“Well, you wanted to be a redhead.” I turned my head to one side, then the other, liking the extra length quite a lot, but feeling apathetic about the color.
I’d asked Darla for a red wig that would look real sitting on my head. This marriage between auburn and mahogany was what she’d delivered. It looked real, the hair felt real, the color appeared natural. It was red, it just wasn’t red-red, you know? It didn’t feel daring enough. When or if I committed to red hair, it would be mermaid red.
Then again, at least for tonight, this tamer shade seemed like a good idea. The whole point of wearing the wig and the brown contact lenses was to be in disguise, to allow Mr. Repo and I to meet without being recognized.
Jason. His name is Jason.
“But tonight he’s Henry, and I’m Beth, and I’m officially ridiculous.” Muttering to myself, I reached for my clutch purse and sighed.
I understood his caution, I did. And I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t just a little bit fun to play pretend, be Beth and not Diane for one night so we could be together undisturbed. But it also felt ironic that we should have to pretend to be other people in order to know each other.
Regardless, here I sat, sporting someone else’s hair, looking at myself with brown eyes, and wearing an uncharacteristic black dress. I didn’t own much in black—only two pantsuits for funerals. I loved bright colors. If the good Lord saw fit to give us colors, I felt the least we could do was wear them proudly.
Exiting the car, I glanced down at myself. The dress was new and ordered out of a catalogue. I tried to pick something I would never wear as my normal self, but was a garment I still liked.
It was knee length on me—it would’ve been mid-thigh on a taller woman—and had a low, square neckline paired with long fitted sleeves. The risqué neckline, especially paired with my pushup bra, made it sexier than anything else I owned. Other than maybe that leather skirt I couldn’t fit into anymore and my new lingerie acquisitions. But no one saw me in those; those were for me.
Except for Jason. He saw you in that nightie.
I sucked in a bracing breath, pressing my hand to my stomach to quell the butterflies there. You will not be having sex with that man tonight, so cool your britches. Besides, it was yet to be determined if we even liked each other. And I wanted exclusivity, but maybe exclusivity wasn’t on his menu. In which case, we’d just have this one date.
I’d promised myself I wouldn’t do anything more than kiss him until we made it to a third date. Then, I’d take my time rounding the bases, make him work for it. I’d meant what I’d said. I wanted to be wooed. I wanted someone to work for me.
We hadn’t done anything after he’d agreed to the date. In fact, we’d shaken hands to make it official, but hadn’t touched each other again. But I’d felt his eyes on me for the rest of the evening before we retired to separate rooms.
I’d thought about putting on a robe, or different pajamas, or covering myself with the blanket again, but what would have been the point? He’d already seen me in the nightie and changing into something more modest in order to make him comfortable wasn’t my style anymore. I wasn’t cold despite the heat being out and we’d been in my house, he’d interrupted my evening, and it was not my job to make him or anyone else feel at ease in my presence.
Ultimately, Jason had slept in Isaac’s bedroom, and he’d left early in the morning before I’d awoken, leaving a note on the kitchen table with a cell number and the words, I’ll contact you from this number.
Part of me had felt listless and depressed after he’d left, second guessing whether I’d actually hear from him again. But then I reminded myself that no man was responsible for my happiness or satisfaction, I had complete control over both, and that was that.
This reminder, that I was in control, served as my mental companion as I pulled open the door to the restaurant and scanned the interior, pleasantly surprised by what I found. These remote places just outside of Asheville could be an assortment of different flavors. Some were homey and cluttered for family dining; some were plain, unadorned and catered to a grab-and-go, no-frills eater; and some were like this, intimate and elegant, full of candlelight and antiques and men in dinner jackets and women in fine dresses.
Well, well, well, Mr. Repo. Nicely done.
I found the hostess stand off to one side, but then realized it was actually a maître d' station when an elegant woman about my age or a little younger, wearing a tuxedo dress, gave me a rather snooty looking once over.
“May I help you?”
“I hope so.” I lifted my hands holding my Louis Vuitton clutch and rested them on the high-top maître d' station between us, ensuring my three-carat antique diamond ring caught the light. This was all part of the silly dance wealthy people played in order to signal to others that they possessed money and had no qualms spending it. “Reservation under Henry Blake.”
The subtle curve of her lips became a tad more friendly. “And you are?”
“Elizabeth Blake.”
“Right this way, Mrs. Blake.”
I strolled after her, holding my head high, suppressing another flutter of tummy butterflies. We walked through the small front dining area, murmurs of intimate conversation and the clinking of forks against plates following in our wake.
Each table was ensconced by a booth, likely to provide privacy for their patrons. Expecting to find Jason in one of these booths, I felt surprised when we weaved our way toward the back of the restaurant where it was significantly darker. The walls were glass, the tables were out in the open but quite far apart, and each seemed to be illuminated only by a single candle set at the center.
Perhaps this was to give a similar sense of privacy as the booths provided at the front?
I surmised the wall of windows overlooked a beautiful valley or a pretty lake during the day, but whatever lay beyond was currently blanketed by the darkness of a moonless winter night.
At last, we approached the back and large shoulders of a man at a four-top set in a corner and far from the other tables. Indoor plants of live peace lilies, hydrangeas, and begonias created a pervious border around it. This, obviously, was a prime spot.
I stepped around the maître d' and placed a light hand on Jason’s shoulder. “Hello, darling,” I said, my voice perfectly calm, like we did this every Friday.
He stood gracefully and turned, ensnaring my eyes and my hand as it fell from his shoulder. Goodness. Good-ness. The man certainly knew how to wear a suit.
His mouth quirking to the right, he placed a light kiss on the inside of my wrist. “Gorgeous,” he said, his voice gravel and sex, sending those butterflies in my belly back to work double-time, and heat to my cheeks and . . . elsewhere.
Flustered. I was flustered. But Jason covered for me smoothly, like he spent all his evenings in fancy restaurants being watched by snooty waitstaff. After taking my long wool coat and handing it off, he ushered me to my chair, placing another kiss against my cheek as he skootched me in.
He even ordered me a cocktail, saying, “My wife will have a champagne cocktail and I’ll have another Hakushu, neat.”
My wife.
The maître d' disappeared and I fought the urge to burst out laughing. What a beautiful farce.
“I like that dress,” he said, cutting through my tangle of nerves and absurd thoughts.