The Cinderella Project (A Comedy of Love, #1) (8 page)

Jake? Wait, yes. Must be that old friend of Ella’s who Vera had mentioned the other day.

Ella held up her left hand, her large ring glittering in a way that was impossible to miss. “We’re getting married in October. After that, we’ll move somewhere you’ll never find us.”

Somewhere you’ll never find us,
I thought.
Is he stalking her or something?

“C-Cindy,” Jake stammered, measuring me up quickly, “you told me… right before I deployed, you said
.…”

She cut him off. “I said
nothing
, Jake. And quit calling me Cindy. All my
real
friends know me as Ella and I’ll thank you to remember that.

“I’m sorry if your little boy fantasies confused that dumb little head of yours, but you and I? We’re nothing. We never were. I played along with you because I felt bad for you, but I never dropped so much as a tear after you left. You don’t deserve a girl like me.”

Jake’s jaw fumbled for a response. Finally, he said, “Cindy, we…. Four whole years, Cindy! I chased you for
four whole years
! And when I finally caught you, you told me you’d—”

“Ancient history. Your mistake. Now please, leave before I ask my man to show you that you’re not so tough just because you used to be a marine.” Ella thrust me between herself and Jake. I looked at him with confusion and shrugged.

“Get him, Nicky! Let him know never to even talk to me again.”

I tried to step aside, but Ella stayed safely hidden behind me. Jake eyed me with suspicion and borderline disgust. I sighed. I didn’t like being dragged into drama, especially when I was dragged in blind. “Ella, let’s talk about this first. I’m not going to ‘get’ anybody unless they’re really a threat. Would you mind telling me what this is—”

“He wants to rape me!” she screamed. I saw a couple of heads turn across the street and hoped nobody was about to phone the cops.

“
Rape
you? I wanted to
marry
you. You know I’d never do that kind of a thing to a lady. Rape you? What is
wrong
with you, Cindy? You move out west and suddenly you’re too good for your friends? You think we’re just a bunch of backwards nobodies who go around taking advantage of women?”

“Whoa!” I spread my arms wide, hoping to calm things. Something told me the threat to Ella wasn’t totally credible. “Let’s just calm down here.”

I looked at Jake. “Okay. I know who Ella is. Mind introducing yourself?”

“He’s nobody, Nicky.” The interruptions were getting annoying. “Let’s go inside right now. I don’t want to have to look at his nasty face for another second.” With that, she seized my arm and nearly sprinted for her door. She dragged me into her townhouse and slammed the door. She had it bolted before I could take a breath, then hurried around the house, pulling curtains and locking anything that might lead to the outside. Jake was calling her name, demanding to talk to her. When Ella’s bustling was done she hauled me upstairs where Jake’s noises were muffled by distance. She pulled me into her bedroom and slammed the door.

She squinted. “I can’t listen to that moron anymore. If he doesn’t stop soon, I’m going to call the cops.”

“You don’t think he’ll just leave if you ask him nicely?”

Her eyes widened. “Seriously, Nick? I don’t want to even see that lunatic, let alone talk to him. If you’re not going to man up and knock him cold, I’ll just have to do things my way.” She let go of me and grabbed her phone.

Okay, so the guy didn’t look like someone I’d immediately trust my future children with, but he hadn’t actually seemed all
that
psychotic when I met him on the porch. No reason for me to just “knock him cold.” It was also obvious Ella wasn’t telling me the whole story; that bothered me.

“Ella, just… wait. Tell me what makes this guy so bad and I’ll deal with him.”

She stared at me as if I were crazy. “What more do you need, Nicholas? Crazy guy in army clothes who’s probably drunk?” The last part wasn’t true. “And you have the
gall
to ask me to explain what’s wrong with him? Open your eyes, Nicholas!”

“Has he hurt you? Just tell me, please.”

“I
have
told you! If that’s not good enough, I don’t know what is. I’m calling the police!”

Since she was determined to have her way, I just dropped my arms and went back downstairs to sit on the couch while she brought down the S.W.A.T. team on her house. Jake was saying something about his time in the war and about how thinking of her kept him alive and sane. I have to admit, I felt for the guy. It’s hard enough going to war, but to come home and find your girl is gone? I got off the couch to talk to him, but then realized that I’d only stir up an even bigger hornet’s nest if I did. I sat down to try to figure a good way out of this. Nothing came to mind.

