What would Jane Pines wear to a business dinner? I ask myself.
But this question leads me nowhere, because I truly have no idea. I’m just a poor kid from the wrong part of Michigan.
I’d better pay closer attention from now on. Tomorrow, I’ll make sure to notice the details of Jane’s outfit. And her accessories. She probably wears makeup, too, but Rome wasn’t built in a day.
I flip through filmy little tops until I find a sleeveless silk blouse in turquoise blue. The fabric is so soft that it’s almost otherworldly. I’ve never owned anything that was actually silk. But this is marked down to $27.99.
In the dressing room, I study myself in the three-way mirror. It’s only a blouse, but I still look impossibly sophisticated.
“That’s beautiful with your coloring,” the saleslady says.
“I’m thinking of wearing it to a business dinner,” I tell her. “What do you think?”
“Perfect. If you want to wear it out, I’ll cut the tags for you.”Thirty minutes later, I’m approaching Sparks Steakhouse on East Forty-Sixth. I arrive exactly two minutes past seven. My new blouse feels like armor. I’m ready to play the role of the Girl Who Knows What She’s Doing.
“Reservation for Henry Kassman,” I say to the man in the bow tie at the entrance.
“Of course,” he says. “Henry has already arrived. Right this way.”
As we move through the dark interior, I’m glad I dressed up a little. This place is fancy, with white tablecloths and giant wine goblets under a rich red ceiling.
“Bess! Here she is, gentlemen.”
Three men stand up—my boss, as well as three young athletes. I shake hands with Ushakov and Bilka first. I’m saving Tankiewicz for last, I guess. But when I finally offer my hand, and look him in the eye, I feel a little stunned.
“Nice to meet you,” he says in a deep, rich voice, while he looks me over with an assessing green gaze. “My friends call me Tank.”
I smile suddenly, because I totally called that nickname. “I’m Bess.” I try not to sound breathy and weird. But, lord, the man is all that and a bag of chips. His broad shoulders are practically straining the seams of his crisp white shirt, which is open at the throat to reveal a strong neck and sun-kissed skin.
And those eyes. They smolder.
I suddenly realize the waiter is still standing beside me, with a chair pulled out. So I sit down quickly, and the man puts the napkin right in my lap for me.
Okay, that’s a little formal. He hands me a hand-printed menu and then darts off again.
“Bess is my newest hire.” Henry Kassman sips from his water glass. “She recently played left wing for the Michigan State women’s D1 team. They were the runners-up at the national championship tournament in March.”
There’s a murmur of approval all around the table, and three sets of eyes turn to me once again. And I swear these young men are looking at me with more interest than they did just a moment ago.
That’s interesting. And pretty amazing. Women’s hockey doesn’t get a lot of attention from anyone except the women who play it. I relax a little in my chair, because these are my people.
“Who beat ya?” Tankiewicz sits back in his chair and gives me a lazy grin.
“Lindenwood,” I grumble. “But they’re done winning.”
His grin widens. He picks up his menu. “What’s good here?”
“Everything,” Kassman says. “The steak au poivre is my personal favorite.”
What the heck is au poivre? I wonder silently.
“Care to translate that?” Tankiewicz asks. “I don’t speak snooty menu.”
“With pepper,” he says. “It’s a creamy peppercorn sauce. I’m sure my cardiologist would prefer me to avoid it, but it’s terrific. The creamed spinach is also amazing.”
Tankiewicz’s expression has some doubts about the spinach.
But it would match your eyes, I catch myself thinking. Luckily, I don’t say that out loud. I’m not that far gone.
Although it’s close.When the waiter comes back to take our order, he starts with me, unfortunately. Because I’m self-conscious, I turn the question back around. “What would you recommend?”
“The filet mignon is our tenderest steak, but it’s on the smaller side,” he begins.
“That sounds lovely.” I hand him my menu, happy to have that decision made. And now I know how to pronounce filet mignon.
“Medium rare okay?” he asks.
“Perfect.”
This proves to be an excellent decision. The food is every bit as good as Henry promised. It’s an effort to eat the steak slowly. It’s so tender it practically melts against my tongue. This is easily the best meal I’ve ever had.
And Mr. Kassman ordered a selection of side dishes for the table, so there’s plenty of things to taste. He also ordered a red wine that had its twenty-first birthday a year before I did.
“I would have ordered your exact vintage,” Kassman crows. “Except that wasn’t a good year for Burgundies.”