“Who is it?” Nana Cole yelled from the other room.
“It’s Bev!” her friend yelled back.
“Thank you for doing this,” I said.
Bev went into the living room while I set the casserole on the stove. I turned the oven up to three-fifty, assuming that they’d want some chicken casserole later. Knowing this was a possibility—and that I’d be going out to have dinner—I’d served us each a small salad for dinner. Mostly I’d moved my lettuce leaves around the plate.
There were a few rumblings from the living room, so I decided I’d better get in there.
“Your hair looks awful.” Bev said to my grandmother, because it did. “How about we wash it.”
I could tell Nana Cole wanted to say no and throw her out, but I’d been refusing to wash her hair for most of the week.
Bev continued, “I’m sorry I upset you. You know I only said what I said because I’m concerned about you.”
“I don’t like people sticking their noses in.”
“That’s what friends do, Emma. They stick their noses in.”
Nana Cole snorted, and said, “Then you must the best friend on the planet.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I think you’ve said enough. Let’s get you into the bathroom so we can wash that mop.”
Ten minutes later, I was getting out of the Escalade across the street from Elaine’s Table. I’d never been before. I had driven by the charming, baby blue clapboard house that—like Main Street Café—had been converted into a restaurant, but I’d never thought about going there. It was a farm-to-table restaurant, which I had to guess meant they bought things directly from local farmers. Not sure why that was a good thing, but apparently it’s something to brag about.
I arrived first and was seated at a table on what was once the wrap around porch. It had a postcard view of Masons Bay’s Main Street, which made the town look exactly like the kind of place city dwellers dreamed of after an hour and a half commute. To me, though, it looked like something out of Stephen King, and I would not have been all that shocked to see vampires, werewolves or zombies stumbling down the street.
The waiter, who looked to be in his forties, was balding on top with a ratty little ponytail in the back. I was sure ponytails were out of fashion but worried a bit that they might have come back—in which case, ick!
He offered to get me a glass of wine, but after looking at the menu I declined. The wine was expensive and I didn’t wantto spend a lot of money. I also wasn’t sure if Dr. Stewart was treating me or if we were going dutch. I hoped we weren’t going dutch but had to face the very real possibility that we might be.
There’s a weird kind of structure to gay dating. I did often go out with guys Dr. Stewart’s age, and they were almost always as successful as he was. None of them were ever as attractive as he was though. With an older, successful but unattractive guy, I knew without a doubt that he was picking up the bill. With Dr. Stewart—so good-looking—I had no idea. What I did know was that if we went out together in West Hollywood and competed to see who would get bought more drinks, I would lose. Big time.
For those reasons, I might be paying for dinner. Or at least my half.
He walked into the restaurant about twenty minutes late. “I’m so sorry,” he said as he sat down. “My shift ran over and then, well, I had to go home and clean up. You know, I wanted to put my best foot forward.”
Wow. He wanted to put his best foot forward for me. That was weird to think about. Maybe Iwaspaying for dinner.
“You know, I don’t know your first name,” I said.
“Edward.”
“Do you like Ed, Eddie, Ted, Ward?”
“Edward is fine. What about you? Hank or Henry?”
“I like Mooch.”
“Do you? I suspect there’s a story there.”
“Not really. It’s just what kids called me in school.”
“The nice kids or the bullies?”
