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The tables are all full. I have a word with the maître d' before he shows me to a center table where four people give me a standing ovation. Heat burns my cheeks. The other diners stare, some annoyed but more amused. In fact, complete strangers join in, clapping.
A group of men in elegant suits, ensconced at a round table positioned to enjoy the spectacular view, whistle loudly. My nose wrinkles. Over-aged frat boys.
With my unruly curls and my almost too-thin frame, all these people may wonder if I’m some D-list celeb. I look like a starved model, but the genes tell the story. I have the appetite of a hockey player after a game.
My best friend, Micki, leads the cheers. She is a statuesque platinum blonde, all curves, killing it in a red-sequined dress. My shoes would be perfect.
She glances toward my feet. “Nice shoes. New?”
“Yeah. Big mistake.”
“About time you started to wear grown-up shoes.”
We wear the same size. I’ll wrap them up for Christmas. One pair of fancy shoes, light wear.
Her SO, Sam, is three inches shorter and resents it. My other best friend, Paul, is medium height with a monk’s tonsure and average features that are transformed when he smiles. His wife, Ellie, is twenty years younger than the rest of us and short. I’m a giant next to her. She has long purple and pink hair with nails to match and a sharp, foxlike face.
The staff stare, wide-eyed, jaws dropped. I mouth an apology.
“Sit down already,” Sam growls. He’s dressed in an untucked plaid shirt and dark jeans. His gut hangs over his belt. I wonder how he even got in.
I slide into the chair pulled out by the table captain and check out the room. Enormous windows showcase the city. My best friend has done me proud.
I shoot a look at Sam.
“What? The only rule here is shirt and pants.” A grin splits his face, and he pulls out an oversized clip-on bow tie. “Miche worried they might not let me in without a tie, so I brought this just in case.”
He waves the red clown tie festooned with yellow, blue, and green polka dots in my face, clips the monstrosity to his shirt pocket like an obscene boutonnière, then runs his fingers through his sparse, straw-like hair.
“How many times do I have to tell you that a miche is a large loaf of bread?”
“You’re tellin’ me that’s not a compliment? Bread is the staff of life.” He smirks.
“Stop it.” Micki raps his knuckles with her talons.
“Just teasin’.” His fake drawl makes me cringe.
The rest of us sit down just as the sommelier comes over with a bottle ofVeuve Cliquot, which she pours with a flourish.
Micki lifts her glass. “To Cress. Congratulations on being nominated for the most prestigious award a historical novelist can win.”
“To Cress.” They all lift their glasses and drink.
The server comes over. She seems slightly taken aback when she looks over our table, head slightly lowered, a glance from the corner of her eye. Her hand sweeps the air over the unopened menus. “Ready to order?”
Paul takes over. “We’ll have the tasting menu with wine.”
“All of you?” She picks up the menus, almost as if she wants to hide behind them.
“Yes.” Paul gestures around the table. “All of us.”
Sam’s face twists. “Why not a bourbon tasting?”
“Wine. What a great idea.” Micki squeezes Sam’s hand so hard he winces.
“Okay.” The woman scuttles away.
Ellie, Paul’s wife, tosses her hair back and sniffs. “What got up her butt?”
