what have you written?” Nesbitt challenged.
“My clients are mostly local Los Angeles businesses. You’ve probably never heard of them.”
“Go ahead,” Nesbitt said, fixing me in her steely glare. “Tell us anyway.”
She wasn’t about to let this go. She liked seeing me squirm.
But I’d be damned if I’d let her intimidate me. So what if my credits weren’t all that impressive? What could they do to me? Banish me to the buffet?
I squared my shoulders and began reeling off the names of my clients: “Toiletmasters Plumbers, Ackerman’s Awnings, Fiedler on the Roof Roofers—”
“Good heavens!” Emily exclaimed. “You wrote Fiddler on the Roof? Why that’s one of my favorite musicals!”
“No, you don’t understand—”
“We saw that on a theater cruise to London!”
And before I could straighten her out she was off and running about her cruise to London. It was pretty much that way throughout dinner, Emily rattling on, lost in memories of past cruises. I never did get to talk much about my life as a struggling writer of toilet bowl ads, and for that I was grateful.
When my chicken showed up, it was tasty enough, but I couldn’t help but gaze longingly at the filet mignons around me.
Every once in a while Emily’s stories were interrupted by Kyle snapping at his wife. (Must you eat so fast? Do you really need another helping of those potatoes? For God’s sake, Maggie, you’ve spilled gravy on your blouse.) By the time dinner was over, I was ready to bop him with my butter knife.
Maggie ate her meal, eyes downward, absorbing his barbs, saying nothing. Across from her, Ms. Nesbitt polished off a disgustingly healthy vegetable plate, pausing only to shoot me a fish-eyed glare when I asked her to pass the rolls.
But most disconcerting was Adorable Robbie. Every time I glanced over at him, I saw him eyeing me appraisingly, grinning that lopsided grin of his.
Honestly, I was so discombobulated, I almost ordered the fruit cup for dessert.
Finally, the meal was over. Believe it or not, I hadn’t eaten much. I’d felt awkward digging into my chow with my usual gusto, not with Robbie watching me like I was a contestant on The Bachelor.
“It’s been lovely meeting you,” I said to the others when we got up to go.
I was about to take off for the buffet to make up for lost calories when Robbie asked, “How about joining us in the lounge for an after-dinner drink?”
Whoa! Was this cutie actually interested in me? Or had he only asked me along because I was one of the few women on board not yet in menopause?
Whatever the reason, no way was I getting involved with him. After thirtysomething years on this planet, if I’ve learned one thing it’s this: The cute ones are dangerous. Sooner or later, they’re bound to make you miserable. And not only was this guy cute, he was Bad Boy cute. And they’re the most dangerous of all.
Yes, red flags were waving. Klaxons were sounding. It was time to make my excuses and head for the buffet. For once in my life I’d do the smart thing and play it safe.
The words that actually came out of my mouth, however, were:
“Sure. I’d love to go.”
What can I say? As my thighs would be the first to tell you, I’m seriously deficient in the will-power gene.
We all trooped over to the Sinatra Lounge, a dimly lit mahogany-and-leather affair, where Cookie, decked out in a spangly floor-length evening gown, was singing with a three-piece combo. Meanwhile, out on the dance floor, a few gray-haired couples were showing off their Arthur Murray dance moves.
The six of us grabbed seats near the action and gave our drink orders to a red-vested waiter. Emily, under the watchful eye of Ms. Nesbitt, ordered a Shirley Temple, as did the battle-axe herself. The rest of us opted for a wee drop of alcohol.
“I love listening to the old standards,” Emily said when the waiter left, her feet tapping in time to the music. “They just don’t write songs like they used to. Remember the time we met Johnny Mathis on our Caribbean cruise? Such a nice man! I still have his autograph on a cocktail napkin. I’ll never forget what he wrote. To Emily. Best wishes, Johnny Mathis. Isn’t that just the sweetest thing?”
“A real Pulitzer Prize winner,” Kyle muttered under his breath.
“And Jaine, you’ll never guess who we met on our cruise through the Panama Canal.”
But I didn’t get to hear who they met, because just then Cookie’s boyfriend, Graham, glided up to our table.
“May I have the honor of this dance?” he asked Emily, in his velvety British accent.
No wonder the cruise line hired him. He cut quite the dashing figure in his blue blazer and perfectly creased slacks.
Emily looked up and flushed with pleasure.
But before she could reply, Nesbitt butted in.
“I don’t think so, dear,” she said, with a stern shake of her head. “Best let your dinner settle first.”
“Oh, go ahead Aunt Emily,” Robbie grinned. “Have some fun.”
Emily hesitated a beat, looking first at Nesbitt and then at the handsome Gentleman Escort. Then Graham shot her one of his dazzler smiles, and the deal was sealed.
“I believe I would like to dance,” she said, taking Graham’s hand and beaming as he led her onto the dance floor.
“Honestly, Robbie,” Nesbitt huffed, bristling with annoyance. “Your aunt shouldn’t be dancing so soon after dinner. It’s bad for her digestion. You know what a weak stomach she has.”
“Her stomach’s fine, Leona. You’re turning her into an old lady before her time.”
“I think it’s very sweet,” Maggie piped up as Graham led Emily in a courtly fox-trot.
Kyle groaned in exasperation.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Maggie. It’s not sweet. It’s obscene. The man is young enough to be her son.”
“It’s just a dance, Kyle,” Robbie said. “Lighten up. Oh, wait, I forgot. You’re constitutionally incapable of that.”
Then he turned to me and, gesturing to the dance floor, asked, “Shall we?”
Once more, I warned myself not to get involved, and once more I caved like the marshmallow I am.
Out on the dance floor, Cookie was belting out “Just in Time,” smiling indulgently as Graham twirled Emily around. She winked when she saw me with Robbie.
My temperature scooched up a few notches as he took me in his arms. Up close he was even cuter than he’d been across the dinner table. And he smelled like baby powder. I don’t know about you, but I’m a sucker for a guy who smells like baby powder.
“I’m a big fan of your work,” he said, his bad-boy grin back in action.
“What do you mean?”
“In a Rush to Flush? Call Toiletmasters! I’ve seen it on bus stops all over town. I’m assuming you wrote that.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“No, really. It’s very catchy.”
“If you’ve seen my ad, you must live in Los Angeles.”
“In Santa Monica,” he nodded. “The others live out in Pasadena. I’m the rebel of the clan.”
“I’ll bet you are.”
“I never joined the family brokerage firm like Kyle. Instead, I moved out to the beach