I closed the menu. “Okay. Let’s see how you do.”
A few moments later the waitress returned with our drinks. She turned to me. “Are you ready to order?”
“Ask him,” I said. “He’s in charge.”
“Yes, we are ready. My friend would like the filet Roquefort, medium rare, the baked potato with sour cream and chives, the melon prosciutto appetizer and the house salad with blue cheese, wait, Thousand Island?” He looked at me. “No, blue cheese dressing.”
The waitress looked back at me for confirmation. He was dead-on, right down to the salad dressing. “That’s what I’ll have.”
“And you, sir?”
“I would like the king crab legs, baked potato with Norshire garnish and the cream of mushroom soup. And blue cheese dressing with my salad.”
“Very well,” she said. She took our menus and walked away.
“Sounds like you’ve been here before,” I said.
“A few times. So how did I do?”
“It was a gutsy move ordering red meat for a woman.”
He smiled. “You look like a woman who can handle red meat.”
“I don’t know what that means, but I’ll take it as a compliment. Yes, you did well. That’s what I always order. So, are you psychic?”
“It’s kind of a party trick,” he said. “Speaking of which, tell me about yourself.”
I laughed. “I can’t believe you just used that as a segue. So your psychic powers haven’t told you everything about me. What do you want to know?”
“What is it like working at a dry cleaner?”
“Really? That’s what you want to know?”
“Why not?”
“Okay. It’s a job. Not a lot of excitement, but it almost pays the bills, and I get my dry cleaning done for free. And if I actually wore something nice enough to need dry cleaning, that would be a real perk.”
“I can see why you work there,” he said.
“Now you’re just being mean. So what do you do?”
“Stalk, mostly. And diagnose enigmatic diseases.”
“I believe you.”
“Actually, I’m kind of between jobs right now.”
“And you just bought a new BMW?”
“I’m financially stable.”
“That’s good,” I said. “So, what did you do when you were employed?”
“I was a financial advisor. I help high-income clientele with their investment portfolios. People like you.”
“That’s me, all right. So I have a question. The first time we met . . .”
“The head butt,” he said.
“Right. The head butt. I wondered what a man like you was doing alone at a 7-Eleven on Christmas morning.”
“A man like what?”
“Just a very handsome, well-put-together man.”
“I could ask you the same thing—except for the man part.”
“I just needed buttermilk.”
“Well, other than looking for someone to head butt, the answer is not that exciting. I had just moved to Utah and I hadn’t done any serious grocery shopping yet, so I ran out of coffee. Being Christmas Day, I went to the only place I could think of that was open. And then, voilà, this angel walks in and transforms me into a bumbling, head-butting fool.”
“Oh, I looked like an angel all right.”
“More than you know.”
“Do you have family?”
“My parents live in Toledo, Ohio. I have a younger brother who lives in Maryland. He’s very smart. He speaks seven languages and works for the NSA.” He lifted his glass and smiled at me. “I’m pretty sure that he’s a spy, but he won’t admit it. Actually, I was hoping to spend Christmas with my parents, but this year it just seemed a little too . . .” He seemed like he was searching for the right word. “Far.”
The waitress came over with a pitcher of water and topped off our glasses. She smiled at Matthew. “I’ll be right back with your first course.”
“Thank you,” he said.
I leaned forward. “Don’t take this wrong, but it’s hard for me to believe that a man as handsome and persistent as you isn’t married.”
The playfulness in his countenance suddenly vanished. “I was,” he said simply.
“Was?”
His expression changed. “I lost her. She died of cancer.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Me too,” he said sadly. “She was everything to me. Sweet, smart, beautiful.” He stopped, overcome with emotion.
“I’m really sorry, that must have been painful.”
When he could speak, he said, “It was like having my heart amputated and still having to live.” He breathed in deeply, then exhaled. “But you understand, don’t you? You lost your husband to cancer.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It wasn’t quite the same.”
“Why is that?”
I frowned. “I don’t know how much I want to share.”
“That’s okay,” he said. “Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
I looked into Matthew’s eyes and all I saw was sympathy. “I caught him cheating on me. It was just a few weeks after that that he was diagnosed with terminal cancer. So I stuck with him. I even forgave him. Things between us were good until a few weeks before he died, when he confessed to having multiple affairs. Nearly a dozen.”
Matthew groaned. “A serial cheater. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too,” I said, surprised I had opened up so much. “The thing is, I didn’t have a clue about any of it. I was living in this fantasyland where life was good and family was enough. I guess I was wrong.”
Matthew shook his head. “You weren’t wrong. Family is enough.” He looked into my eyes. “So how are you doing?”
I took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “The thing is, broken vows are like broken mirrors. They leave those who held to them bleeding and staring at fractured images of themselves.”
“That’s very poetic.”
“A broken heart will do that.”
Just then the waitress arrived carrying a large platter. “Here’s your first course. Swedish meatballs, our dill, sourdough breadsticks with homemade clam dip and a banana “shrub” to cleanse your palate. I’ll be back in a moment with your salads.”
