main highway, unmindful of Myra’s warning not to speed, she put the pedal to the metal and roared up the road as she blasted the exquisite stereo system in her brand-new lemon yellow Porsche.
Annie tried to clear her mind, to think of pleasant things like her childhood, her early married life. When she felt a pall settle over her shoulders, she switched gears and thought about Fish and the casino. That just seemed to make her more angry, so she switched again to how she was going to arrange Kathryn’s surprise birthday party. Those thoughts stayed with her until she entered the District, at which point she had to give her full attention to the road and the drivers who surrounded her. She received more than one admiring glance, which she knew was for the car and not her. White hair, wrinkles, and gnarly hands did not make for admiring glances. Yellow Porsches, now, that was something else.
Annie suddenly realized as she turned onto O Street that she hadn’t given one moment’s notice to her dinner evening with Fergus Duffy. She did start to think about it when she turned into a minuscule parking lot that was no bigger than the restaurant itself and turned the Porsche over to a valet attendant.
Annie looked down at the Mickey Mouse watch on her wrist with the huge numbers on it. She was right on time. Seven o’clock in her opinion was an acceptable dinnertime. If she ate later in the evening, she got gas. She’d eaten here at La Petite several times, and she was neither impressed nor unimpressed. French food was so rich she tried not to eat it on a regular basis. Maybe she’d made an unwise choice when she’d suggested it to Fergus Duffy. Maybe the chicken place was the way to go after all. Well, too late now.
Annie opened the door to the dim interior and was greeted by a host whom she knew for a fact pretended to be French but wasn’t. Charles told her he was from Poughkeepsie, New York, and used to be in the roofing business.
Jerky Jacques, as she thought of him, a.k.a. name-dropper, gushed when Annie walked over to his station to inquire about her reservation and to ask if Fergus had arrived.
“But of course, Countess. For you, the best table in the house, and your guest arrived just seconds ago,” Jerky Jacques said in his best bogus French accent. Annie sniffed as she trailed behind another bogus Frenchman to the table where Fergus waited for her. He stood up, all six foot five of him, and smiled a very toothy smile. He waited until she was seated before he leaned across the table, and said, “I’m sorry, I’m not dressed appropriately for such a fancy restaurant. You, of course, look lovely.”
“I think you look just fine,” Annie said, looking at his open-necked sports shirt and creased khaki trousers. And he did look fine. Wholesome, interesting, and handsome in a rugged kind of way, and he had a full head of iron gray hair that had once been red, or at least rust colored. She liked his brogue and said so, then belatedly thanked him for his compliment. “Just for the record, no one here is French. They’re all poseurs.” A devil perched itself on her shoulder as she shared Charles’s information on the help at La Petite. Fergus laughed, and Annie was instantly at ease. She’d worried for nothing. This man was just a nice man, and she knew she could get through dinner and not be a nervous wreck.
The wine steward approached. Fergus waved him off. “I don’t know anything about fine wines. I only drink ale. Do you drink… what should I call you?” he asked in a jittery voice.
“How about Annie? And you’re Fergus.
“As for drinking, I do. Sometimes I drink a lot and other times not at all. I’m a happy drunk if that’s what you’re trying to ask me.” Oh, God, did I just say that? Obviously she had because Fergus was laughing.
“I’ve been known to need help getting home a time or two myself. I think I fall into the same category as a happy drunk. At least on those
Annie tried to clear her mind, to think of pleasant things like her childhood, her early married life. When she felt a pall settle over her shoulders, she switched gears and thought about Fish and the casino. That just seemed to make her more angry, so she switched again to how she was going to arrange Kathryn’s surprise birthday party. Those thoughts stayed with her until she entered the District, at which point she had to give her full attention to the road and the drivers who surrounded her. She received more than one admiring glance, which she knew was for the car and not her. White hair, wrinkles, and gnarly hands did not make for admiring glances. Yellow Porsches, now, that was something else.
Annie suddenly realized as she turned onto O Street that she hadn’t given one moment’s notice to her dinner evening with Fergus Duffy. She did start to think about it when she turned into a minuscule parking lot that was no bigger than the restaurant itself and turned the Porsche over to a valet attendant.
Annie looked down at the Mickey Mouse watch on her wrist with the huge numbers on it. She was right on time. Seven o’clock in her opinion was an acceptable dinnertime. If she ate later in the evening, she got gas. She’d eaten here at La Petite several times, and she was neither impressed nor unimpressed. French food was so rich she tried not to eat it on a regular basis. Maybe she’d made an unwise choice when she’d suggested it to Fergus Duffy. Maybe the chicken place was the way to go after all. Well, too late now.
Annie opened the door to the dim interior and was greeted by a host whom she knew for a fact pretended to be French but wasn’t. Charles told her he was from Poughkeepsie, New York, and used to be in the roofing business.
Jerky Jacques, as she thought of him, a.k.a. name-dropper, gushed when Annie walked over to his station to inquire about her reservation and to ask if Fergus had arrived.
“But of course, Countess. For you, the best table in the house, and your guest arrived just seconds ago,” Jerky Jacques said in his best bogus French accent. Annie sniffed as she trailed behind another bogus Frenchman to the table where Fergus waited for her. He stood up, all six foot five of him, and smiled a very toothy smile. He waited until she was seated before he leaned across the table, and said, “I’m sorry, I’m not dressed appropriately for such a fancy restaurant. You, of course, look lovely.”
“I think you look just fine,” Annie said, looking at his open-necked sports shirt and creased khaki trousers. And he did look fine. Wholesome, interesting, and handsome in a rugged kind of way, and he had a full head of iron gray hair that had once been red, or at least rust colored. She liked his brogue and said so, then belatedly thanked him for his compliment. “Just for the record, no one here is French. They’re all poseurs.” A devil perched itself on her shoulder as she shared Charles’s information on the help at La Petite. Fergus laughed, and Annie was instantly at ease. She’d worried for nothing. This man was just a nice man, and she knew she could get through dinner and not be a nervous wreck.
The wine steward approached. Fergus waved him off. “I don’t know anything about fine wines. I only drink ale. Do you drink… what should I call you?” he asked in a jittery voice.
“How about Annie? And you’re Fergus.
“As for drinking, I do. Sometimes I drink a lot and other times not at all. I’m a happy drunk if that’s what you’re trying to ask me.” Oh, God, did I just say that? Obviously she had because Fergus was laughing.
“I’ve been known to need help getting home a time or two myself. I think I fall into the same category as a happy drunk. At least on those
Similar Books
