Him: I made a reservation at Michaels.
Me: Been dying to try Michaels. Sounds great.
Him: Steak from Chicago and Hayley from New Jersey, a perfect menu.
He’d even added a little smiley face, which seemed utterly, nerve-wrackingly out of character. Once I was ready—too early—I paced in tiny circles around the living area, yelling out answers to Jeopardy! before the contestants could get to them.
“You’re making me woozy,” said Miss Gloria from her seat in the galley. “Come sit with me and try a bite of dinner. I used to fix this when the boys were little but I couldn’t remember all the ingredients. I’d love a professional opinion.” She patted the chair beside her, her smile a little quivery.
So I grabbed a fork and a small saucer from the dish drainer, plopped down in the seat at the kitchen table not occupied by sweet old ladies and pushy cats, and nibbled at her tuna casserole.
“What do you think?” she asked, grinning hopefully. Either Miss Gloria was terribly out of practice or had never really enjoyed cooking. I was betting on both, but especially the latter. Mayonnaise, pasta, and dark tuna in oil, all mixed together and heated through—something you might find on a college student’s hot plate. Both cats were standing sentinel on the couch, drawn, I was sure, by the fishy odor.
“Delicious,” I said, shuttering my eyes closed for dramatic effect. “It reminds me a bit of one of the chefs’ dishes we chose this morning. Let’s see…cheddar cheese, a hint of pickle relish, overtones of mayonnaise, a dash of dehydrated onion flakes?”
She giggled and ladled another spoonful onto my dish. “You forgot the Worcestershire sauce. That’s my secret ingredient.” She rested her elbow on the table and put her chin in her palm. Her eyes twinkled, set off by the rhinestones on her pink sweatshirt. “Do you think Nathan Bransford is the one?”
I shivered and let my fork clatter to the table, then crossed my arms in a big X to ward off that thought. “I have no idea—I’m really bad at this. I thought Chad Lutz was my destiny and you know how that worked out.”
Chad and I had lasted five short weeks after I moved to Key West to live with him last fall. But to be painfully frank, I barely knew the guy when I followed him the length of the eastern seaboard—as my mother and my closest friends were fond of pointing out. In the end, I came out way on top, landing in the paradise of Key West, which might never have occurred to me otherwise. I thanked Miss Gloria again for the bite of casserole, excused myself, and went to brush my teeth for the third time this evening and grab my purse.
When we scheduled this dinner date, the detective—Nate, I had to remember to call him—had insisted on picking me up. He was old-fashioned that way, he’d said. Which made me a little more nervous because I like to be able to bolt if necessary. Plus, the idea of arriving at a restaurant in a police car made my stomach turn—and I’d never seen him drive anything else. At ten minutes to seven my phone buzzed with a call from Nate. My mind, programmed to expect disaster lately, assumed he was canceling.
“Sorry,” he said. “I need to spin by the harbor and check something out. Do you mind meeting me at the restaurant? I may be a couple minutes late.”
“No problem,” I assured him, my blood pressure dropping a few points from the sheer relief of taking my own ride—and a little giddiness at knowing we were still on. I grabbed my coat, kissed Miss Gloria on the cheek, and kissed the gray M marked on Evinrude’s forehead, and started down the dock toward my scooter.
Minutes later, I stood alone at the host’s podium outside Michaels on Margaret Street, nervous as a polydactyl cat in a stampede of tipsy tourists. I would not have guessed that this unobtrusive gateway on a quiet residential street opened up into the charming courtyard of one of the best restaurants in town.
“Reservation for two, Bransford,” I said smiling weakly at the host. “The other half of the party is running a little late.”
“May I seat you outside?” asked the host, smoothing his tie down the length of his crisp, white shirt.
“Perfect,” I said, although wondering whether Nate might rather be indoors. January was “winter” in Key West, like everywhere else in the northern hemisphere, and the locals took the season seriously. But the overhead heaters would warm the nip in the night air, and the splashing of the big fountain at the back of the courtyard might take a tiny edge off my nerves. I could see myself hyperventilating if we ended up trapped at a table in the back of the small indoor space.
I wasn’t usually quite this nervous about dinner with a new man but Nate and I had suffered a series of ruinous interactions over the past few months, none of which could be properly called a first date. The evening on which my mother had tagged along might have been the worst outing in all of romantic history. Hard not to keep running over the script like a tongue on a rotten tooth. So I much preferred to back up and start fresh. On the other hand, that put all the first date pressure squarely on this evening.