When she walked away, I took a sip of wine, then speared a meatball from the pewter dish with a tiny fork.
“I love those,” Matthew said, watching me.
“How could you not?” I replied. “I love coming here.” I finished chewing, then said, “So, I’m not really sure how old you are. What year did you graduate?”
He looked down for a moment. “Uh, class of . . . eighty.”
I smiled. “That sounded like a guess. Are you sure?”
“I’m pretty sure.”
“So I’m older than you.”
“How much older?” he asked.
“Two years.”
He rubbed his chin. “You are old.”
“It’s not too late to back out,” I said.
“I’m afraid it is. We’ve already ordered.”
I grinned. “So, do you know what I miss most about the old days?”
“We’re still too young to say the old days,” he said.
“Okay, then the seventies. I miss the music from back then. It was fun. None of this rap, kill-cops stuff.”
“I like rap,” he said. “Some of it at least. But you’re right, music was more innocent back then.”
“What was your favorite band?”
He dipped a breadstick into the clam dip. “I don’t know if I had a favorite. I’m pretty eclectic. How about you?”
“Let’s see. Queen, Supertramp, Peaches and Herb.”
“Peaches and Herb?” he said laughing. “There’s a name for you.”
“They were one-hit wonders. You remember them, don’t you?” I started singing, “Reunited and it feels so good . . .”
He laughed. “I guess I missed that.”
“You really mis
sed out. Of course, like everyone else, I was madly in love with the Bee Gees. How about you?”
He shook his head. “I’m not familiar with them.”
I looked at him incredulously. “With the Bee Gees?”
He shrugged.
“The Bee Gees,” I said again as if he hadn’t heard me. “You know, the brothers Gibb. Saturday Night Fever?”
He still gazed at me blankly.
“Come on, ‘Staying Alive,’ ‘Night Fever,’ ‘Too Much Heaven.’ None of that rings a bell?”
“Nada.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. How could you have missed the Bee Gees? ‘Night Fever’ was the biggest song of the year.”
He shrugged. “I wasn’t much into heavy metal.”
I burst out laughing. “Heavy metal? They’re disco. How could you have been alive and missed the whole disco era?”
He thought about it for a moment, then said, “Lucky?”
I laughed again. “Wow. Where are you from? Outer Mongolia?”
“Actually, Capri.”
“Capri?”
He nodded. “It’s an island off the coast of southern Italy. We didn’t have much of a disco thing going on up there. I’m pretty sure there wasn’t a mirror ball on the whole island.”
I took a drink of wine. “You’re Italian, then.”
“I have dual citizenship. My father is from southern Italy. My mother was a southern belle from Atlanta. So I’m a southerner on both sides. Actually, I was born in Capri but lived in Sorrento until I was thirteen when we came to the States with my father’s job.”
I realized that I didn’t even know his last name. “What is your last name?”
“Principato.”
“Definitely sounds Italian. Do you still speak Italian?”
“Ma certo, bella.”
“I have no idea what you just said, but it was very pretty.”
“La bella lingua,” he said. “It’s the only language in the world that was invented by a poet.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “Dante.”
“Italian,” I said again. “That explains your beautiful eyes.”
He smiled shyly.
“Tell me more about yourself,” I said.
“Well, something strange happened to me the other day. Actually it was about a month ago. I heard this scratching at my front door, so I opened the door, but there was no one there. However, I noticed a snail on the doorstep, so I picked it up and threw it across the street.
“Then, a week ago I heard that same scratching sound at the door again. I got up and opened the door. Again, no one was there. But there was that snail again. He looked up at me and said, ‘What was that about?’ ”
I burst out laughing. “That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“I know. It’s great, isn’t it?”
“It is,” I conceded.
The night was different than I thought it would be. Matthew was different than I thought he would be. He was funnier, smarter, simpler. We laughed and joked and I hadn’t had that much fun since I could remember.
We finished eating around ten and then just drank coffee and talked until eleven. Then he paid the bill and drove me home. He turned off his car in the driveway and turned to me. “So, how did I do? Passing grade?”
“I’d give you a C+.”
“C+? That’s not good. But it’s still a passing grade?”
“Barely. The snail story was a little sketchy, but the meal was great and I’m feeling generous, so I will allow a makeup.”
“Thank you. When can I try again?”
“Soon,” I said. “Hopefully.”
He smiled. “How about I come over Sunday and make dinner. I will make you my soon-to-be-famous fried rice.”
“Chinese, not Italian?”
“The only Italian dishes I make are pasta dishes.”
“What’s wrong with pasta?”
“Charlotte can’t eat it.”
“Oh.” I was impressed that he had thought of that and felt foolish that I hadn’t. “Chinese sounds terrific. What do you need from me?”
“You’re in charge of drinks.”
“It’s a deal.”
He came around and opened my door, then walked me to the front porch. We stopped in front of the door. “Thank you for going out with me,” he said. “It was fun. You’re a very interesting woman.”
