Crazy Little Thing (16 page)

“What are you doing?” I yelled. “That’s sorted and organized.”

“Into what categories? Ugly clothes and uglier clothes? I have been dying to do this, girlfriend. We have got to take you shopping. What the hell is this?”

He held up my most prized possession, a sweatshirt from spring break during my senior year of college. It was faded, tattered, and perfect for wearing while eating peanut butter with your fingers and crying about your incredibly shitty marriage. I tried to snatch it from his hands.

“Give me that.”

“Not a chance. It’s going in the composter with this other pile of crap you call a wardrobe. Like this stuff would ever decompose. No wonder I’ve had a stuffy nose. It’s all these synthetic fabrics you snuck in here.”

Fontaine’s assault on my meager wardrobe further shredded my nerves. What the hell was I going to wear?

“There is nothing to work with here,” he sighed. “Get your shoes on. It’s time for a little Extreme Ho Makeover.”

“You expect me to go shopping simply because some guy asked me out to dinner?”

“Of course not. But you can go shopping to buy things to make you feel pretty. You deserve it. It’s not for him, it’s for you.”

Fontaine sang a different song two hours later as I stood in the dressing room of a Bell Harbor boutique.

“Des will love that!” he said.

I was stuffed into a tiny red dress with a plunging neckline and not enough fabric. Even my feet felt naked in strappy high-heeled sandals with rhinestone buckles.

“It’s skimpy. He’ll think I’m trying too hard.”

Fontaine shook his head. “The only thing that dress will make him think about is taking it off you.”

My stomach recoiled like I’d been kicked in the gut. Taking it off me? I hadn’t even thought of that! I mean, I had thought about it, but only in the most movie-version way. The way I imagined the right conditioner could make my hair swirl around like it does in the commercials, or how I daydreamed about doing something fabulous for mankind and being congratulated by Bono.

Fantasies were one thing, but actual physical contact with another human being? Fontaine was talking about skin to skin. There was no way I was ready for that. I suddenly remembered my last horrific blind date. This time I would know better.

“The shoes are too much. I have shoes I can wear.”

“Those white sandals I saw in your closet? No fucking way, baby. Those puppies have been donated to the community theatre for their production of
The Golden Girls
. Next stop, Victoria’s Secret.”

I didn’t feel any better about the dress, or the shoes, or my silky new unmentionables the next day either as I stood in front of the mirror minutes before Des was scheduled to pick me up. I tugged at the neckline, but that only made the dress shorter. No good. And the sandals were cruel, pinching my toes as if I were Cinderella’s ugly stepsister who had accidentally scored a date with Prince Charming. What if he showed up and said, “Wait, I didn’t mean you. Where’s the pretty one?” I started to hyperventilate.

“Fontaine, I have to change. Let me wear the black pants.”

“Get a hold of yourself, woman!” he scolded. “You’re not going to a craft show with Dody. This is a date. Don’t make me slap you, because you know I will.”

I knew he would. He’d done it once before, when I used up the last of his strawberry-kiwi-scented exfoliation scrub.

“Anyway, why are you so blasted nervous? It’s Des.”

I tried to take a deep breath, but the dress wouldn’t let me. “I know. That’s the problem.” I bit my lip. My voice dropped to a whisper. “Fontaine, what if I start to like him? I mean, really like him?”

Fontaine patted my arm. “Then let yourself really like him. The alternative is pure boredom, and you’re too fun for that. Now I’m going downstairs to make you a cocktail. You’re so jittery, you’re making me nervous. Just relax.”

Fontaine went downstairs, and I sat in my bedroom to collect myself. I could do this. Of course I could. This wasn’t some cheesy blind date like the last guy had been. It was Des. He was a nice guy. This would be OK.

Dody and the kids were in the kitchen and I was coming down the stairs when my date arrived. Fontaine opened the door to let him in, and I was grateful for the distraction they offered. Gracious. Des looked so delicious he took my breath away. I’d only seen him in doctor stuff and scruffy beach clothes, in which he was damn fine. But cleaned up? Yum yum. His hair was combed, and he wore nice slacks and an ironed shirt. The idea of him standing at an ironing board pressing his clothes for a night out with me gave me tingles in all the places tingles tingled most often.

The kids swarmed around him like eager puppies, and he scratched at their heads as if they were. Fortunately Lazyboy and Fatso had been locked out on the porch, or Des would be covered in slobber. Then again, that might happen anyway. My tongue suddenly felt too thick for my mouth.

Finally Des looked at me. His eyes started at my shoes and traveled up slowly, making my nerves so taut I thought I might be audibly crackling. He hesitated ever so slightly at the neckline of my little red dress. Damn. I think Fontaine was right.

I stood up a little straighter, leveling my shoulders like a broken athlete daring to go out onto the field for one last play. Put me in, coach. I’m ready.

I saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “You look nice.”

The words were plain and simple, but the way he said them made me flutter inside.

“Thanks, so do you.”

“Oh!” Fontaine uttered softly, pressing a fist to his mouth. He wrapped an arm around a beaming Dody. “You kids go on. We’ll be fine here.”

CHAPTER 11

DURING THE SHORT DRIVE TO the restaurant I tried not to think about what the wind was doing to my carefully styled hair, choosing instead to feel giddy at how Des had opened my car door back at Dody’s. Richard never opened doors for me, not even when I was in labor. He was too busy worrying my water might break in his new Lexus. I shook my head.
No thoughts of Richard tonight
. I was on a date. A real, honest-to-goodness date with someone who knew me and asked me out anyway.

