Page 53 of Single-Minded
“All my favorites, fresh seafood, crab cakes, N’awlins classics like crawfish etouffee and jambalaya, fried catfish, pecan pie and doberge. Some more experimental stuff, tropical-Cajun lobster infusions and the like.” My mouth is watering.
His eyes dance as he talks more about the food, and how cooking for people makes him feel. “Speaking of my favorites,” he says, “do you feel like coming round on Saturday night for a little get-together here about eight? Invite anyone you’d like, I’ve always found the best way to make new friends is to throw a party. Casual, of course. Are you free?”
“Um, let me check my calendar.” I take a peek at my phone and pull up my calendar. Yep. Empty. For every Saturday night for all eternity. “Yes, I’m free that night. Can I bring anything?”
“Just your gorgeous self,cher.Leave the rest to me.” He smiles, his palpable charisma pulling me in like low tide. Or a riptide.
45
“Tell me again exactly what happened,” insists Darcy. The two of us are sitting on my lanai, deconstructing every conversation and clue we have about Daniel, starting with the first time I ever met him, at the divorce party. Darcy has a way of stripping someone’s psyche bare, analyzing their behaviors and demystifying their personality with such depth, precision, and authority that there seems no room for the possibility that her analysis might not be true. She’s almost always right. I think that’s why she’s so effective in politics. And friendship.
I go over, detail by detail, every meeting I’ve had with Daniel. The smiles, the little hugs, the electricity I feel when he touches me, the way he looks at me sometimes that makes me feel like he might be flirting with me.
“And you’re positive he’s gay?” she asks.
“Yes.” I say with conviction. “No. Maybe.”
“Okay, obvious solution, uh, why don’t you just ask him?”
“I can’t,” I say, exasperated. “First, he’s a client and if I ask him if he’s gay or he has any idea at all that I have some mad crush on him it could completely screw up our working relationship. I like him, I like this project. I don’t want to mess it up.”
“But what if he’s not gay, and he’s interested in you too, and you’re sending him such weird signals he doesn’t know whether to pursue it or not?” she asks, refilling her wineglass.
“I don’t know,” I say. I stand up from my lounge chair and head over to dip my toes in the pool.
Darcy joins me at the pool’s edge. She runs her fingers through her shock of red hair. “Why do you think he’s gay?”
“He was Carter’s date to the party.”
“Are you sure?” she asks. “Maybe Carter just invited Daniel because he was new in town and didn’t know anyone.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But almost all the men at the party were gay.”
“Correlation does not equal causation,” she says. “The sexual orientation of the partygoers has no impact on whether or not Daniel is gay.”
“I know.” I sigh. “What do I do?”
“Here’s an obvious thirty-second solution: why not just ask Carter?” asks Darcy.
“Ugh, too humiliating. Either Daniel is gay, and I’m a total idiot,again. Or he isn’t gay, and I’m just too clueless to be able to tell the difference. No thanks.”
“Go to Daniel’s party,” she says. “Wear something fabulous. Let your hair down a bit. Be open to whatever happens.”
“You know that going with the flow isn’t exactly my strong suit.”
“I do,” she says, softly patting my arm. “But you’ll never get a new ending if you keep starting with the same tired beginning.”
46
It feels like a date, but I know it isn’t. At least, my brain knows.
I arrive at Daniel’s gathering at precisely eight with a nice bottle of Mollydooker Shiraz called Carnival of Love. It was seventy-five bucks, but the bottle reminds me of New Orleans and the sommelier at the wine shop told me it was a fantastic wine and the perfect gift for a foodie. I took his word for it, I don’t have much of a palate. I just wanted to get something Daniel would really like.
I’ve stressed for two days about whether or not I should bring someone to Daniel’s gathering. Not that I have anyone to bring, mind you. Darcy left town this morning. Eventually it was too late to ask anyone else, and I decided to just go alone. I’m wearing a pale blue halter dress, one of those go-to outfits that forgives my flaws and plays up my best features, and always makes me feel confident and beautiful. The dress flatters my skin and makes my legs look long and lean. My hair falls down to my shoulders in waves, and I complete the look with a pair of strappy wedges, a silver necklace, and a chunky turquoise bracelet. I’d like to say I’m not dressed up for anyone in particular, but that would be a lie. What am I doing to myself?
It’s just begun to grow dark, and I step cautiously up the gangplank. Daniel has strung white retro-looking globe lights across the deck, which gives the boat a lovely, romantic glow. The night air is warm, still a bit humid, and the scent of some sweet tropical flower mixes with the seawater lapping against the boat. The unmistakable music of Louis Armstrong floats in the air, but there are no other sounds of people, of other guests. Oh my gawd. I’m such a dork. Have I shown up on the wrong night? I flush at the thought, and I’m just about to turn around and sneak quietly off the boat when Daniel appears from the back deck.
My breath catches in my chest. I’ve never seen him dressed up before, he’s always wearing shorts or jeans when I come to the boat for our meetings. He cleans up nicely, looking every inch the famous restaurateur—wearing a tailored shirt and pants in a deep midnight blue, with a light gray tie. He’s freshly shaven, not sporting his usual stubble, which I find endearing. God, I’m hopeless.