“Interesting,” I said. “I like that. It was my pleasure.” I looked into his eyes. “May I tell you something personal?”
“Of course.”
“That was the best night I’ve had in the last two years.” His eyes shone when I said that and he looked even more attractive to me than when I first met him.
“I’m glad.” He leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “Good night, Beth.”
“Good night, Matthew.”
He walked back to his car. I leaned back against the door as he drove away. Then I went inside. Jan was at the kitchen table doing her homework.
“Hi, Mrs. C. How was your evening?”
“Perfect,” I said, a broad smile crossing my face. “Just perfect.”
Finding real love is like finding a hundred dollar bill in a Kmart parking lot—and about as likely.
Beth Cardall’s Diary
The next morning at work Roxanne was as wired as a hummingbird on caffeine. “How was it? Jan said you said it was perfect. Tell me everything. Full report.”
A content smile crossed my face. “He was wonderful.”
“What did you do with Mr. Wonderful?”
“He took me to my favorite restaurant. We talked. We laughed a lot. He is very sweet and funny and very romantic.”
“Girl, I told you so, didn’t I?”
“And he’s Italian.”
“Grand slam.”
“There was only one thing I didn’t like about the date.”
“He mentioned an old girlfriend,” Roxanne said. “He wore white socks.”
“What? White socks? No, the only thing I didn’t like is that he didn’t kiss me. Maybe he saw me up close and changed his mind about me.”
“Honey, stop that. You know you’re gorgeous. And after how hard you tried to scare him off, he was probably just being careful. Or being a gentleman. And heaven knows we could use a few more of those.”
“Well, he’s coming over Sunday night to make fried rice.”
Roxanne nodded contently. “And he cooks. You were right, it may be too good to be true. So let’s get down to bare knuckles. How many times has he been married, and is he gainfully employed?”
“He was married, once, and he was employed. He’s between jobs right now.”
Roxanne grimaced. “Oh, not good.”
“About which.”
“Divorced I can handle, but the ‘between jobs’ thing sounds a little dodgy.”
“I think it’s okay. He’s financially stable, evident from the new BMW he was driving. He used to be a financial advisor, but he’s looking for something more meaningful.”
“Money and conscience. So tell me this—he’s Italian, gorgeous, nice, financially stable and can cook. What woman in her right mind would leave him?”
“His wife died of cancer.”
She looked strangely happy to hear this. “Oh.”
“I saw this very beautiful side of him. He was still mourning her.”
“Two broken hearts who still believe in the promise of love. Beth, this is a gift from heaven, he could be your soul mate.”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but do you think it’s too soon to be falling in love?”
“When did you know you wanted to marry Marc?”
“Second date.”
She nodded. “You know when you’re out shopping and you find that pair of red high heels that practically kicks you from the shelf?”
I laughed. “You’re comparing guys with shoes?”
“Well, I know it’s not fair to the shoes, but it’s essentially the same thing. When
you know, you know.”
“You’re a nut.”
“That’s why you love me. So he’s coming over tomorrow night?”
I smiled at the thought of it. “Tomorrow night.”
“And you’re not worried about Charlotte being there?”
“I should be, but I’m not. He’s even cooking something that Charlotte can eat.”
“I am so pleased for you. You discovered what’s wrong with Charlotte, you found a nice, financially secure guy you like being with—I’d say things are finally looking up.”
I nodded happily. “It feels like it. You think my luck has finally changed?”
“Yes. And it’s about time, I say.”
“I hope,” I said. “I hope.”
Something you lost will soon turn up.
Fortune Cookie
Sunday evening Matthew rang the bell around five-thirty. I opened the door to find him holding three large paper sacks.
“How did you ring the bell?” I asked.
“With my elbow.”
“Come in,” I said. “I’ll take one of those.”
“I wasn’t sure what ingredients you had so I just bought everything.”
We carried the sacks into the kitchen. He took off his coat, then we began emptying the sacks onto the counter. There was rice, soy sauce, carrots, onions, eggs, chicken breasts, ham steak, garlic and scallions. In addition, there were fortune cookies, three pairs of chopsticks, three rice hats and a plastic baggie filled with grass.
“What’s this?” I said holding up the baggie.
“Grass. I didn’t know where to find hay.”
“You cook with hay?”
“No. The Chinese New Year is next Friday. And it is the year of the horse, hence the hay which, in our case, is grass.”
He walked over and set a rice hat on my head. “You have to wear this. Health department regulations.” He tied the ribbon beneath my chin. “Perfect.”
“Then you have to wear yours,” I said. I picked one up, put it on his head, and fastened the ribbon. “You still look Italian.”
“Thank you,” he said.
There was another hat about half the size of the ones we wore. “You even brought a little one for Charlotte.”
“We didn’t want to leave her out of the fun. So where is Charlotte?”
“She’s next door at her friend’s house. But I called just before you came, so she’ll be home in a few minutes.”