The Ground Rules (2 page)

It seems like fate, doesn’t it?

I’
VE
B
OUGHT
T
ICKETS
on-line for the show, and Gabe says he’s got dinner under control.

My dark hair is curled and pinned into a retro style. I’m not much for makeup, but I’ve put on a little liquid liner, mascara, and red lipstick. Standing in front of the mirror in my pink chiffon vintage dress, I’m happy with the results—it’s very “fifties pin-up girl.” I find myself smiling, but just as soon as my gap-toothed smile appears, it fades. Gabe says the gap gives me character, but what does he know—he loves me unconditionally.

As I peek at myself one last time, it’s clear the outfit needs a little something. I pull out my extensive collection of vintage brooches.

Claire sits on the vanity chair—she’s been watching me for the longest time, quiet as a mouse. “You look pretty, Mommy,” she finally says. Her sweet voice unexpectedly brings out emotion in me, and my eyes tear up. I can’t cry and ruin my eye makeup. And then I wonder why I’m so emotional—it’s just a night out, for crying out loud.

I show Claire my brooch collection, displayed on wine-red velvet fabric in an old Victorian frame—a little craft project I worked on not long ago. “Which one?”

She points at the amber and pink jeweled owl. “I like that one. I think it would go nice with your dress.”

I agree. “I think so too. The colors match, don’t they?”

As I pin the brooch just over my heart, I’m pretty happy with the final outcome.

When I finally make it downstairs, Gabe takes one look at me and says, “Wow!”

I smile shyly at him. “You look nice too,” I reply, eyeing him from top to bottom. The man is a looker—always has been. His six-foot-three frame looks fantastic in dark pants and a black-striped dress shirt. I almost never get to see him dressed up, and I love it when I do. There’s a kind of sexy contrast between the clean-cut outfit and the shaggy dark curls and week-old scruff.

God, I want him right now.

He kisses me softly on the cheek.

“You look like a million bucks,” he says. “I’ve told Caroline all she needs to know, and I’ve set up dinner for her to feed the kids.” Caroline is our babysitter—absolutely the sweetest girl you’ll ever meet. We like her because she’s nerdy, bookish, and responsible, and will most likely not throw a wild party or scrounge through our underwear drawers…but then, you never know.

As we drive on the interstate in Gabe’s beast of a truck to Chicago’s downtown, he looks at me again and smiles. I smile back and can only imagine what he’s thinking. He slides his hand up my thigh and says softly, “I will
definitely
be taking that dress off tonight.”

He’s turning me on. He can still turn on the switch, sometimes with just a word or two. “You better keep your eyes on the road before you kill us both,” I warn him with a smile.

He smiles and turns away, his eyes focused on the road. I look at him and can’t help but sigh a little—my high school sweetheart still does it for me after all these years. We first fell in love our senior year—two seventeen year olds—the popular charming jock and the new girl, a shy bookish sort. It was quite the talk of the school when we got together. Most of the girls were shocked, if not a little jealous too—that a looker like Gabe would fall for plain old me. But then, he’s always said it was “love at first sight.”

“We need to go pick up the tickets at the box office after dinner,” I inform him as we make our way to the restaurant. I’m a little wobbly in my heeled, pink Mary Janes, but I also feel very sexy and sophisticated, so the shoes are worth the effort.

Gabe has arranged for dinner at a restaurant in the theater district. I’m not too familiar with downtown, but he claims it’s the place to go—a five star gourmet restaurant specializing in Southern Louisiana cuisine—crawfish, jambalaya, lobster Creole, and the like. I’m not sure if I’ll like it, but I’m just happy to be getting away from the usual.

I want to try something new.

The décor is very sleek and contemporary, with none of the old Louisiana charm I expected. Stainless-steel fountains separate the space, and futuristic wave-like lighting fixtures dot the ceiling. Square tables covered in crisp white linens are arranged in perfect symmetry. There are no kids anywhere, and I’m excited at the prospect of spending an evening surrounded by adults, for a change.