The flashing lights of a squad car lit the living room fifteen minutes later. I was a little surprised that Jake had stayed out on the porch that entire time; maybe he
was
as crazy as Ella had said. Crazy or not, his voice stopped as soon as the cops pulled up. Thankfully, he was wise enough to not run. Curious, I rose to go outside, but Ella flew down the stairs before I was even off the couch and was out the door shouting at the cops in a heartbeat. Jake yelled back. The cops were trying to calm Jake and Ella and some evening joggers had stopped to watch. Realizing there was nothing I could reasonably add to the… discussion… I got myself a cold glass of water and laid down on the couch. The time with Moiré earlier had been
so
much simpler than this. Ella owed me an explanation I knew I wouldn’t get. I suddenly needed a nap.

My watch said 7:36 when the cops finally rolled away with Jake in the back of their squad car. I could have sworn they were out there for at least an hour. Ella’s mood was like curdled milk when it was over and her eyes were fiery until she looked at me; then they were a blizzard. She said something about needing a shower to wash off the filth and told me it was probably best if I just went home. I tried to give her a goodnight kiss, but she just pushed me away and stalked up to her suite.

Knowing things weren’t going to get any better, I collected myself and began the walk home. The fresh July air was a welcome relief and I lost myself in the repetitious beat of my footfalls and the rhythm of evening traffic. Hopefully, things would look better in the morning. If nothing else, some calm, alone time was required. It was going to take something heavy duty to pull her out of this funk.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Hello?”

“Um, er… ah… Samantha?”

“Nick?”

“Maybe?”

“Hi, Nick. Did you… need something?”

“Uh,
do you… do you wear dresses?”

“Yes…
.”

“Can you drink punch?”

“Nick? What’s this all about?”

“Ah…
there’s this… kind of… dance… thingy?”

“Nick, there really are better ways to ask me to Homecoming you know.”

Morning brought a chance at redemption. The mail was on the table and I absently leafed through the handful of envelopes. The junk mail was tossed without a second glance. Bills were paid immediately, but I cringed as I thought of the bite those bills were taking out of my bank account. When the checks were ready to be mailed, I examined the last two pieces of mail. The first was from Gatekeeper Bridal, a formalwear shop Ella had fallen in love with. Gatekeeper was over an hour away, but it was “her” store now and she had insisted that I rent my tuxedo from them despite the fact that we had several perfectly acceptable options right in our own backyard. Furthermore, she took the old notion of “it’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding” to a new level; she insisted that neither of us see each other in our wedding attire before the ceremony itself. I’d have to take care of my tux entirely without her. That suited me just fine.

I opened the mailer. It was a cream-colored envelope with a professional looking missive informing me that my fitting appointment needed to be changed and would I please call to confirm? I dialed the number and after some discussion with a saleslady, we settled on the third Monday in August at 3:00 pm. I jotted the new appointment on the mailer, slipped it into my back pocket and entered a reminder into my phone. I promptly forgot about it.

The final envelope was from the Psychology Department. Upon opening it, the official letterhead and fancy script jumped out at me like Courier John on a caffeine high. Let’s read.

Dear Doctoral Student,

The Department of Psychology is holding a banquet for all graduate students who have reached their final semester-worth of course work. Our records show that you are one of these students. We would be pleased if you would join us from 6:00 pm–9:00 pm, Friday, August 1
st
in the Room 103 of the Pendleton Building.

Dress is semi-formal-to-formal and is free of charge. A live band will also be featured and a dance floor will be provided for those interested.

R.S.V.P. no later than 5:00 p.m. Tuesday, July 29
th
. You are welcome to bring one guest. Please, no children.

This was perfect—a ready-made date with free food and an excuse for Ella to get really dolled up. Fate had just handed me a slam dunk. The date didn’t even interfere with August’s family reunion. I filed my mail in the wooden box I had for that kind of thing and thought about the best way to broach this subject. Ella didn’t always cool off quickly.

I may only get one chance to make this right
.

