Dream On: A Rom Com

Ice Cream Social

LUCY

The bell dings.

Guy number five, (a mutual no-match) runs a hand through his hair. "Nice meeting you." His voice is flat. Better move along, he's saying, and I obey, my brain a muddle of names and faces melting together in a big gooey mess.

Every eight minutes when the bell dings, the room erupts in chatter and a cacophony of strained laughter as if we're all enjoying ourselves to the max. Or maybe it's me. Wanting to maintain a positive attitude, but so far un-wowed.

Number five has forgotten me already. He eyes the woman who stands ready to take my place, petite with big boobs and short, Betty Boop curls. I hold the rating chart against my hand and scrawl a zero next to his name.

The guy at my new table is turned away, still talking to a woman in jeans and a flowery top. Behind him, the kitchen door swings open and the scent of onion and tomato sauce with a touch of cinnamon permeates the room.

I wheel around, looking for Phoebe. She's talking to a big blond man who's facing me. Incredibly, he smiles and winks, then turns back to Phoebe. My hands drop to my lap and I fiddle with my ring, turning it around and around. Was he winking at me?

"Lucy, nice to meet you." Guy number six has turned on the charm, flashing a 200-watt smile. (nametag: Adventurer. Curiosity will do me in) He has white hair and plenty of it, and he isn't as old as the white hair would indicate. His skin is tanned and unlined. For a guy likely in his late fifties, early sixties, he's lookin' good.

"I'm Wyatt McArthur, so glad I came here today. Blue skies, a great restaurant on the beach, and a lovely companion for at least eight minutes. What more could a man want?"

"I'm thinking about that question," I say. "I'll get back to you." Wyatt's lovely companion comment sounds rehearsed.

The kitchen door swings open again and we both catch a whiff of freshly baking pastry. I swallow, thinking of Alexandra's spinach pie. "Smell that heavenly smell? The owner makes the phyllo dough from scratch. A dying skill I'm told." My factoidy icebreaker.

His eyes meet mine and don't look away, and then he laughs. "You are a genuine person, Miss Lucy, and now I'm really glad I came to this here, whatever it is. Fifty-nine years old, right on the cusp, and don't think I don't know it. Divorced now for ten years and getting a little desperate."

My eyes widen in mock astonishment. "Don't let anyone know you're desperate. You won't get any ticks on your dance card." Now I'm the one who sounds rehearsed, a 1940's rerun.

"Kidding," he says. "I have a weird sense of humor. And I can see you have a way with words, Lucy. You been divorced long?"

This isn't where I want to go, down the personal history track. I don't want to be weighed and measured by the mistakes I've made. "Long enough." I gesture around the room. "Have you done this before?"

He nods, as if agreeing not to interrogate further. "Never. Was in a long-term relationship up until about six months ago. I thought we were getting married. I was wrong." For a moment, the memory hangs between us on his expression, a slice of melancholy and then he shakes himself, like a dog after his bath. "But that's in the past, and I'm here with you." He makes an elaborate show of picking up the tiny pencil, wagging it in the air. "Circling your name here because I'd like to see you again. I hope you feel the same way."

"All righty," and I do the same. To be polite. I like Wyatt. But. I don't know.

"Two grown sons and three grandkids," and three fingers pop up in case I misunderstand. "Own my own house. Have a fox terrier named Bongo, love to line dance and enjoy waltzing."