Gabe walks up to the hostess who smiles warmly at us. Her large Bohemian earrings dangle as she tilts her head and asks, “Reservations?”

“Yes, under Keates,” Gabe tells her.

She is extremely tall—as tall as Gabe, and she must be wearing very high heels behind that hostess podium. Her sleek black dress hugs her perfectly, and her long, shiny dark hair falls like a cascade of silky ribbons. And I suddenly feel odd in my quirky vintage dress.

“I apologize. I don’t see it,” she tells us with a perfect megawatt smile—she doesn’t seem sorry at all. “Let me check for a second,” she adds. “Please take a seat.”

We make our way to the sleek leather banquette lining the wall. Gabe seems irked.

“It’s probably just a little snafu,” I say.

I spot a couple entering the restaurant, and my attention is instantly drawn to the woman—she’s gorgeous, blond, and
all class
—tucked into a fitted, cream, contemporary two-piece suit and super high, expensive-looking cream pumps. She seems at ease and completely comfortable.
How do some women do that? How do they wear heels that high, suits that tight, and
still
manage to look comfy and put-together, moving with the grace of a ballerina?
She doesn’t notice me staring at her, or rather “gawking” might be a more accurate word. I’m glad she’s so self-centered and unaware of her surroundings—she doesn’t see me at all—I could be invisible as far as she’s concerned.

Then my attention shifts to her date, but I can’t see his face. He’s tall and broad-shouldered and has a fabulous head of hair. Of course, he’s wearing a classy fitted suit. And I want to vomit a little—people like these two make me a little sick.

“Check out Barbie and Ken over there,” Gabe whispers in my ear. And I laugh out loud—I can’t help it—he’s been thinking the same thing I have. Barbie turns to look at us, and I offer an apologetic smile. Ken doesn’t bother turning around.

“Hello Mr. and Mrs. Hanson,” the hostess offers, her attention fully devoted to them. “How are you?” she asks in that fake-ish way people do. I get the sense that Ken and Barbie have been here on a regular basis—it’s probably just a regular night for them, not a special once-a-year date night, like it is for Gabe and me.

“Table for two?” she asks. And I wonder what the hell happened to us—what about
our
table lady?

Gabe takes my hand in his and smiles at me. “You look nice,” he says. He’s said it already earlier tonight, but I don’t mind. And I don’t mind sitting on this comfy banquette with him for a little while.

“Table for four actually,” Barbie says. “We’re expecting friends.”

“Yes, of course,” snooty hostess replies. “I do have a table for you. But it isn’t quite ready yet,” she offers apologetically. “It’ll just take a moment.”

“That’s fine,” Barbie says as she and Ken turn toward us. And I see his face. And he’s gorgeous—of course. Of course he’s gorgeous—he’s exactly what I expected.

We instinctively slide over to the far edge of the banquette to make room for them. And for some reason, I don’t smile at them. In such circumstances, I would usually smile politely, as most people would, but I kind of hate these people—they seem a little smug. And they have a table waiting for them, which we apparently don’t.

Gabe leans back and stares up at the ceiling. “I bet we’ll be sitting here awhile.” He’s already losing his cool.

Barbie smiles warmly at Gabe, and he smiles back—of course he would—she’s gorgeous. Ken doesn’t smile at either of us—apparently he’s not interested in idle chit-chat. Good…we’re on the same page.

“How are you?” Barbie asks us with a flawless smile, her lips a soft coral, her teeth perfect and gleaming white.

“Good,” Gabe says. “How ’bout yourself?”

“Great. Thank you.”

Of course she’s great—she has a table.

“It seems real busy tonight,” Gabe offers. He’s always been good at small talk and meeting new people—I envy that about him. He’s a lot more outgoing than I am.

“It’s always busy,” Barbie points out. “Have you been waiting for a while?”

“Not too long,” I offer, awkwardly planting myself into the conversation—yes,
my
gorgeous husband has a wife, lady. I don’t really know why I’m being so possessive—I’m a little threatened I suppose—the woman does look like a supermodel, and it’s not every day your husband has a conversation with a supermodel.

