Little Black Dress Page 2

  A little way down the block, the Teddy’s Piano Bar sign blinked invitingly. The tiny watering hole had been there since the 1920s, when it was a speakeasy full of smoke and music, fueled by bathtub gin.

  I’d never gone inside. But tonight, I walked straight toward it.

  The walls were covered in abstract murals painted by some famous, long-dead artist. At the piano, a silver-haired man with a truly enormous nose played Gershwin. Couples chatted at small, cozy tables, and candlelight flickered on the murals, turning them into swirls of color and line.

  I ordered a French 75 and sank into a banquette.

  “Summertime, and the livin’ is easy,” sang a black-haired beauty who’d joined the old man on the bench.

  I smiled; I’d always loved that song. But I couldn’t carry a tune in a Kate Spade handbag, so I hummed along quietly.

  At the table next to me, a man sat alone with an unopened book and a glass of amber liquid. He’d taken off his tie and tucked it into the breast pocket of his gray linen suit. His fingers tapped along to the music.

  I noted the lack of a wedding ring.

  He had a good profile—deep-set eyes and a strong chin. I watched him out of the corner of my eye.

  Should I? I thought. I definitely shouldn’t.

  But then I changed my mind.

  I waited until the song had ended, and then I slid from the banquette into the chair next to him. “Is this seat taken?” I asked.

  The man looked up, startled. His dark eyebrows lifted. He smiled at me—a slow, almost shy smile. “I guess it is now,” he said.

  “I’m Jane,” I said. “Hi.”

  “Hello, Jane, I’m Aiden,” he said. He nodded toward my glass. “I’d buy you a drink, but you seem to have one already.”

  I clinked my cocktail to his and took a sip of the bubbly liquid. “You can buy the next round.”

  He laughed. “What if I bore you before that?”

  I gave him my best mock-frown. “Don’t tell me you have self-esteem problems, Aiden,” I said. “You don’t look the type.”

  He shrugged. “Let’s just say I wasn’t expecting a beautiful woman to sit down at my table tonight,” he said.

  Please, I’m not beautiful—that’s what I almost said. But then I glanced down at my perfect, elegant Dress and felt a surge of confidence. What if, in calling me beautiful, Aiden was actually right? I smiled, sipped delicately at my drink, and made a new rule for myself: If life hands you a compliment, take it.

  “This is a nice place,” I said, looking around the dim, inviting room. “Do you come here often?” Then I felt like kicking myself for delivering such a cliché of a line.

  Aiden swirled his whiskey and the ice clicked in the glass. “You could call me a regular, I guess. The guy at the piano is my uncle.”

  I looked at the homely silver-haired player again. “Hard to see the family resemblance,” I said skeptically.

  Aiden said, “Really? I think we look exactly alike.”

  “Aha! You do have a self-esteem problem,” I said.

  He grinned. “You have an understanding-sarcasm problem,” he countered.

  I laughed. I felt slightly tipsy, but it wasn’t from the drink—I’d barely touched it. It was from being out on a Friday night and flirting with a handsome stranger.

  I’d already done one thing I never thought I’d do today. Why stop there?

  “So what do you do, Jane?” Aiden asked.

  I shook my head. “Let’s not talk about work.”

  Aiden looked disappointed. “You mean I don’t get the chance to tell you about my fascinating work in maritime law?”

  I leaned closer. “Do you prosecute pirates—with peg legs and hooks for hands?”

  “If only,” he said ruefully.

  “Then I’m not interested.” I sat back and crossed my arms. “You’ll have to come up with a better topic for discussion.”

  Aiden laughed. “And now the beautiful woman makes conversational demands,” he said.

  I giggled. But I didn’t let myself apologize.

  And so this handsome stranger told me the story of his former cycling career, including the time he crashed on the Giro d’Italia, Italy’s version of the Tour de France, and finished the day’s race with a face dripping blood.

  I liked the way he moved closer to me to tell it, the way he kept his voice low so he wouldn’t disrupt his uncle’s playing.

