Steamed

he jumped on Oprah’s couch and hooked up with Katie Holmes after seeing her supposed work on Dawson’s Creek\ Mr. Tom Hanks is a well-behaved citizen with ethics. And you, Noah Bishop, are no Tom Hanks!” Hoping I’d recovered, I ended with, “And I’m going on a date!”
    I opened the car door.
    “You watch Oprah?” he called down after me.
    “Shut up!”
    I replayed my talk with Noah on the way to Essence. All in all, not disastrous, minus the severely fouled up Tom Hanks part.
    I reached the South End and by the grace of some parking angel managed to find a space. Because it was Labor Day weekend, half of Boston was on the Cape, but I chose to see the parking availability as a good omen. If so, it foretold only short-term luck. What’s more, the good luck was strictly mine and certainly not my blind date’s.
     

FOUR
     
    EVEN from the outside, Essence was a beautiful restaurant. Large windows faced the street. Through them, I could see the glimmer of candlelight flickering on the walls. A menu was encased in glass next to the front door. I snuck a quick peek and glimpsed the words Baby Artichoke and Shallot Ragout, enough to send me flying into the entryway. If Eric turned out to be a big loser, I would still get a scrumptious meal out of this night.
    I was surprisingly relaxed as I told the hostess I was meeting someone named Eric. My usual first-date nerves were nonexistent, probably because I felt I had nothing to lose. The anonymity provided by Internet dating meant that if I chose, I’d have an easy way never to see this man again; I’d just cancel my Back Bay Dates account and vanish. The hostess introduced herself as Joelle. She was in her thirties, with short, curly dark hair. She had the look of a mom, a combination of warmth, huggability, and an air of parental authority you didn’t mess with. In other words, she struck me as a person to whom I could run screaming if this date sucked.
    I followed Joelle to the back of the long restaurant. The walls were deep burgundy, and a long panel of ivory velvet hung from each window. The tables were covered in simple white linen with coordinating dishware, and tealight candles added a romantic glow to the cozy dining spots. Dark wood flooring led the way to an open kitchen at the far end of the restaurant. Joelle took me straight to the high-backed stools at a counter that separated the kitchen from the dining area. She gestured to the man seated there and said, “Mr. Rafferty?”
    “Ah, you must be Chloe,” Eric said as he swiveled around in his chair. “I’m Eric Rafferty, your fellow food afficionado for the evening.”
    Hm, not immediately drop-dead gorgeous, but not monstrous either. Eric was as tall as he’d said, about six feet, with neatly trimmed dirty-blond curls and wire-rimmed glasses that framed brown eyes. His features were, well, normal—nothing distinctive, but nothing alarming either. No huge nose or enormous ears protruding from the sides of his head. But no smoldering eyes or sensuous mouth. Hardly the blond hunk I’d conjured. I quickly reminded myself that storybook love-at-first-sight attraction was purely fictional and that I’d better stop judging him and my potential attraction to him until the night was over.
    “I am Chloe, and it’s very nice to meet you.” I smiled at him.
    When Eric stood up, I put my hand out to shake his. Unfortunately, Eric leaned over to put his hands on my shoulders and kiss my cheek, and my outstretched hand slipped inside his jacket to rub against his waist. Even though I have now inadvertently fondled my date, I will not die of embarrassment, I assured myself. Mercifully, Eric appeared as flustered as I was and chose to ignore our fouled-up greeting. He pulled out a stool for me next to his and then repositioned himself in his seat.
    “Well, I hope you’ll share your opinions with me about my potential investment tonight.” He waved his hand around the room. The hostess, Joelle, reappeared with a bottle of wine and held it out for Eric’s inspection. “Ah, Joelle, thank you,” Eric said. “I ordered us a bottle of sauvignon blanc. I hope that white’s okay with you?”
    “Absolutely,” I replied. “I’m not much of a red wine drinker, so that’s perfect.”
    Eric intently examined the bottle and nodded his approval. Joelle poured a bit into Eric’s glass, and I tried to avoid cringing as he staged a display of swirling, sniffing, and tasting. There was a long pause as