Page 43 of Meant to Be

“Thanks,” he said with a broad grin. “It’s new.”

A few seconds later the maître d’ politely interjected with a greeting, then escorted us to a secluded table overlooking the hotel’s interior courtyard. I could feel a few stares along the way and had a flashback to my own first Joe Kingsley sighting, on the beach. I felt a little sheepish remembering how giddy I’d been.

“Finally,”Joe said, once we were seated and settled and alone. He leaned over the table, staring into my eyes.

“Finallywhat?” I asked.

“Finally we’re on adate.” He smiled, and I saw a dimple in his left cheek that I’d never noticed in photographs of him.

“It’snota date,” I said, shaking my head.

“Oh, it’s a date, Cate.”

“Look at you and your little rhymes,” I said, trying not to smile.

“Hey, I gotta stick with what works. My poetry got us here.”

I tilted my head and said, “Is that what you think?”

“Yes,” he said, chuckling some more. “I think that limerick did you in.”

“Oh, it did me in, all right,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Admit it…you loved it,” he said.

I gave him a close-lipped smile and shook my head.

“You’re lucky I didn’t hit you with one of my world-famous haikus. You’d have melted on the spot.”

I crossed my arms and said, “Try me.”

Joe cleared his throat, then put his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his clasped hands. He stared out over the courtyard, appearing deep in thought. After a few seconds, he turned back to me, cleared his throat again, then began reciting in the deep voice of a Shakespearean actor, “He came to Paris…just to look in her blue eyes…by the candlelight.”

“Not bad,” I said, laughing. “Corny as hell, but not bad.”

“It might be corny, but it’s true,” he said, looking so unbelievably earnest that I almost believed he reallyhadcome all this way just to see me.

I started to respond but was saved by our waiter, who arrived to give us a rundown of the menu and wine list. Joe responded in clumsy French, asking a few questions before I took over, in much better French, ordering a bottle of Burgundy and informing our waiter that we needed another few minutes to peruse the menu.

When we were alone, Joe said, “Your French issogood.”

“Thanks.”

“Did you take it in school?”

“No. I took Spanish. I just picked it up from my modeling days. I did a lot of work here.”

“Wow. That’s so impressive. I’m terrible with languages. I took, like, ten years of French and it’s still horrible.”

“It reallyis,” I said with a laugh, thinking that it was actually a little surprising—and refreshing—as I would have pegged Joe as the kind of guy who would never risk embarrassment and only do things that he knew he was really good at.

Over the next two hours, as we ordered and ate and finished our bottle of wine, Joe continued to surprise me. He was so full of contradictions. On the one hand, he was bold and brash and adventurous, talking about how much he loved flying his airplane and heli-skiing and windsurfing. On the other hand, he seemedintrospective and thoughtful and kind—almost gentle. I noticed, for example, that he always made eye contact with the busboy, thanking him every time he refilled our water glasses even when Joe was in midsentence. He didn’t seem to put himself above anyone, and his humility verged on self-deprecation as he told me about his grades in college—and how he’d failed the bar not once buttwice.

Of course, I knew this already, remembering the embarrassing headlines, but I played dumb and said, “Oh. Wow. That must have sucked.”

“Yeah. The first time wasn’tthatbad…. I mean, it was a huge buzzkill and hassle. But it happens…. The second time, though?” He shook his head and smiled, like it was a fond memory. “That really didsuck.”

“Well, at least you can laugh at yourself,” I said.

---