I catch Ken’s eye, and he quickly averts his gaze. He strikes me as a little odd, the strong silent type. I don’t think he’s said a single word so far. I find myself checking him out—hey, if she can chat up my husband, I can at least sneak a peek at hers. He’s truly beautiful in the classic sense—chiseled features, olive skin, dark sleek hair, not a strand out of place—he’s as sleek and put-together as his wife. He seems very conservative, but I like his flashy purple shirt and tie. He turns to look at me, and I instinctively turn away and feel myself blush a little.

His phones rings—a traditional ring tone, nothing fun. He answers promptly, his voice quieter and softer than I would have imagined. I look away and pretend not to listen, but in fact, I’m straining to hear every word.

“Hi, Simon. What is it?”

A long pause of silence—no one speaks. Barbie seems curious too.

He rolls his eyes, and then he smiles. He has a nice wide smile—the kind of smile you see on people who seem to have more teeth than the average human. “
Seriously?”
he says. “Well, I’m not surprised, Simon,” he adds, shaking his head. “I’ve known you too long.”

“What is it, Weston?” Barbie asks, very curious. So
Ken’s
name is
Weston
—I think I like that better.

He smiles at his wife but doesn’t answer. “It’s not a problem, Simon. Don’t worry. We’ll do it another time.”

“We’ll talk later,” he finally says before hanging up.

Barbie, who is apparently not a complete idiot, has deduced the obvious. “They’re not coming?”

“Nope,” he says plainly, his voice soft. “Apparently, Jennifer has sprained her ankle and insisted on going to the emergency room.”

Barbie laughs. “She’s such a fashionista. She probably did it in those ridiculously high heels she wears.”

I glance down at Barbie’s pumps, which must have
a least
a four or five inch heel.
Do shoes get higher than that?

The hostess, who had stepped away, walks back to her podium. “I’m sorry Mr. Keates. I have no record of a reservation in your name.”

“What!” Gabe snaps, standing. “But I made a reservation,” he tells her, his mouth a hard line. He’s peeved and desperately trying to contain himself. “I called a few days ago.”

“I’m sorry,” the hostess replies—she seems flustered as well. “But there’s no indication on my system.”

He rakes a hand through his unruly hair. “Well, do you have anything available?” All eyes and ears are on him now, and the situation feels slightly awkward. I look away, mildly mortified. I bet this never happens to Barbie and Ken…Barbie and
Weston
.

“I’m sorry,” the hostess says, straight-faced. She seems a little irked now.

Damn, we don’t need this. We don’t have time for this. We have a show to catch, and we don’t have time to scout for another restaurant—all the restaurants in the area are probably just as packed.

“Well, you seem like a very capable woman,” Gabe offers, turning on the charm. “I’m sure you can work something out for us.”

“I’m sorry,” she almost sneers. “There is absolutely nothing I can do.”

God…there is no thawing this ice queen. And I suddenly hate her, and I hate this pompous, pretentious restaurant too.

Barbie jumps to her stiletto-ed feet, “Are you sure there’s nothing you can do for them?” she asks, her voice silky.

Okay…so Barbie might not be so bad after all.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hanson,” the hostess insists. “We’re at full capacity.” Her eyes light up as she adds, “But I have good news for you…your table for four is ready.”

Barbie takes a seat back on the banquette. “I have an idea,” she blurts out. “You nice folks could have dinner with us,” she offers, all smiles.

Us nice folks? She doesn’t know us. We’ve barely spoken five words. I’m not nice. All I’ve been doing is judging her—and I suddenly feel like a real witch. Barbie’s actually nice. As much as I’d like to hate this woman, I can’t.

“Our friends have just canceled on us, and we have a table for four,” she tells us, but of course, I already knew that from spying on them. “It seems like fate, doesn’t it?” she adds cheerfully.

“Well…uh…” Gabe says. He seems taken aback. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Gabe at a loss for words before.

“Thank you,” I say nervously—this is a really strange situation. “But I’m sure you don’t want to spend your evening with two strangers.”