Dates And Other Nuts by Lori Copeland Page A

herself in the deeper shadows. If he was going to quibble about cost, she wished he would at least lower his voice. The occupants of three tables around them had heard him and made their annoyance clear. Painful memories of the Darrell fiasco surfaced.
    The waiter whipped to a stop at the table, bending slightly at the waist with a look of genuine concern in his expression. “Is there a problem, sir?”
    â€œThis bill is not right. Forty-one eighty for what we had? And that doesn’t include tax and tip? Highway robbery!!”
    â€œSir, I’m sure there’s been no mistake, but I can have the cashier recheck it for you—”
    â€œI’ve checked it. I’m only questioning the prices. Who sets these prices? Donald Trump?”
    â€œI’ll call the manager, sir.”
    â€œBill,” Temple said, leaning forward and lowering her voice. “If there’s a problem—”
    â€œNothing that can’t be taken care of. These places try slipping a couple dollars here, a couple dollars there. Just in case someone doesn’t tip. You know how it is.”
    Temple felt her face grow warm as more people glanced in their direction, whispering among themselves.
    The manager appeared. “Is there a problem, sir?”
    â€œYour prices are too high!” Bill re-added and came up with the same total.
    Frowning, he crossed off the total and re-added the bill again. “Well, I guess it’s right—highway robbery, but right.” He handed the ticket back to the waiter.
    â€œWould you bring me a to-go container for this? Waste not want not, that’s my motto,” he said sanctimoniously. “Are the refills on coffee free? My cup’s empty. You’re slipping.”
    Temple had to give the waiter top marks for holding on to his temper when he most likely wanted to shoot Bill. She knew she did.
    â€œAnd you, madam? May I freshen your latte?” the man asked politely.
    Quickly, shielding the cup with her hand, she shook her head. “No!”
    â€œMore bread, Temple? It’s free.”
    â€œNo, thank you.”
    â€œI’ll need a receipt, too,” Bill added, flashing his Gold Card.
    The waiter slipped away with the credit card as Bill carefully counted out six one-dollar bills and some change. He placed them squarely in the middle of the table with a little satisfied pat of his fingertips.
    â€œHow long have you known Mike and Ginny?” Temple asked, curious as to how the three had gotten together, especially since Ginny didn’t have a thrifty bone in her body.
    â€œOnly on a professional basis,” he told her. “I did their taxes several years ago. I know everything about their financial situation, but other than that we seldom see one another. Seem like nice folks, though. They’ve referred several clients to me. I appreciate a prudent person.”
    No kidding. I’d appreciate having a smooth exit line.
    â€œAh, here we are,” Bill crowed when the waiter returned.
    He quickly signed the credit card form, carefully tore out the carbons and folded them, then slipped them into his pocket along with his receipt. When another couple left the table across the aisle without taking their receipt, Bill reached over and took it, too—for his records.
    â€œYou can never be too careful,” he said. “One of my clients got his credit card statement and someone had run up a thousand dollars on his bill. Fortunately, he was able to get the charges removed. You have to be on your toes. Lots of crooks out there. Ready to go?”
    She had been ready an hour ago.
    More Streisand on the way home. If she heard “People Who Need People” one more time, she’d slap Bill just for the satisfaction of it.
    He parked the BMW in front of her apartment building and turned toward her.
    â€œI had a good time this evening. May I call you again?”
    This was it; bailout time. “I’m never sure