. She refused to leave the house without gloves, even if she was just walking down the street to talk to the neighbor. She always said, ‘Finding the things that define you is an important part of taking pride in your appearance.’ Hence, the vintage tie. It may seem excessive, but I’ve found that I actually like wearing suits outside of work.”
He sounds sentimental, much like Dad often does. Lord, please don’t let him turn out to be a pig. “It’s not excessive at all. I hate how our world has turned into a disposable one. I’m a makeup artist by trade, and I collect and refill vintage compacts and lipstick containers. Many of those were made to last forever and for that very purpose.”
Dale runs his finger over the rim of his glass. It squeaks, and he smiles. Seeing his nervous energy actually helps me relax. “I can’t help but feel if you look like you deserve to be treated with respect, you’ll get it,” he says. “Even my friend, who seems to be taking his sweet time getting here, has a style all his own. Half the time he looks like a rock and roll fashion model, but he does it without coming off as an untrustworthy jerk who is out to lift your wallet. For a lot of reasons, I respect that guy more than I’ll ever tell him.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Class is timeless.”
Dale raises his drink, and we clank our glasses. My eyes fixate on his wrists. Cufflinks! He’s wearing cufflinks! Who does that anymore?
“So, you’re a makeup artist?” he asks.
My resolve is so strong and proud, the new me is all too eager to blurt out the truth to someone I just met. “Yes. Well, sort of now. I just left a great job to go to business school. I’ve come to see that for years I have accidentally sabotaged numerous dreams. It is time to fix that.”
“Are you now a dedicated career woman?”
I can’t help but chuckle inside. There is a lot of truth in that; however, I am also dedicated to a lot of things. There is no doubt I’ve put myself on the right track to make them all happen. “I’m dedicated to being one of those obnoxious people who wants it all, and will get it, but is seeking balance. What about you? What are you dedicated to?”
Dale looks taken aback. I am too. I meant to ask what he does for a living. Instead, I asked what I really want to know. I like this side of me.
He loosens his tie, and I suspect he is also loosening himself up to something he may just be accepting. “A few weeks ago I turned down a major stepping stone in my career.” Absently, he rubs his chin, and I sense disbelief. “They wanted to box up all I had, toss it into containers, and ship it off to Chicago, on my behalf, so I could start immediately. Part of me still can’t believe I didn’t go for it. I waited years for that opportunity.”
Funny, I’m striving to get what I have waited years for, yet he let go. “What stopped you?”
“A friend made me see not only was I chasing the wrong rainbow, but also what I had here could not be taken with me.” I get dead on eye contact. If his looks didn’t woo me, the power of his sincerity would. “I get it, Bailey. I didn’t before, but now, I too am one of those obnoxious people who wants it all, and will get it, but is seeking balance. When I turned down that job, I leveled the playing field. Now, instead of being crammed in an office while someone else unpacks my stuff, I’m here getting to know someone whom I honestly believe is the most charming person I have ever met—aside from my grandmother, that is.” He snickers and shares what seems to be inner thoughts. “Getting to know someone. When have I ever had time for that before?”
After dating a creep like Carlos, I thought it would be a long time until I would talk to anything male, even a cat. However, now that I see we made different decisions for essentially the same reasons, I need to keep talking to this guy.
Combat boots and high heels approach our booth and stop. “Wow, Bailey,” Brandon says while looking at Dale. “You sure know how to pick them.”
Dale turns to me. “Remember that friend I told you about? I forgot to mention he is annoying.”
Dale is a friend of Brandon? Katherine’s new boyfriend, and the guy everyone never has anything bad to say about? That’s a good sign. “You also failed to mention I know him,” I say.
How Brandon addressed me by name dawns on Dale. “Dare I ask?”
“Dale,” Brandon says, “meet Bailey, Darla’s sister and my new co-worker.”
Katherine chimes in, “Not to mention my best friend and the greatest beauty makeup artist ever.”
I’m still blown away over how she met Brandon. We live in a world of endless possibilities, and as wild as some of them seem, their fairytale takes the cake. In an odd way, their romance began in this very bar, as did Darla’s with Chris, along with the romances of all of her friends. Just what does Mulligan’s put in these drinks?
“Wait,” Dale says, sounding flabbergasted. “You are Darla’s sister? Peacock Woman? Lord, help us all! How did you get to be so normal?” Though his tone is that of humor, Dale drops his head in what oddly looks like relief. I kind of get why his commentary seems jumbled. My sister can be a handful.
