by Hope Lyda
“Jace?”
“I know. Weird name, right?” I laugh really loud so we can share in the silliness of this truncated, uppity version of Jason.
“It might be if it weren’t featured on a very successful line of chicken sauces and luxury desserts.”
“That’s him? I just bought his marinara. How strange.” Now I am more nervous.
“Open your eyes.” Caitlin spins me toward the mirror. I avoid looking at my reflection and catch the look of happiness in her eyes. I cannot begrudge her this moment. It isn’t as though someone will be taking pictures. I become hopeful. She is clever and trendy by peripheral-society standards. I look.
“I love it!” I decide that honesty should be the missing piece of my response.
“You aren’t just saying that, right?” She digs through a drawer and pulls out an instamatic camera. “I want this for my portfolio.”
Caitlin’s coworker takes another big breath; I see her slightly smile. She loves the outfit because it is unmistakably, undeniably absurd, even by a snake lady’s standards.
This is when every part of me, including my conservative taste, decides to jump on board with Caitlin. She is trying to prove herself in front of a tattooed naysayer. She is helping me take extreme measures to pull my life out of the mire of the mundane. Maybe I can pull this off for her sake.
Without letting myself look at the outfit again or consider a fabrication of elation, I find a truth to tell. “You are the most creative person I know, Caitlin. I mean, who else would have thought to combine this outfit with my nineteen-fifties orange tulle apron?”
I glare in the direction of the mean lady and repeat myself. “You are so very creative, Caitlin.”
The door of castle proportions shuts behind me and separates me from my old way of living and dressing. With my head down, skirt flying up, and apron strings streaming, I rush out into the rain and forge my way from the land of the dismally outdated into the world of the out dating.
Attempts at Social Behavior
I slump like a child in the back of a limo with my feet dangling ever so slightly above the floor. Jace Burch sits next to me with an air of normalcy. I want to ask if he picks up all his first dates in a limo, but it would lead to a no-win answer. A yes response would intimidate me. And a no would add an element of expectation and pressure to like the guy…or at least the date.
He checks his watch.
“Uh-oh. So soon?” I tease but mean it.
“What?” He looks up and realizes my point. “No. Of course not. I’m sorry. I just think in terms of timing. It’s very important for an evening to come off perfectly. Wouldn’t you agree?”
I start to say yes, but Jace uses a small intercom by his head to shout to the driver, “Jonathan, please take Eighth and circle around. I don’t want to arrive before seven.”
I don’t ask why because I know this one. He must live by the same social timing rules as Angelica. Never make a formal date before seven because the waitstaff will not take you seriously.
“I hear you work with the elderly. That is very refreshing…and noble.” There is that cliché again.
I notice that he is smiling but his eyes reflect a mind that is elsewhere. I respond because the man has picked me up in a limo, which will make for a good story later. “Not so noble. There are days I want to run for the hills.” Literally.
The silence reprimands my negativity. Think positive, light thoughts. God, give me positive, happy thoughts. Silly Putty. Ice cream. Home early and eating ice cream.
“When Sadie told me about what you did for your mom…I was really touched by that. She is so fortunate to have a son who showers her with respect and love.” Good. Good. “Believe me, I see how neglected some parents are by their children. It’s a tragedy.” Bad. Bad.
“Forgive me if I seem a bit distant right now. I’m thinking through the menu in my head. Like an actor rehearsing lines for an evening performance, I’m afraid going through the details of a meal is part of my preparation.”
“At least tonight you aren’t in charge of the meal.” I say this to ease his tension, but he looks at me curiously. I look at my watch and continue when I realize we have another fifteen minutes to kill. “I mean, if I hate the filet mignon at Lily’s, we can make fun of their chef, right?” I laugh a little fake, nervous blip.
“If you dislike anything, it will be my fault.” Beat. “Lily’s is my restaurant.”
Oh. Nevermind.