  The song was “Memory,” from Cats, and half the bar was mouthing the words.

  I was allergic to cats. And Cats.

  But I liked the feeling of Aiden’s breath near my ear.

  “—and then the race was momentarily stopped by cows in the road!” he was saying. “And the guy next to me is yelling ‘Porca vacca!’ Which means ‘pig cow,’ literally, but also means ‘damn it’—”

  His face shone with the memory. He looked so happy and alive that before I knew what I was doing, I’d put my hand on top of his.

  He stopped talking immediately. His eyes met mine, dark and questioning.

  The room at the Four Seasons was mine until tomorrow at 11 a.m.

  I knew that Aiden would go wherever I asked him to. Do whatever I wanted him to do.

  He’d tell me cycling stories all night. Or serenade me while his uncle played John Lennon’s “Imagine.” Or he’d slip the Dress from my shoulders and make love to me until I was cross-eyed.

  Wait a second: was I absolutely insane?

  “Jane,” he said, his voice suddenly husky.

  I gazed into his dark eyes. My heart was thumping wildly.

  I made a decision.

  I said softly, “It’s been so nice to meet you. But I have to go.”

  And then I picked up my handbag and dashed out of the bar. As I ran down the street, the strains of “The Music of the Night” faded behind me until I could hear nothing but the wind.

  Chapter 5

  The next day, I decided to take a last-minute getaway. Outside the city, I could fill my lungs with clean air and my mind with clean thoughts.

  My mistake was going to my sister’s house in Westchester.

  Mylissa was four years older than me, but ever since my divorce she’d been acting like my mother. Five minutes into my visit she told me I needed a haircut and highlights. An hour later, she tried to set me up with a divorced suburban lawyer who raced vintage cars in his spare time.

  I knew she was trying to help, but it bothered me. Sure, Mylissa had a beautiful house, a loving husband, and a perfect pair of eight-year-old daughters, but none of this made her an expert on my life.

  “You’re not much of an expert on it either,” she huffed.

  Point taken.

  We ended up having a nice weekend, eating and drinking and gossiping about her neighbors. But I had to admit I was glad to leave.

  It was late Sunday evening by the time I got back to Manhattan. But instead of hurrying home to the peace, quiet, and potentially depressing solitude of my bedroom, I found myself walking into the Campbell Apartment, the upscale bar inside Grand Central Terminal.

  I took a seat at the mahogany bar. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I wondered if I’d made a mistake in coming here. It was like Valentine’s Day in June: everywhere I looked, someone was canoodling with someone else, sharing vintage cocktails, artisanal cheese plates, and deep, romantic glances.

  “I’d recommend the Prohibition Punch and a bowl of truffled popcorn,” said a voice, stiff with formality and a British accent.

  I looked up to see a bow-tied, young bartender vigorously polishing a champagne flute.

  “It’s just too sad to eat an entire artisanal cheese plate alone, isn’t it?” I asked wryly.

  The bartender promptly lost his professional decorum by cracking up. “Absolutely not,” he said, grinning. “You could eat anything you wanted and it wouldn’t be sad.” He leaned forward and whispered, “But between the two of us, the Ardrahan smells funkier than an Iowa pig farm and the Époisses has the bouquet of
well-used gym towel.”

  Now it was my turn to laugh. He was cute and funny—like a blond Eddie Redmayne, accent and everything. “In that case, I’ll have the popcorn,” I said.

  “Excellent choice, miss,” he said, taking a step back and clearly trying to regain his gravitas.

  I raised an eyebrow at him. “Please, don’t get stuffy again. I tip better when I’m entertained.”

  “I shall dispense with the straight face,” he said solemnly. “And I would be most honored to entertain you.” And then he offered me a huge, goofy grin. “Wanna see my Arnold Schwarzenegger impression?”

  I most certainly did. He looked quickly around—checking for his boss, no doubt—and then he cocked his head, hunched his shoulders, and transformed into the Terminator as he mixed my cocktail.

  I clapped. “You must be an actor,” I said.

  “Me and every other bartender in town,” he said.

