Spooning (45 page)

“I agree,” Tara said, nodding her head. “Looks like I haven't lost my touch.”

“So I have to wait one more week to see him. Big deal,” I said with a relieved grin on my face. “I think it could be worth the wait. And you have to admit that that is the most adorable response ever. No games with this guy.” Plus, he was clearly a family guy—big points for that.

The rooftop setting meant the party would take place above the city's mugginess and within reach of the gentle breeze from the Hudson River that sent my star-spangled pinwheels spinning. It also kept rustling my hair in all directions—not good for the camera. When the cameramen arrived, Macie was busy repowdering while Tara was busy readjusting the keg pump. Immediately Tara abandoned the keg in favor of the key grip.

In true New York fashion, our guests arrived about half an hour late. The cameramen caught us all mingling and gossiping,
but they didn't get their juice until Juan showed up with his boom box filled with salsa music. The keg flowed and the boxes of wine were poured as our friends laughed and danced the night away. As Syd and Juan took center stage, the New York fireworks display began overhead. Never a city to be out- done, the fireworks were garish, gaudy, just friggin’ gorgeous. As they splintered into brilliant colors above, Juan and Syd swung in concentric circles below. They were doing some sort of tango or rumba: one, two, cha-cha-cha, boom, boom! Juan reached around Syd's back to dip her low. It was their final dip together in New York City. How romantic! And just as the camera man zoomed in closer and we all prepared to cheer “bravo,” the two of them collided with the plastic table that held the red, white, and blue American flag cupcake display. They landed smack dab on top of the sweet, sticky mess. As the flag fell apart, my AP career begin to unravel before my eyes. But to my surprise, the entire
S&S
crew loved it. They were in fits of laughter behind the camera guys and were cheering wildly for the happy couple. I think even Donna was holding up ten fingers to symbolize their dance score. Snap!

“Booze is my friend,” slurred Syd as we helped her to her feet.

“We're all your friends too,” Sage reassured her.

“No, no. Booze is my friend. I feel no pain! Life is great!” Syd announced with a last pirouette.

All the independent women in attendance toasted to living in the moment. We all kept dancing as the cameramen moved to film another cute partygoer standing in a stiff salute with a suction cupped flag stuck to her forehead. (Note to self: Suction cup scars are B-A-D.) As the party wrapped up several
hours later, the cameramen headed home, leaving the six of us cuddled together in the chilly night air and savoring the last morsels of our “Fourth of July Flank Steaks.”

“Charlie, you have to let me know how to make this marinade,” Tara gushed as she sucked on her fingers.

“Y'all? Do you realize what this means?” Wade asked, glowing like a proud mother hen. “Our Cooking Club has been a success! Charlie has cooked. Your mom would be sooo proud! I mean, this steak sauce is to die for. It has really marinated the meat. C, it's sooooo delicious.”

“You know, it's all about the soy sauce and the lemons, oh and a smidge of Worches … oh my God! Listen to me. I sound just like my mother when she talks to her friends about recipes. Are you kidding me? Here's to my mom. And here's to me!” I cheered, raising my glass. “Happy Independence Day!” Laughing and crying, we realized that over the year, we had become some sort of younger, hipper version of domestic divas, or, better yet, delicious divas!

“You are ready now,” concluded Wade. “Go get your man, honey! You've definitely got the burned kitchen mitts to prove it, girl!”

T
he following Friday marked the big night—Dan the Man and I were finally going out on a date. Over the past week, we had traded voice mails, text messages, and e-mails several times while trying to finalize our plans. At last we had nailed them down.

Dan sounded like a better and better catch each time we had an exchange. He had an easygoing, unpretentious way of speaking, and he always called or e-mailed back within
twenty-four hours—not your standard two-day dating-game bullshit. He and I had a connection, I could feel it in my bones, even though we had yet to meet face-to-face. He was the man of mystery, but that mystery intrigued me. And frankly, I had tired of the standard criteria checklist. So far I'd gleaned a couple of nibblets, all good: He had in fact attended and graduated from Yale. He spent his Tuesday nights in Harlem as a Big Brother. He had created some sort of antivirus software for computers. He lost one sock each time he did laundry. He had traveled in Tibet. He loved Mickey Mouse. He now worked for some nonprofit organization.

I'd been trying not to analyze every phone message or e- mail exchange we'd had that week, but it was hard not to. I was like all the poor heroines in those fluff novels: scarred, weighted down by soured dating experiences. I was determined that no matter what happened with Dan, I was going to transform from codependent zombie into independent woman. I knew that just going after “the one” couldn't be my only pursuit in New York City.

I had planned to meet Dan the Man on the corner outside of work. Originally he had planned to pick me up at home, but somehow
S&S
had become my real home these days and I e- mailed at the last minute to see if we could change it. Dan, ever the gentleman, cheerfully agreed. So accommodating! After setting up the shoot schedule, checking in with the floral department, and writing the last questions for the Diva's guest for tomorrow's beach show, I left the building five minutes late and darted past a gaggle of laughing teens taking over the sidewalk. Peering through the throngs of pedestrians, I caught a glimpse of Dan in profile, standing exactly where he said he would be. He was just like I remembered him. Light brown
hair, about five-elevenish, tan, but not too tan. He was wearing nonpleated khaki pants (good call on his part), a blue and white buttondown shirt, and Reef canvas flip-flops. He looked casual, yet stylish. Oh, and might I add adorable. But the best part of his summer ensemble was the Nantucket–type belt he sported, you know the ones with the tiny little red lobsters stitched all around. I was melting and it wasn't because of the heat. I slowed my pace down a tad so as not to be too out of breath then I sprang inside the deli on the corner to do a quick once over in the mirror over the ATM (so handy). Hair straight? Check! Lipstick glossy? Check! Skirt smooth? Check! Okay Charlie, this is make it or break it time.

