I laughed as kissed her head and took the bouquet from her then headed out to the truck. It wasn’t a long drive to Emily’s, and before I knew it, I was pulling up in front of where she was staying. The lights were on, and I got a warm feeling as I rang the doorbell.
“Hi, Emily—oh wow,” I exhaled, as she pulled the door open and I saw that she was wearing a form-fitting knit dress that clung to her like a second skin. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail and her blue eyes shined as she smiled at me.
“C’mon in, Blake,” she said. “I’m glad you made it.”
“You look amazing,” I said, as I stepped into the entryway and wiped my feet. I stood there staring at her, unable to speak.
“Are those for me?” she asked, looking down at the bouquet in my hands.
“Oh, yeah, they are,” I said, holding the flowers out as a grin spread across my lips. Emily laughed warmly as she took the flowers and walked into the kitchen. I stared as she walked away and then shook my head as I cleared my throat. I looked over and noticed the fat tabby cat sitting on the edge of the only armchair in the living room. “I see your boy is doing well.”
“Thanks to you!” Emily called from the kitchen. “He’s healing up nicely, and the vet says there shouldn’t be any lasting damage to his lungs.”
“That’s great,” I said, as the cat stared at me without blinking. I got the feeling that he was sizing me up, and for some reason, I felt compelled to say, “Hey, buddy, don’t you remember me?”
The cat blinked once, nonplussed, and then jumped down off the chair and strolled into the kitchen. He had quite a personality.
I’d decided to take Emily to Flank, an American steakhouse that was known far and wide for its incredibly delicious steaks as well as its intimate dining room. I handed off the truck keys to the valet and led Emily inside, where we were led through the mahogany-walled dining room that was decorated in the style of a 1920’s speakeasy. The crystal chandeliers gave off a warm light, and once we were seated in the circular, leather-covered booth, it felt like we were the only two people in the dining room.
“This is lovely,” Emily whispered, after the waiter had handed us large, leather-bound menus and taken our drink orders. “I’ve always wanted to come here, but I’ve never actually done it.”
“I’m glad I could be the one to bring you here,” I smiled, as I looked into her eyes and felt the blood rushing away from my brain. I quickly looked down at my menu and asked, “So, what looks good to you?”
“I’m going to have the Caesar salad and the Filet Mignon,” she said, setting her menu down on the table.
“Thank goodness,” I said. “Because I’m having the carpaccio and the New York strip, and I can’t stand it when I have to watch my dinner companion pick at a salad while I chow down!”
“Are you kidding? If there’s steak on the menu, I’m ready to chow down,” she laughed, as the server returned with our drinks. We placed our orders and then raised our glasses to toast.
“While I’m sorry your house burned down, I’m not sorry I got the chance to get to know you better as a result,” I offered.
“I guess there is a silver lining to every black cloud,” Emily smiled, as she clinked her glass against mine then took a sip.
Over dinner, we got to know one another better, and I discovered that Emily had a deep, abiding love for the Boston Celtics. She talked about how she’d begun following the team when she was in college, and how it had given her a way to calm her brain after long days of classes and studying. I told her about how I felt the same way about the fire department’s various sports teams, and how they’d given me a way to release the stress that built up while fighting fires.
“How long have you been divorced from Nina’s mother?” she asked, after our dinner dishes had been cleared and our dessert orders taken.
“Uh, a little more than two years,” I said, shifting uncomfortably on my side of the booth. Brining Remy into the conversation made me uneasy for many reasons, not the least of which was the possibility that Emily would decide I wasn’t a good risk.
“How long were you married?” she asked. I studied her carefully, but she seemed relaxed rather than on the offensive, so I relaxed, too.
“Sixteen years,” I replied. “But we were together for a few years before that. She was my high school sweetheart.”
“Ah, I see,” Emily nodded. “Was it an amicable breakup?”
“Hmm, I guess you’d have to ask Remy about that one,” I said dryly. “By the time we split up, we both wanted out. I think we just grew in different directions and couldn’t find a way back to the middle.”
“Yeah, that happens,” she nodded.
“What about you?” I asked. “Have you been married?”
“Oh gosh, no!” she laughed, but stopped when she saw I was serious. “I’m sorry, the thought of me being married is just…funny. I’m not sure I’m cut out for that kind of arrangement.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked, wondering what had happened to her that had put her off the idea of marriage.
“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “It’s just never been something I thought could work for me. Or at least not the versions I’ve seen.”
“What do you mean?”