Brandon rolls his eyes at Dale. At first I think it is in annoyance, but when Dale doesn’t react, Brandon clears his throat then nudges Dale to sit next to me. “May I?” Dale asks. My smile and scooting over may be polite and silent, but my insides are bouncing up and down while screaming, “For the love of God, yes! Get that fineness over here to keep me warm!”
Maybe now I understand the appeal of Mulligan’s after all.
I'm Beginning To See The Light
DALE
Since when did I turn into a chick? Seriously, how do they live with themselves being like this?
Standing in my bedroom, half-naked in boxers and socks while staring into my closet, I finally understand why I have spent years wearing a suit. It’s not just the fashion statement; it’s damn easy—or at least it was. For some crazy reason, I can’t decide if I should wear casual light grey or elegant black. I don’t want to look like I just threw something on, but I also don’t want to overdo it.
Oh man, I need to pick out a shirt too.
I look to heaven. “Hey God, got an extra lightning bolt kicking around? My head could use some clearing.”
Turning back to the closet, I grab my favorite dark grey suit along with a white shirt. “Ah, screw it.” Classic never fails. I’m as good as ready now.
After I’ve got my shirt buttoned, I reach for my sleeve and want to smack myself in the head. I forgot about cufflinks. What tie should I wear? I have no clue what Bailey is wearing. The dark suit will go with just about anything, but what if I grab a blue tie and she wears green?
Can someone please rip out the part of my brain that is making me crazy? No wonder why most guys wear T-shirts and take their dates to a chain restaurant. Uncertainty has tossed me on the road to Looneyville.
I whip open my antique wardrobe cabinet in search of a tie and cufflinks. With the flip of a switch the inside comes aglow, revealing a subdued rainbow. For the love of God, just how many ties do I own? Why have I never noticed how insane I am over clothing?
Simple. I was never home enough to appreciate what I have.
In the section where I keep ties that go best with a dark suit, the natural shimmer in the fabric makes one seem sparkling. Jennifer’s words regarding Glenn Miller’s pick play in my mind.
“Light tricks encourage stupidity. Besides, that’s a symbol; not the charm.”
Boy, was she ever right. The only purpose that pick served was leading me to connect the dots. Seems there could have been better ways than sitting through the lesson on Canadian rock Brandon and Shane forced me to endure at the bar after I bought that thing. Once you get those guys started …
Suddenly more dots fall in line. I met Brandon after Jennifer told me to buy some music. That man has since showed me, in so many ways, I needed to leave what I had to find what I seek.
I grab the tie I wore the night I met my lucky charm. If I hadn’t met Brandon, not only
would I have moved to Chicago and never met Bailey; I never would have met me.
A few moments later, I head off into the evening, ready to see where life takes me next. But first, I detour by Jennifer’s and slide the balance due under her door. Whether or not Bailey turns out to be the woman I spend forever with, Jennifer has more than earned her fee.
#
BAILEY
The comfort of being in Dale’s car is … discomforting. Should I really be on a date? There are so many things I need to do to get my business rolling. I’m already itching to flee Endeara—which is perfect. I can’t allow anything to stand in my way, even this gorgeous man with a killer Porsche.
Plus …
Darla thought it only fair I know Dale is a reformed playboy. Also, according to GranGran, Grandpa Frank watched him go through some major changes and has granted his blessing. I trust GranGran more than anything, so this has to be okay, right?
Yeah, that is fine and well, but GranGran also indirectly said I need to make my own mistakes. Ghostly family blessing or not, I won’t let myself escape one jerk only to fall into the hands of another.
Off of downtown LA’s main drags, we slip onto a side street, down an alley, and then into a parking lot bordered by the backs of buildings. Though I know pretty much where we are, I am so clueless as to why, being abducted crosses my mind. However, the vibe I get off of this man has me nearly giggling over the notion of him carrying me away.
After opening my car door and offering his hand to help me out, Dale reaches into the trunk. At the sight of a picnic basket, my mind again runs through the layout of the area. Unless someone recently bulldozed a block, there isn’t a park within miles.
Dale catches sight of my rose print tea dress and presses his lips together. With the snap of his fingers he assures himself, “No problem. The tablecloth is big enough. I’ve got this.”
Oh, that spec of insecurity was precious.
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