I made some breakfast and pondered my battle plan over a bowl of Cheerios. When I had settled on a strategy, I grabbed my phone and ordered a dozen red roses from a local florist. I wanted to bite a finger off when the florist quoted me a same-day shipping price, but I knew Ella had a weakness for flowers. Unless I wanted to do a covert operation to win her affection, this was probably my only shot at conquest. I took note of when the order was likely to arrive and thanked the girl on the phone. I hung up and prayed my gambit would take.

In the meantime, I went to campus and logged a few hours of work. I pretended to ignore Moiré’s absence, splitting my attention between work and hoping Ella would warm to my advances. I must have checked my watch two hundred times before I was satisfied that the florist had made their move. I waited another fifteen minutes to be safe and then went outside and found a quiet bench on the trail that wrapped around the south side of campus. I dialed Ella, surprised at just how nervous I was. She picked up on the third ring and I was relieved to hear that she seemed to be in a good mood. Score one for the flower bomb.

“Hey, Els. How are you this morning?”

“Nicky, did you send me flowers?”

I smiled. “How’d you guess?”

I could hear her smile. “Oh, Nicky, you didn’t have to do that.”

Yes, actually, I did, but I played along. “Yeah, well, I was thinking of you and I know I could have handled things better last night.”

There was the briefest of pauses. “Let’s just forget about that mess, okay?” Her voice had this faux-cheeriness to it and I knew the topic was officially off-limits.

“Sure, babe. No problem at all. Anyway, how’s your day?”

She answered and we resumed our usual “engaged couple” small talk for a few minutes. When she seemed sufficiently primed, I made my move.

“Hey, Ella. I have a little proposition for you. Interested?”

“What is it, Nicky?”

“Well,” I said, “when was the last time we hit a black-tie affair?”

“What are you talking about, Nick?”

“I’m talking about a formal dinner. My department is inviting students that are nearing graduation to it. It’s got a ‘plus one’ proviso and there’s no one I’d rather go with.” Unexpectedly, an image of Moiré flashed quickly through my head, but I ignored it.

“Well,” she said, far too hesitantly, “I’m… not really sure what my schedule is like. You really have no idea how much preparation a wedding takes, do you?”

I grimaced, glad I wasn’t asking her this in person. “Honestly, Els, I
can
help with the arrangements.”

“No, no, you’ll just get in the way. Men always do. You just stay put and be sweet and I’ll tell you what to do when I need you, okay?”

“Fair enough. In any case, I need to R.S.V.P. by Tuesday night. I’ve heard these Department dinners use one of the best catering services around. I’m sure they don’t beat your food, but think of it this way—you’ll still get a good meal and you won’t have to spend a second in the kitchen.”

“Hmm,” I heard her say.

“
And
,” I continued, “there will be a live band and a place for us to cut a rug. Just like when we first met, eh?”

“Hmmm,” she said again, but I could tell she was teetering towards going.

“C’mon, Ella—free hot date with your Prince Charming? You’ll even have the chance to doll yourself up. You know how much I enjoy seeing you at your most beautiful. I mean, you almost put me into cardiac arrest that first night we met.”

I heard a little purr on the line and knew I’d hit the right chord.

“Which dress should I wear, Nicky?”

I sighed inside myself. I hated this tactic—corner a guy with unwinnable questions. At least she wasn’t asking me if the dress made her look fat. I
could
just say, “Wear whatever you think matches your eyes best,” but then she’d accuse me of not caring. If I
did
name a dress, she’d find all sorts of reasons
not
to wear it. Either way, it’d be all my fault.

I thought outside the box. “Go in the buff,” I said, managing not to laugh.

“NICKY!” She sounded positively appalled and I knew exactly what kind of furious blush would be on her face. It never ceased to amaze me, though, how she could waltz around in next to nothing while at the pool—and in not much more during so many daily activities—and yet she still made a show of being sensitive about her modesty. I knew very well that she was quite aware of how attractive she was. I also knew very well that she had no problem flaunting that attractiveness, especially now that she was “off-limits,” thanks to that fat ring on her left hand. I’d usually just look away from her little sideshows and try to remind myself just how lucky I was that
I
was the one who had her and leave my thoughts at that.

