“Not necessary,” I say. Besides, it’s nice holding on to Daniel’s arm.
There are more patrons tonight than there were when Daniel and I came here for lunch. Thankfully we don’t have to wait long and soon the maître d’ leads us to one of the wedge-shaped booths in the corner that allow diners to sit next to each other instead of across from one another.
“Would you like me to take your coats?” she asks.
We hand them to her and then a waitress takes our drink order—a glass of wine for Daniel and sparkling water for me—and we open our menus.
“What sounds good to you?” Daniel asks.
“I’m not sure.” After a few minutes I decide on the salmon and Daniel chooses the shrimp and linguini. The ambience is more romantic tonight, with dim lighting and candles burning on every table. A quick scan of the room yields no familiar faces, and I relax a bit. I won’t have to introduce Daniel and have any “it’s not what it looks like” conversations.
The waitress brings our drinks, and when she leaves, I lean back against the low, padded leather seat rest. Daniel takes a drink, looks at me, and smiles, resting his arm along the back of the booth, near my shoulders. There’s a small jazz trio in the corner and the sound of instruments being tuned rises above the diners’ conversations and the clinking of silver and glassware.
Our entrees arrive and while we are eating, a well-dressed gentleman approaches our table. The proprietor, I presume.
“How is everything?” he asks. “Is there anything I can bring you?”
Daniel and I praise the food and tell him that we don’t need a thing.
He smiles and says, “Wonderful. Enjoy your evening.” Before he goes he turns to Daniel and says, with a slight bow and flourish of his hand, “Your wife is very lovely.”
Daniel’s smile falters, but he recovers almost immediately and says, “Yes, she is. Beautiful, in fact.”
I could say the proprietor was being assumptive, but I amwearing a wedding ring. To an outsider, Daniel and I look like a married couple, and I am, perhaps, enjoying the quintessential best of both worlds: husband, albeit absentee, and handsome, attentive companion.
I look at Daniel and whisper, “Thank you.”
He nods and turns away to take a drink of his wine. The waitress returns, clears our plates, and asks us if we want dessert. We both say no and she leaves the check.
“Please let me get this one,” I say.
Daniel shakes his head and smiles. “No.” He pays the bill and we walk through the restaurant toward the glass doors of the entrance, Daniel’s hand resting heavily on the small of my back. The weight of his touch sends a delicate shiver up my spine. We retrieve our coats and he helps me into mine, and when we step outside the cold night air almost diffuses the romantic vibe we had going in the restaurant. Almost, but not completely. Large snowflakes are still falling and once again Daniel gives me his arm to hold on to. He opens my car door, waits until I’m seated, and then closes it. He walks around to the driver’s side and slides behind the wheel, then starts the car and turns the defrost on high.
“Thank you for dinner,” I say.
He puts the car in gear and says, “Anytime, Claire.”
When we return home Daniel lights a fire in the fireplace. It’s wood burning, not gas like the one at my house.
“I love that smell,” I say, inhaling deeply and listening to the tinder crackle as it ignites.
“Can you stay for a while?” Daniel asks.
“Sure.” There’s nowhere I have to be. No one waiting on me. I kick off my shoes, which have begun to hurt my feet, and sit down on the couch, tucking my legs up under my skirt. The logs catch and the flames grow higher.
“Do you want something to drink?” Daniel asks. “I’ve got some Snapple in the fridge.”
“I’ll get it,” I say. I walk into the kitchen and take a glass out of the cupboard, then fill it with ice. Daniel opens a drawer and removes a corkscrew. There are two bottles of wine on the counter, both red, and he selects one and opens it, then pours himself a glass. I grab a diet peach Snapple from the fridge and follow him back into the living room, setting down the bottle next to his glass of wine on the coffee table. He leaves the room and when he comes back in he’s holding a gift bag.
Oh, shit.
“Is that for me?” I ask. I didn’t buy him anything. Why didn’t I buy him something? I should have seen this coming from a mile away.
“I saw it in the store window when I walked by. It reminded me of something you said once, so I bought it.” He sits down beside me and hands me the bag.
I open it. Inside are two wrapped presents. One is wrapped in gold and the other in silver. The small boxes are roughly the same size and I don’t know which one to open first. Daniel does, though, because he points to the silver one. “You shouldn’t have,” I say.
“Just open it,” he says.
I tear off the paper and smile when I lift the lid of the box. It’s a rubber bracelet, like the Livestrong ones and the hundreds of copycats that followed. It’s pink and it has the medical alert symbol and says DIABETES in capital letters. “You remembered.” I slip it onto my wrist.
I open the second box. It’s a small round sterling silver pendant hanging from a silky black cord. It’s exactly what I would have chosen if I’d been asked to pick out a gift for myself. Large chunky jewelry looks out of proportion on my small frame, but the dimensions of the delicate silver disk fit me perfectly.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
“I love it.” I take it out of the box and undo the clasp, then hand it to Daniel. “Take the other one off and put this one on me, please.” Turning around, I lift up my hair and Daniel leans in, removing my medical alert necklace and replacing it with his gift. The disk rests in the small dip between my breasts and when I turn back around his gaze lingers there. “It’s beautiful,” I say. “Thank you.” I hug him, the way I always do when someone gives me a gift. It catches him off guard and he finally realizes what I’m doing and tries to hug me back at the exact same time that I pull away. Really, it’s almost comical. You’d think that we don’t know how hugging works.
“You’re welcome,” he says, gathering up the scraps of wrapping paper. He goes into the kitchen to throw it away and when he returns he says, “Music or TV?”
“Music, please.”
Daniel crosses the room and hits the button on the stereo, scanning through the channels. “Holiday favorites?”
“Yes,” I say. “That would be perfect.” He sits back down beside me, takes a drink of his wine, and places the glass on the coffee table. I’m suddenly aware of how close we’re sitting, and how completely alone we are. I’m slightly worried that my active participation in our late-night phone calls has given him the wrong impression, some kind of green light. But he’s been a perfect gentleman this evening and my instincts tell me he will continue in the same manner. Daniel doesn’t seem like the type of man who would lay his cards on the table without knowing exactly what the outcome would be.
I take a sip of my drink and place the bottle back down on the table next to his. A yawn escapes before I can stifle it with the back of my hand.
“Tired?” Daniel asks.
“A little. It’s been a long day. And it’s so nice and cozy in here. Makes me sleepy.” Daniel’s house reminds me of the starter home Chris and I bought when we were newly married. Ours was also a ranch and had the same arched entryways and hardwood floors. I love my current home, but sometimes I miss that first house and all that it signified: the untarnished and unchallenged beginning of my life with Chris.
I wander over to the built-in bookcase that reaches from floor to ceiling on one wall of the living room. If it were my home, I’d fill the shelves with decorative accessories, my collection of hardback books, and framed photos, but Daniel doesn’t utilize the space much. There’s a clock and a few pieces of mail. A magazine. His home lacks a woman’s touch, but maybe he likes it just the way it is. I look up and three photo albums on the highest shelf catch my eye. I have to stand on my tiptoes to reach them and I pull down one of them, its cover dusty, and crack it open. The album must be from Daniel’s college days because the first picture I see shows him wearing a sweatshirt with the letters of his fraternity house on it. He’s holding a beer, surrounded by at least ten other guys doing the same. I sink to the floor, the album in my lap, and smile. “Fraternity brothers?”