  “Tough way to make a living?” I asked sympathetically.

  For a second he looked slightly chagrined. “Yeah. But just you wait,” he said, brightening. “Someday you’ll go to the movies and my face’ll be up there, twenty feet tall, and you’ll go, I know that guy! He made me a great drink.”

  “And he forgot to put in the order for the popcorn,” I added.

  He flushed, embarrassed. “Wow, I’m not doing my job very well, am I?”

  “Well, if part of your job is entertaining a single girl in a couples’ bar, then you deserve a raise,” I said.

  “Single, huh?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

  I shrugged, as if to say, Maybe not for long.

  Because I had the sudden idea that he and I would make a great couple.

  For about two hours.

  You don’t even know his name, Jane! said the small voice of my sanity.

  So ask him, and then see when he gets off work, said a different voice entirely.

  When he put the popcorn in front of me, we both took a big handful. But suddenly we were both too shy to speak.

  Then I said, “I think—” at the same time that he said, “Do you want—”

  We laughed awkwardly. It was like being in seventh grade again.

  We were saved by a pearl-bedecked waitress, who appeared by my elbow with a cheese plate. “Kitchen made an extra,” she said to my English bartender. “You guys want this?”

  I grinned at him. “Eau de barnyard,” I said. “And I don’t even have to eat it alone.”

  “You never know when you’re going to get lucky,” he said. Then, obviously feeling more confident, he flashed me a rakish grin. “Right?”

  The double entendre was extremely clear. I smiled back at him, imagining all the possibilities. For one thing, no one had talked dirty to me in an English accent before.

  But the small voice of my sanity was trying to make itself heard. Go home and go to bed, it said. Alone, it clarified.

  I picked up the parsley garnish and nervously ripped it into green confetti.

  What am I going to do?

  “Hey,” he said, “Earth to—”

  “Jane,” I said. “And you are…?”

  “Thom,” he said. “With an h.”

  “Thom,” I said quickly, “can I get your number?”

  He looked confused. But he scribbled it onto a napkin and handed it to me. I tucked it into my purse. Then I laid down fifty dollars and blew him a kiss.

  “I’ll call you,” I said.

  Even though I knew I wouldn’t.

  You’re a coward, Jane, I thought as I hurried down the steps to the train station.

  No, you’re very smart.

  Chapter 6

  I had a Metropolitan editorial meeting at 10 a.m. At eight, though, clutching a takeout coffee half the size of my torso, I strode into the office of my therapist, Alex Jensen, PhD, and blurted, “Do you think I’m crazy?”

  Dr. Jensen looked up at me and smiled. He was fortyish, attractive in a bookish way; he squinted whenever he wasn’t wearing his glasses, which was most of the time. “Good morning, Jane. And no, not especially,” he said, still smiling. “Do you think you’re crazy?”

  I shrugged. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

  He leaned back in his chair and regarded me thoughtfully. I’d been pouring my heart out to him every Monday morning for nearly two years now, but I’d never flopped down onto the couch and demanded his take on my sanity.

  I sighed. “You want me to talk about why I asked you that, but I don’t know why. I just feel…sort of amped up.”

  “All right,” he said gently. “So why don’t you talk to me about that feeling?”

  I opened my mouth and then shut it again. For once, I wasn’t sure where to begin. I wanted to tell Dr. Jensen everything—that was what he was there for, right?

  On the other hand, I didn’t really want to admit my…recent extracurricular activities. Therapists might claim that they don’t judge, but honestly: everyone judges.

  Well, Dr. Jensen, I had a nooner at the Four Seasons, like it was some Hell’s Kitchen flophouse.

  Then I hit on some strangers.

  And I kind of wanted to sleep with them.

  Actually, take back “kind of.”

  He’d think I had gone crazy.

  “I saw my sister over the weekend, and she tried to set me up with someone again,” I said, shifting the subject—subtly, I hoped.

  “And how did that make—”

  “It made me feel annoyed,” I said. Dr. Jensen had heard a lot about Mylissa over the years; such feminine perfection was a tough act to follow. “I don’t know why she doesn’t believe me when I say I don’t want to date anyone.”