When Ella recovered from her shock, she made some quick quip about just choosing her dress herself and that I’d just have to wait for the surprise. To me, that meant she was most likely to just go out and
buy
another dress so she would have one I hadn’t seen yet. I didn’t tell her how glad I was that she wasn’t spending
my
money. Then again, I had almost nothing to spend.

Thus, the date was on and I was in safe territory again. Mission accomplished.

The work week played out as usual and by the time Friday rolled around I was itching to be back in the field. Monday’s outing in the park had reminded me of how nice it was to work outside the lab. Moiré and I made arrangements to meet at an upscale Italian place early that evening; prime dating time. We would arrive separately, but share a table to make it easy to compare notes.

Moiré was right on time, as always, dressed much the same as the first time I’d met her. As soon as she noticed me, I nodded and we headed for our “test site.”

“The trick is,” I said as we approached the restaurant, “we don’t act like we’re on a
first
date, or like we’re engaged. We act as though we’ve been on a
few
dates—still a touch nervous or giddy maybe, but not obviously so. Otherwise,
we’ll
be the ones people are watching, laughing at us behind our backs, making ‘they’re on a first date’ or ‘the honeymoon is right around the corner,’ jokes. Think you can handle that?”

She grinned wickedly at me. “Nick, I could handle acting like we were an old married couple if you needed me to, but I doubt you’d like the nagging. And I’m sure you don’t want me to stop you from checking out, er, excuse me, ‘observing’ the waitresses.”

I winced at her directness. I suppose it really was my fault for never bothering to mention I was in committed relationship, just weeks from marriage. I decided that now was not the time to violate the Researcher’s Code, so I let the remark go uncontested.

I held the door for Moiré. The place awed me with its class every time I came: the wrought, bronze door handles; the imported tile flooring; the rustic Mediterranean chandeliers; full length mirrors in the lobby; the myriad of tasteful accents adorning the place. My nostrils flared automatically at the symphony of smells. I could pick out the fragrance of the fettuccini, the scent of sourdough and the smell of spaghetti bolognese. My mouth watered as I remembered the tastes attached to those smells. This was the kind of place a guy took his girl when he was pretty serious. It was perfect as an observation spot.

“Nice place,” Moiré murmured as I came up beside her. “I’m not sure my pocket book can take this level of high society.”

“It’s being covered by the research budget,” I said quietly, not mentioning just how strained that budget was. Three figures for a savings account was never comforting.

The hostess greeted us. “Two for dinner,” I said. She gestured for us to follow. Getting in character, I placed my hand on the small of Moiré’s back as we were escorted to a small, round table near the far wall of the room. The spot was inconspicuous but had a clear line of sight on the rest of the dining area, perfect for what we were doing. The mountain panorama was breathtaking; we’d be here long enough to catch a good sunset.

I held Moiré’s chair and she slid in with tremendous grace. It hit me that she may be good at dancing. We started with an asparagus dip that showed up in minutes. We selected entrées and then dug in.

“So, where are you from,” I began, as I tried making mental notes of the surrounding couples.

“Slovenia,” she replied simply.

This is me blinking wordlessly.

This is her beginning to laugh. “Actually, I’m from a little desert town in southern Nevada,” she said.

“Oh?” I asked, trying to recover some dignity. “What’s it called?”

“Las Vegas,” she said, before taking a bite of her dip-covered bread.

“Yeah… small town,” I muttered.

“So, how about you,” she asked, when she finished her bite, grinning at me.

I told her and we took turns laying out our bios for the next in fifteen minutes. We discussed hobbies, favorite books, movies and music, notable experiences, et cetera, until our waitress appeared with our food. We took it gratefully.

Moiré bit into her angel hair pomodoro and her eyes grew. “Wow. This is
so
much better than Jessica had told me. It’s amazing they can get something so simple to taste
this
good.”

Fortunately, my crab ravioli was good enough to stall my case of pomodoro envy.

“Oh, before I forget,” Moiré added, “did I tell you I put in for a department scholarship?”

“Really? Well, you’re certainly deserving of it. When do you expect to hear back about it?”

Moiré quirked her mouth. “They weren’t sure. Could be a week, could be a month. Something about determining how many scholarships they could afford.”

I snorted. “Good luck with that. The department chairs make Ebenezer Scrooge look like a philanthropist.”