Jace tries to lighten this slip of conversation. “This is why I am nervous. I really want tonight to be perfect.” Another beat. “For such a lovely lady.”
I don’t like the term “lady.” It makes me think of Jerry Lewis’ squawking version that is drawn out, high and hard, on the eardrums. Jace seems nice enough, but I have the strangest feeling that he is on a date with someone else.
We settle back into the temperature-controlled seats, and while Jace thinks through the upcoming menu, I rethink tonight’s outfit. I ended up talking to Tess just before the date and had no time to alter my attire. To Jace’s credit, my warped schoolgirl’s uniform did not cause him to visibly cringe when he picked me up. Of course, he was probably mentally chopping ingredients for today’s special.
At last the stretch limo pulls up in front of Lily’s burgundy awning. The valet opens the door for us and by surprise greets us both by name.
“Thank you.” I stall and read his name tag. “Pierce.” My fingers hold the hem of my skirt down as I exit the car. I’m against flashing on a first date.
Jace and the valet chat for a bit. His manner is controlled yet gracious. The rapport between him and his employees is evident as we step into the candlelit restaurant and are greeted by large smiles and approving glances. I have always wanted to come here but know it to be quite expensive and romantic. This rules me out on two counts.
Women are dressed in either long gowns or perfect black dresses, both choices elegant in their simplicity. I am graffiti against a backdrop of pristine silk.
Handsome faces turn toward us. Everybody wants to see the chef and his date. Their eyes fall to my tulle apron, and I can just hear their thoughts of admiration for the respected restaurant owner, who is secure enough to date a waitress from fast-food row.
I step toward the chair that would place the table between me and the jury, but Jace reaches to pull out the chair which situates me front and center. I look at him and then down at my clothes, hoping he will take this as an acknowledgement of the situation.
“Allow me,” he gestures to the seat and I sit. If the guy wants to commit social suicide on my watch, go for it.
Jace has selected everything in advance—from the entrée choices to the music played by the violinist to the waiter who is serving us. Even my phobias are not strong enough to keep me from enjoying this perfect night. I warm up to him.
Our conversation is light and friendly. We do have a lot in common. He grew up in a modest home filled with foster children. Only later, when his mom remarried, did they have the luxury of a bigger house with a kitchen large enough to allow more than one person in it at a time. It was here, in a new setting and a home filled with new love, that he began to experiment with recipes.
For a brief moment he excuses himself to check on the progress of the dessert. Alone at the table the discomfort of being on display returns.
Jace returns with a genuine smile, apparently satisfied with the dessert’s status. He continues where he left off. “You can imagine how much flak I got. Here I am, a big kid in Jersey who should be studying football plays instead of soufflé recipes,” he reflects tenderly. “But Mom—Lily—was my biggest cheerleader. I thought it was an interest, a hobby. She recognized it as a gift from the beginning. You know, I have considered Golden Horizons as a place for my mom. It’s a very nice facility. I want her near me, and she wants a nicer climate than Jersey can offer her.”
I sense there is a bit of buzz about the room, but we are deep in conversation, and I am deep i
nto the exquisite chocolate dessert. The tingling sensation I get when someone is standing right behind me kicks in. I turn around as Jace looks up to greet a man with a camera. One of those romantic extras a place like this has…an on-site photographer to capture the mood of a good date.
I shake my head but Jace has already nodded approval. The photographer steps over to get both of us in the shot. It is not an instant camera that spits out the image in seconds. This moment is recorded on real film.
We are having a good time, but I really doubt Jace wanted a memento of this evening. He probably sends the photo, autographed, to the women he brings here. “I’m just curious. How does the restaurant then get the photos to the guests?”
Jace motions for our dessert plates to be taken away. My torte is replaced by a cup of after-dinner tea. It takes him a few thoughts to get what I have asked. “That wasn’t a staff photographer. That was Kevin Milano.”
Kevin Milano. Kevin…Milano. I can hear Sadie and Angelica discussing that name. He came to one of Sadie’s events. He’s…oh, no. “From the Style section?”