  “Why do you think that is, Jane?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?” I said, suddenly feeling ornery. “You’re the expert in human behavior.”

  Dr. Jensen steepled his fingers together under his chin and gazed at me steadily. Affectionately, even. But he didn’t answer the question.

  I squirmed uncomfortably on his couch. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking and it was driving me crazy.

  I had the sudden and irresistible urge to fluster him. “Would you ever want to have sex with me?” I asked.

  Dr. Jensen blinked rapidly. For the first time ever, I’d actually surprised him. But before he could answer, I backed off. “I’m kidding,” I said. “Really. It was a joke.”

  Great—now I’ve got to get out of here, I thought.

  Better to run away than explain why I’d asked him. Better to waste the appointment than admit to Dr. Jensen—and to myself, for that matter—that I probably had a crush on him.

  Just a little one.

  I was about to stand up, but then Dr. Jensen started to laugh—as if what I’d said was actually funny. He didn’t say, Why did you make that joke, Jane? Is this something we need to talk about? Instead, he acted like I’d just told him the joke about the guy with the twelve-inch pianist.

  Relief washed over me. I hadn’t blown this—currently my only close relationship with someone of the opposite sex.

  But, on the other hand, I wondered if Dr. Jensen ought to start talking to me about erotic transference or something. Didn’t that seem like an obvious topic of conversation? It is not uncommon for patients to experience romantic feelings for their therapist…Blah, blah, blah.

  Did Dr. Jensen know what I was thinking? If not, why was I paying him two hundred and fifty dollars a session?

  I shook my head. I was obviously a little bit crazy.

  Dr. Jensen was still smiling at me. Come to think of it, he’d been smiling at me the entire time I sat here.

  And I had to wonder for real: did he want to sleep with me?

  There was one way to find out.

  But no, I wasn’t that crazy.

  Not yet.

  Chapter 7

  After a week of begging, Brianne finally convinced me to go out with the brother of her current crush. A single date wasn’t going to kill me, I reasoned, and since I’d just finished bin
ge-watching Homeland, my Thursday evening was wide open.

  And maybe, just maybe, I was a little bit lonely.

  Nervously I approached Reynard: this would be my first date in six years. Then I saw the man who must be Nolan Caldwell waiting under the awning, eyes scanning the street.

  He was very tall and slender, with black hair and eyes almost as dark. Every inch of him projected unwavering confidence, from the sharp jut of his chin to the expensive Italian loafers on his feet.

  When he saw me, he hesitated. He looked me over carefully, like I was an expensive sweater he’d ordered off the Internet that he wasn’t sure would fit.

  Awkward.

  “Nolan?” I said. “Hi, I’m Jane.” I smoothed the shirred waist of the Dress nervously. “Jane Avery.”

  I must have passed his test, because he strode over to me and kissed my cheek, and then he gave me a dashing smile. “So good to meet you, Jane,” he said, placing his hand at the small of my back. “Ready to go in?” But he was already steering me inside.

  At a cozy corner table, Nolan reached for the wine list. “Not many Burgundies,” he said, a note of reproach in his voice.

  I had no response to that. If it was red and wine, I would probably drink it.

  He eventually picked a bottle for us and said, “You’re not vegetarian, are you?” He was ordering steak tartare before I’d shaken my head. “We’ll share,” he informed the waiter.

  I looked at him in surprise. Who did he think he was, the CEO of blind dates? After he finished ordering things for me, would he ask me about synergy and leveraging my core competencies? Would he worry about his ROI for this fancy dinner?

  As I sipped my wine—which was so expensive it practically tasted like money—I inspected him the way he’d inspected me. He was handsome, and obviously rich: two checks in the plus column. But on the minus side, he’d already racked up cocky, presumptuous, and snobbish.

  “So how well do you know Brianne?” I asked.

  “Never met her,” he said.

  “Oh,” I said, surprised. “I guess I thought…” I guess I thought she’d talk to a guy before she made me go out with him?