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“Celeste didn’t mention you were coming in tonight when we picked up the food for dinner,” Jack said, helping himself to a glass of deep red wine. The oversized goblet made even the heavy-handed Rose’s pours look tiny. “How strange.”
“Not everyone has to go to the Bistro for a first date,” I grumbled.
“Don’t tell me you’re taking her somewhereelse,” he said.
“What if I am?” I said, feeling the blood rush to my face. I had planned a perfect (I thought) date for tonight, but now Jack was getting in my head and on my nerves. Should I have just gotten a reservation at Celeste’s bistro? The chef-slash-owner was an old family friend, the atmosphere was intimate, the food was amazing: elevated French cuisine of the type to impress a romantic partner. It was where Jack had taken Asterid on their first date. I was pretty sure Rose and Richard had been there for theirs, too.
“If you want,” he said, his voice placating, “I can call now; I’m sure she can squeeze you in. You might have to sit at the bar…”
It took all my willpower not to snatch at the phone he was digging out of the pocket of his dorky khakis and chuck it against the wall, but I tried to keep my voice level. “No, Jack, I have something else planned, really.” I even managed to grind out a “thank you.”
“By the way, Jack, how did you manage to convince Celeste to do take out?” Margaret said, changing the subject in her inimitable way. “I’ve been trying for years, and she always refuses.”
I made my escape while Jack was explaining, sending a quick salute of acknowledgement to Margaret through the crowd of Princes.
* * *
I had walked to Ella’s apartment building. It took a while–a long while, if I was honest, she lived practically across the city–but I needed to clear my head, and to get out of my house. I was still a few minutes early, but I pressed the buzzer labeled4C: Bookeranyway.
I heard the click of the lock as the door came open, and pulled the door open to reveal a brightly-lit, cramped entryway with a community message board and a wall of locked mailboxes. The clatter of heels sounded on the stairs. Ella appeared feet first, looking like a goddess as she descended the staircase, her muscular, tan legs seeming to glow against the grungy carpeting. She was wearing silver heels and a short black skirt that barely peeked out from below a warm-looking wool coat, and she looked…
Like I should have taken her to Celeste’s. Could I discreetly call Jack and have him get us a seat at the bar, I wondered?
“Charlie,” she said as she reached the first floor landing, her eyes alight, and then she took inmyoutfit: slim, dark jeans and a well-fitting light blue oxford. I had on a wool coat as well, but I was wearing sneakers. They were mynicesneakers, but still.Sneakers. “Is this too much? I wasn’t sure what your plans were for us.” She colored. “For tonight. Your plans for us, for tonight. For our date.”
“No, not at all,” I said. I could carry her if it came to that.
Something must have shown on my face, though. “Please say this is too much,” she continued, “so I can change shoes. I’m dying already.”
In that case. “Yes,” I said, nodding emphatically. “It’s too much. We’re walking.”
“Be right back.” She was halfway up the stairs already, her broad grin lingering after her like the cheshire cat. In a minute, she was back, her outfit unchanged but for her heels, which had been swapped with cool black low-tops.
* * *
Our destination wasn’t far from her apartment; she probably would have been fine in her heels, probably. It would havestillbeen too much, I watched her realize as I pulled open the door of a tiny, take out-only Bangladeshi restaurant and ushered her inside. No one was at the window behind a counter covered in paper napkin dispensers, but I leaned in, peering into the fragrant kitchen. I could hear, as well as smell, the tell-tales signs of amazing food being cooked.
“Mrs. Sarkar?” I called.
“Charlie!” The friendly face of the owner poked out from behind a stainless steel fridge. She disappeared, then the side door, next to the ordering window was opened. “Charlie! Hello! But how many times do I have to tell you? Call me Bibi, please.”
“Yes, Mrs. Sarkar.” Mrs. Sarkar smiled, her large dark eyes twinkling at me.
“And who is thisbeautyyou have brought to see me?” she asked, holding her hands out to Ella, who was blushing and looking a bit stunned. “Wow, Charlie. She’s too pretty for you!”
“Ella, this is Bibi Sarkar, the best chef I know.” The woman flapped her hands at me, but smiled proudly just the same. “Mrs. Sarkar, this is Ella. I agree, she is very beautiful, but you should know,” I lowered my voice, “she is not perfect. In fact, she once paidnine dollarsfor truffle tater tots.”
“No!” exclaimed Mrs. Sarkar, just as Ella laughed and said “hey!” The chef shook her head, hands on hips. “Nine dollars! Well. I don’t dotruffle totshere, but I may have thrown in a few extra things,” she said, waving her hands again as I put up a meager protest. “Nothing too special.”
Now it was my turn to blush. “Thank you, Mrs. Sarkar–” I started, but she cut me off, ignoring me and turning to Ella instead.
“Do you like spicy?” She hustled behind the counter where she started repacking our carry-out in a second layer of plastic bags. “This one,” she held up a styrofoam box with some unintelligible markings on it, “this one is mild, only a little spicy,” she said.
“No, I like spicy. Love it,” Ella said, emphatically.
“Good,” Mrs. Sarkar nodded, and held up another box. Ella was leaning over the counter towards the chef, looking at the various boxes with a broad smile. She was on tip-toe in her low-tops, and I traced the line of her leg from heel to temptingly-short skirt before realizing what I was doing and tore my eyes away. “This one is really spicy. See if you like that one.” A smaller box came up next. “This one is Charlie’s favorite–”
“Mrs. Sarkar,” I cut in, “Wereallyought to get going.”