“That’s the one,” he confirms. “I hope that is okay. You aren’t hiding from the mob, are you?” Chuckle, chuckle.
Oh, man of food. Don’t you know the fashion police are more brutal and less forgiving than the mafia?
Apparently not. Jace couldn’t be happier about what just transpired.
Our return trip in the limo is relaxing. I realize that this man of influence and cooking savvy, who is successful enough to be able to name a restaurant after his own mother, has managed to put me at ease over the course of several courses. The conversation is familiar and not at all forced. I feel what I assess to be “normal” in this moment…even in this slightly moronic outfit.
At my front door, he kisses my cheek with friendly affection.
“Thank you, Jace. It was such a nice time.”
“It couldn’t have been more perfect,” he says, and I see his mind begin to shift elsewhere as he makes his way down the stairs.
I have a sneaking suspicion that it is the idea of getting on the society page he deems as “perfect.”
As I remove my military boots, I cannot decide if the angst I try to express to God is associated with my important visit to the resort tomorrow or the fact that I may have single-outfittedly destroyed a man’s reputation.
It’s a toss-up.
Scenes from the Other Half
The coffee shop is packed with people preferring refills over timely arrivals to work. Angelica edges an indecisive, borderline bickering couple over to the side so she can place our order. Her Fendi bag is between us, so I try to peek inside. She says she has brought something for me. I am hoping it is an Angora sweater of hers I was coveting the other day.
“Thanks for the coffee,” I say as we take an open table by the electric fireplace.
“Welcome,” she mumbles between the two bites it takes for her to finish a scone. “That is so annoying. I think people with kids should wait until working adults have left the coffee shop. It’s only right. Equal time.” She points behind her.
My glance falls past the woman and child at the next table to a stylish woman dressed all in pink reading the morning newspaper. My eyes stay on the upside-down image on the folded half of the paper. It looks vaguely familiar. The “crash position” angle of my head causes Angelica to turn in her seat. At first she doesn’t see what has caught my attention, but when she faces me and reaches into her Fendi, she looks disappointed.
“I wanted to be the one to show you,” she whines. “Better prepare yourself.” With the manner of a lawyer introducing case-winning evidence against her client, she slaps the paper down in front of me. Just a few inches down from the Style Scene masthead I see the familiar image right-side up. Even positioned as it is supposed to be, it is still so very wrong. There I am with Jace. I look ruddy, as though I work on a potato farm and am going to break out into a whistle any moment. Jace gazes adoringly at the obvious star of the table, the chocolate torte. Here I am grinning away, thinking this image will be seen by nobody, while Jace is obviously showcasing one of his finer creations.
“This is a tad humiliating. I look like some attention-starved bystander who forced my way into the photo.”
“Try fashion-starved. Who dressed you…Caitlin?” Angelica is shrill and quite disappointed that I am focusing on the wrong humiliation factor.
“It’s not a non or anything. Easy.” I take a moment to read the lengthy photo caption first to myself and then aloud because I discover, with great pleasure, that it is the cause of her frustration. I clear my throat and do my best newscaster impersonation.
“It looks like love. Restaurateur Jace Burch puts a stylish spin on an old favorite with his double-layer chocolate torte drizzled with caramel and sautéed Oregon hazelnuts. And while Jace only has eyes for his own creation, it was the melding of retro corporate with vintage homemaker worn by his date Mari Hamilton that captured the attention and hearts of our fashion editors. A note to Ms. Hamilton…maybe we are just old-fashioned, but the next time you dress to delight the senses of the hip and happening, go on a date with someone who recognizes an original when he sees it.”
“They like me. They really, really like me.” I give her a Sally Field acceptance speech. “Didn’t you read this part?”
“I did, and I’m beyond shocked. I cannot believe you were going out with Jace and never told me.”
“Where’s my ‘Congratulations on being a fashion icon for a day, Mari’?”
