Page 10 of Daddy's Naughty Bartender
Despite everything, I laugh. "You're insane."
"Probably." He steps back, giving me space. "But I'm also hungry, and you look like you could use a good meal and better wine. What do you say?"
I think about Josh's anger, about the broken glass, about all the reasons this is a bad idea. Then I think about the book club this afternoon, how they rallied around me with makeup and advice and encouragement. Think about Susie saying, "Honey, that man looks at you like you're Christmas morning. Don't let fear rob you of joy."
"Okay," I say. "But I'm driving separately in case I need to escape."
"Fair enough." He grabs his jacket. "Though for the record, I'd never give you a reason to run."
Something in his tone makes me believe him.
Twenty minutes later, I park outside Chez Laurent, Prairie Harbor's only upscale restaurant. Jason is waiting by the entrance, having beaten me there despite leaving after me.
"Speed demon," I accuse.
"I was motivated." He offers his arm. "Shall we?"
The restaurant is dimly lit, intimate. The hostess leads us to a corner table that feels wonderfully private. Jason pulls out my chair, and I try not to melt at the simple courtesy.
"Wine?" He studies the list with professional interest.
"You choose. You're the expert."
"Dangerous words." But he smiles, ordering something French I can't pronounce.
"Tell me about Chicago," I say once the waiter leaves. "What made you leave?"
His expression shutters slightly. "Divorce. Final papers signed a year ago."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. We wanted different things. She wanted a husband who worked normal hours, attended country clubfunctions, played golf on weekends." He shrugs. "I wanted someone who understood that passion for your work isn't a character flaw."
"How long were you married?"
"Twelve years. No kids. She didn't want to 'ruin her figure.'" His smile is rueful. "What about you and Mark? Dale mentioned you were high school sweethearts."
The wine arrives, saving me from answering immediately. Jason tastes it, nods approval, and waits while the waiter pours.
"We met in college, actually. Got married right after graduation. Had Emily at twenty-two, Josh at twenty-four." I take a sip of wine. God, it's good. "He was a good man. A good father. When the cancer came..."
"You don't have to talk about it."
"No, it's okay. It was fast. Six months from diagnosis to—" I swallow. "The kids were so young. Emily was fifteen; Josh only thirteen. I had to be strong for them."
"You've been strong for everyone for a long time. When do you get to be soft?"
The question undoes me. "I don't know how to be soft anymore."
"Sure you do." He reaches across the table, taking my hand. "You were soft when I bandaged your head. Soft when you let me help with the glass tonight. You've got more softness in you than you think."
"Is that what you see? Softness?"
"I see a woman who's had to be iron for so long, she's forgotten she's also silk." His thumb traces circles on my palm. "I see strength that comes from survival, but also exhaustion that comes from never resting. I see someone who needs permission to let go."
"And you want to give me that permission?"
"If you'll take it."