Des parked the car on the corner of Chic and Picturesque, in a section of Bell Harbor so quaint it was nearly in black and white. Historic buildings lined a tree-shaded, cobblestoned boulevard.

Des got out, and I tugged at the hem of my dress, wondering if he would open my door again. I pretended to fuss with the buckle on my shoe, stalling just long enough to see that he was indeed coming around to my side. Ah, chivalry! If there was a puddle, would he throw his cloak over it? Oh, wait. He wasn’t wearing a cloak. Never mind.

The thought made me smile nonetheless.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing. I’m just happy we got such a great parking spot.”

He looked up and down the nearly carless street. “Uh-huh.”

His sporty BMW was low to the ground and my new FMPs were like walking on stilts. I struggled to get out of the car without twisting my ankle. What was I thinking, letting a tasseled-loafer-wearing gay man select my footwear?

Then Des reached out and took ahold of my hand, helping me from the car.

God damn! That Fontaine was a genius, making me wear these shoes!

Des’s innocent touch sent a wicked chill through me. His grip was gentle but firm, with just the right amount of squeeze. And he didn’t let go as we headed toward the restaurant. I bit back a girlish giggle and resisted the urge to swing our arms back and forth. Richard never liked to hold hands. He said he found it constrictive.
Darn it, no more thoughts about Richard
.

Des and I passed an artsy boutique with overflowing flowerpots sitting in front, and the bistro where I’d had lunch with Kyle and Fontaine. Across the street were a kite store, a candy shop, and an old-fashioned ice-cream parlor with red-striped awnings. The brick-paved sidewalks beneath our feet were spotlessly clean, and every few blocks rested a bench made to look like an old wagon wheel. And all the birds in the trees were chirping Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” Well, that might have only been in my imagination.

“How does sushi sound?” Des asked as he pointed to a restaurant on the next block with a stone dragon near the doorway. “A friend at work said that place is good.”

“Great,” I answered, not wanting to admit I’d never had sushi. Richard’s vast array of prejudices extended to any restaurant with foreign words on the menu, sufficiently ruling out Asian, Indian, and even some Italian places.

We crossed the avenue, still hand in hand, and went inside. The restaurant was elegant, with an ornate stone fountain in the center and a wall of tall windows overlooking the lake. It was beautiful and serene, so fancy it didn’t even have a drive-through window.

A willowy gazelle with thick, gorgeous hair approached, batting her doe-like lashes at Des.

“Good evening. Welcome to Matsusaka’s. I am your hostess, Eliza.” She bowed her head.

I simultaneously felt invisible yet Amazonian. I tugged at the neckline of my dress.

“Thank you,” Des answered. “We’d like a table near the window, please.”

“Of course. My pleasure. Do you have a reservation?” She looked him over in a sensual way, and I heard the hidden message in her sultry voice. She’d said
reservation
, but what she meant was
Lose the gargoyle in the red dress and meet me in the coatroom
.

He nodded. “I do. McKnight, for two.”

“Ah, yes, right this way.”

Des pressed the small of my back, nudging me to walk ahead of him. But that would put me next to her. And quite frankly I wasn’t sure I wanted him to see both her ass and mine at the same time. I would suffer by comparison.

The elegant Eliza led us to a cozy little table in the corner.

He pulled out my chair, scoring another point and helping me almost forget the wafer-thin hostess.

“Enjoy your time with us this evening.” Her voice was tranquil and hypnotizing, almost making me forgive her for so blatantly coveting my escort. Our waitress appeared seconds later, handing us leather-bound menus. She was another reedy, black-haired beauty with gravity-defying breasts and a matchstick waist. Where did this restaurant get these girls? A lingerie catalog?

I bit my lip and silently scolded myself. Richard flirted with waitresses in the most obnoxious fashion, insisting it was only to get better service. I never dared ask him which service he was referring to. But Des wasn’t paying them any special attention. I mentally clunked myself in the head. If I let my insecurities get the best of me, I would ruin this evening before it ever started.
Get a grip, Sadie
.

Des took off his sunglasses, and I winced at the sight of his bruised eye. The swelling was gone, but a dark purple blotch remained. It was rather dashing, but I still felt bad about it.

“I’m sorry I moved that table in your foyer,” I said.

He smiled. “I’ll let you make it up to me.”

“I thought I was making it up to you by going out to dinner.”

“It’s a start. Would you like a drink?”

Contemplating his not-so-subtle innuendo, I said “Yes!” with far too much gusto.

Des chuckled and picked up the wine list. “Red or white?”

He was asking me? Richard never—
God damn it!
I was going to purge Richard from my mind tonight if it took an exorcist to do it. “You decide.”

I shifted in my chair, trying to cover up a little more leg with my red dress. It was a futile attempt, so I took my napkin and draped it over my thighs like a lap blanket.

Des perused the wine list, mentioning details about different kinds of grapes and eventually choosing something very pricey. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that expensive wine was kind of a waste on me because I drank the cheap stuff just as fast. But if he wanted to impress me with his vast knowledge of vineyards in southern France, so be it.

I opened my menu after he ordered our wine. It was cryptically worded, and other than the California roll, I had no idea what any of it meant. Sashimi sounded like the move Dody did when getting on her bathing suit. Tempura was a type of mattress, right? And miso? As in
miso horny
?