Page 9 of Bed of Roses

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Time went both fast and slow to get me to Thursday. Waking up on Thursday morning I was like holy cow, its already Thursday! But in the days leading up to Thursday I was all good grief this is the longest week ever. Being able to plan to be taken out to dinner had been delicious fun, I must say. I spent my days getting ideas for how I wanted to do my hair and makeup, and I went on a hunt for a new dress at the local thrift store. To say I scored was the understatement of the year. Our thrift shop had gotten in a few new pieces including a plunge neck black lace dress with its tags still on it, in my size! I found a cute pair of leopard print heels for only a dollar to complete my outfit for less than twenty total.

The Cottage was the nicest restaurant we had within a twenty-mile radius. The new Chef de Cuisine had won a James Beard Award in Manhattan and been coaxed into coming up to the hills to try to bring a coveted Michelin Star to our little town. From the murmurs around town, people were takingnoticeof his food – like coming in from Burlington and up from Manhattan, and Syracuse to stay the weekend and sample the ‘delightfully charming fare’ that The Cottage served. Knowing this, I wanted to step out in style.

“Ms. Jacobs,” Bear was exceedingly punctual just like me, we arrived at the door to the restaurant almost at the same time, which he held open so I could step inside. “I really want to compliment you, but I also don’t want to offend you.”

“Honestly, it’s probably been at least two years since I’ve gone out for a really nice dinner with anyone of the opposite sex, so I will relish any compliment without offense.”

The hostess directed us to our table at the back of the restaurant, where the floor to ceiling glass windows looked out across the expanse of hills and at Lake Champlain in the distance. It had begun snowing, not hard but enough that I could see the flakes reflected off the restaurant’s twinkle lights.

“Have you lived here long?” Bear asked once we were seated and the hostess had finished with our drink orders.

I sighed with a nod, “My whole life. How about you? Obviously, you’re not a local with your ingrained rebuff of anything quaint or painted in local color. Are you a Manhattanite?”

“Actually no. I’m from the middle of nowhere Ohio.”

Bear was wearing a suit that had to be a custom job it fit him so well. It was a deep turquoise blue, a color I’d never really seen in a suit before. Underneath the jacket he wore a split neck shirt that didn’t accommodate a tie. I’m not even going to front. It was sexy as hell. He had a tattoo on his neck that snaked up from his collar bone around the back of his ear. It was so subtle you couldn’t see it beneath the flop of his hair.

It was when he accepted his Vieux Carre from our waiter that I noticed his hand was also tattooed, pieces of it peeked out from beneath the arm of his suit coat. I honestly had never experienced tattoos in the artful way they were displayed on Bear’s skin, and getting glimpses here and there was much sexier than I ever would have anticipated them to be.

“So, why do they call you Bear? Is that your actual name?”

He smile-laughed into his glass while he appeared to consider my question.

“You know a morning show host’s identity is sacrosanct. They don’t reveal that to just anyone.”

“Well, I feel like it’s a nice even trade in exchange for public humiliation.”

“Touché Ms. Scrooge.” His face contorted into a smirk, and with a deep breath and a roll of his eyes, he launched into an explanation.

“My name is Ted. Most of my life people have called me Teddy. But when you land a job as a DJ, especially a DJ who is more interested in Iron Maiden than the Backstreet Boys, you can’t really have a name like Teddy. And there was already a Ted who hosted a show on a different station in Cleveland. At the time I was doing afternoons, and the midday host would always tease my show and say, ‘Coming up our own teddy bear takes the mic,’ and it just morphed. When I took over a morning show at a different station a year later, I went with Bear Tucker and it stuck.”

“Why do you hate Christmas?” he asked, after a lull in the conversation.

“Well, I don’thateChristmas, we’re just going through a rough patch right now.”

He nodded in agreement and looked like he was about to say something, but our food arrived.

“My mom died.” Ugh. I have the social graces of a brick sometimes, I swear. “That’s why, well I guess that’s part of the why. It’s just been a sucky year all around.”

“Same,” he grumbled behind another swig of his drink.

“Dead parent?”

“No, I have no parents.” He points to his chest. “Foster kid. Bounced from house to house from the time I was probably four. Just a shitty couple of years, that’s all. Raven and I lost our morning show in New York, and we loved that show and we were loved by the listeners there. Management had other plans.”

“You seem to have a pretty intense following here too.”

“I think that is more bad boy fantasies projected onto who they see as a tattooed bad boy, more so being a fan of my show because I have things to say, and stories, and this encyclopedia of rock knowledge that—not to be tooegotisticalbut I know a fucking lot.”

I made a big production of rolling my eyes at him, which got a chuckle out of him.

“My mom used to say that sometimes life doesn’t give you what you want, but what you need at the time. So, maybe there is something here that you and Ravenneed.”

7

That was deep shit. A comfortable silence fell between us while I contemplated what she said. What could possibly be here that Raven, or I needed? The glass that held my now finished drink, spun easily between my two hands, and made the most hypnoticwhooshingsound against the expensive linens.

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