I sauntered up behind him and lightly tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hey you!” I said with my most inviting smile.

“Wow, you look great!” he said as he leaned in for a kiss on the cheek. I'll take it on the cheek. Not a bad sign! He had leaned in slightly awkwardly since his hands were holding two sizable ice cream cones. The ice cream was dripping all over his feet. He didn't seem to mind though.

“Chocolate chip or passion fruit swirl?” he asked. Was this some kind of first date test? I loved choices. Brunette or blond? Blue eyes or brown? Hopefully, before me stood the flavor of the year. As I pretended to ponder the ice cream choice, I let my eyes slide from his now-creamy wrists to the rest of him and felt the first sizzle of chemistry. I had only caught the most fleeting glimpse of him through the cab window back in May, but the first few weeks of summer had clearly been kind to him. Think Pierce Brosnan meets Matt Lauer with horn- rimmed glasses. Very good looking in a boy-next-door, I-could- actually-know-you kind of way. I noticed that he had a
smattering of freckles across his nose with a ruddiness in his cheeks that indicated he'd been outdoors. I hid a smile as I noticed a white line near his ears indicating a very recent haircut. And he was tall; I had even worn my clunky heeled test sandals to assess the situation accurately. If I could wear these and not dwarf him, then stilettos were a go.

I reached for the passion fruit and faltered briefly when he locked his steely gray eyes with mine. They were a dusty gray—the gray of Tiffany's sterling silver anything. Stunning! Then I noticed that my passion fruit ice cream had inadvertently smooshed against his chocolate chip, and visa versa. His quick moves averted ice cream disaster, but the two scoops were now sharing flavors.

“Sorry!” he laughed.

“No, that's fine. I like both. Plus, I like to mix things up. You know, combine ingredients.”

“Really?” he prompted.

“Sure. Last night I marinated a steak in this concoction I just happened upon—by mistake actually! And it turned out really well.” Wait! Hold up. Was I, Charlotte Brown, actually bragging about my cooking skills? Was I talking about a recipe I'd invented? Snap!

“Some of the best things happen by chance or by mistake,” he grinned.

“So what are we doing?” I asked, licking around the bottom of my cone.

“Now you mean?” The way he said it made me wonder if he was questioning the ludicrousness of our situation—meeting in a cab and now attempting to date? Or was he really saying that we were wasting time and should just elope? Mom and Dad would be pissed but they would get over it when they saw the goods.

“Yes,” I laughed, “Now. What are we doing tonight?”

“It's a surprise.”

“Drinks?”

“No,” he scoffed. “I am going to feed you at least.” His eyes danced as he reached for my hand. We chatted our way up Sixth Avenue toward the park.

The commitment of going to dinner was a big deal. Huge! If you asked any New Yorker, they'll tell you that getting drinks was pretty much status quo in the dating world, but going to an actual sit-down dinner (casual or formal) was a whole other ball game. If you had drinks, you basically fielded a couple of grounders, threw a few fly balls, and then decided whether your new opponent was worthy of a game or not. At most, these dates lasted thirty minutes, tops. There are some who will always start with drinks, but then offer up a full fledged game if they think they are ready to hit the field. Others, who are sure of a home run, will woo their opponent with a fancy dinner and some delish dessert mainly as a pregame warmup of sorts; then, the real playoffs take place in the bedroom later on. But after almost a year, I'd come to the harsh realization that most men are afraid of the big leagues. Dan seemed a formidable player though, not one to shy away from a challenge. At this point, it was promising—but the ball game could go either way.

Eight hundred and twenty-four acres of lush green foliage (and thousands of people and, once, a stray alligator) lay before us. As we walked into Central Park, the trees enveloped us, shutting out the city grime. Once in a while, you could glimpse the peaks of skyscrapers picturesquely rising from the treetops. We artfully dodged a runner (going against the flow), three baby carriages (a fierce front all in a row), and a wobbly bike rider (singing at the top of his lungs) with dog in tow.

We wound our way along the paths until Dan led me to a hidden, grassy knoll awash in late afternoon sunlight. There he proceeded to unpack a blanket and a bottle of wine from a backpack. I hadn't even noticed he was carrying a backpack (just didn't get past those broad shoulders, I guess). He laid out real utensils—not plastic—and tall wine glasses, which balanced precariously on the budding summer grass. My smile grew wider. Then from the bottom of the backpack, he pulled out several small cardboard boxes.

“Plain, pepperoni, veggie, meat lover's—” he grinned.

“What is all this?”

“Pizza! Come on, New Yorker, pick your passion!” He had brought me pizza. Not dead roses, but pizza. This guy was perfect!

“I wasn't sure what your favorite was. I figured you weren't a plain Jane girl, but I wasn't sure, and I knew I couldn't live with myself if you settled for second best.” Was he for real? I shook my head to clear the violin music flooding my eardrums.

“Do you not want any?”

“Oh no, I mean, yes. I'd love meat lover's, please,” I answered with the propriety of a schoolgirl.

“Next time I'll cook you a real meal,” he said. Next time? There was going to be a next time? And … he could cook?

“Here are some napkins if you need to blot the grease,” he offered. He'd thought of everything!

“Oh, I don't really mind the grease, actually,” I said guiltily.

“My kind of woman!” he cheered.