“That will pass. Everyone knows the fashion editors from the Style section are ruled by paid advertisers and not a true sense of taste or culture.”
“I didn’t pay them. And I wasn’t wearing any known labels. You just cannot accept the fact that I was…what was it…” I read with a loud voice, “hip and happenin’.” I know Angelica worships this section and is always hoping to be caught in one of those montage shots taken at parties where people look distant, unaffected, and completely noteworthy.
“I cannot wait to show Caitlin. It could be her ticket to the buyer position.” And I had doubted her taste. I’m so happy that in the end I was running late and had little choice but to forge ahead with my mismatched clothing.
“I’d be ticked if one of the most eligible bachelors in town used my Kevin Milano moment to promote his dessert.”
“It worked out for everyone. He got the mention and I wasn’t tagged as being the ‘ignored for a reason’ and overly beaming date. Besides, it was an amazing torte. I’d go out with it again.”
“What about him?”
“Not so much.” I try to pick the remnants of polish off my nails. As there is no time to repaint them before I visit Majestic Vista, this is the next best option.
She slaps my hands down. “Stop that. If you do have a run as a fashion icon, you should at least pretend to care about such a responsibility.”
“Does your agitation have anything at all to do with the other night when I stayed behind with Peyton?” I pegged her.
I keep picking.
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. Like I want anything to do with someone so—”
I cut her off. “Totally infatuated with you? Yeah, I agree. Obviously he has little common sense.”
“Really?” Her joy sneaks out before she can control it. “A lot of the guys at the office like me…” her voice trails off, and I let her wander for a moment. If she wants to turn this into nothing, I’m not going to stop her.
“It turns out that the guy is intimidated by you. Next time you come here for coffee, maybe you should invite him and not me. That’s my last mention of it. Cross my heart.” I make a crisscross motion over my zippered sweatsuit top. Which brings it to her attention.
“Are you trying out to be a fly girl?”
“Today is my day. You know, project Lady Luck. I’m going to Majestic Vista and hopefully networking with the owner.”
“Right!” She turns chipper and supportive. Th
e coffee drip has taken hold of her personality just in time. “I hear Lionel is fabulously gorgeous. And rich. I guess sweats are a safer choice than your June Cleaver gone wrong look.” She points back at the paper and I almost lose the coffee in my mouth.
By going just a bit later than the usual morning drive time, I am able to move through town with ease. Hauling along Tanque Verde, I feel ecstatic. I don’t know if it is the possibility of what might happen or the fact that I have not played hooky ever in my adult life, but I’m breathing bigger, fuller breaths and my head feels clear and ready to discern opportunity’s knock.
Two miles before the resort, I see advance signs promoting the most luxurious spa in the Southwest. When the huge copper sculpture of mountains at sunrise appears, I know to turn right. How many times on my way to the grocery store or to Sadie’s house have I taken this detour so I could look at that sign and imagine the life beyond?
The curve of the long, private driveway causes the litter in my car to sail about the interior. A Big Slurp cup comes dangerously close to the brake pedal. I give it a Mia Hamm kick and it rebounds over the middle hump and onto the passenger’s seat.
I check my clothes for obvious Elmo fur balls and find only random strands that are next to impossible to remove. I’ll walk quickly, with purpose, and nobody will notice.
As if in a 1940s musical, my entrance triggers a practiced and graceful response from all the attendants. They rush up from the left and the right and form two greeting lines. I am tempted to dance down the center of their human tunnel like a square dancer. My imagination blends genres, but one thing I am singularly focused on is my goal to end up here among the chandeliers and the golden-hued wood walls. If I could walk on marble tiles handpicked in a small town outside of Rome every day of my life, I could get rid of my functional shoes that place a minimattress between me and the cement slabs at Golden Horizons. If I could look at a mural of rushing water and mountain peaks against a sunny, opalescent pink-and-yellow background, the dark thoughts that plague me throughout the day would vanish into the ceiling skyline.
