Talk of the Town by Sherrill Bodine

It’s almost seven o’clock.”
    “Don’t I know it,” she spoke again to her reflection. She slammed the closet door.
    This is as good as it gets. I don’t care if the dress is too tight or too low cut, because it’s too late.
    Disgusted, she slipped into her Brian Atwood slingbacks, clasped Granny’s pearls around her neck, and fastened on the matching earrings.
    When she walked into the kitchen, Harry picked up a beautifully wrapped package from the counter. “You look perfect. Here is the finishing touch.”
    “Harry, you shouldn’t have.” She kissed his cheek and opened the present. “An apron.” Casting him a rueful glance, she laughed. “
Exactly
what I’ve always wanted.”
    “Exactly what you need for tonight. Let me help you.” He flicked the folded apron open so she could see the deep ruffle along the bottom.
    Once he’d slipped the apron over her head and tied the wide sash in the back, she studied the pristine white cotton. “It looks new. Shouldn’t it have a food spot or two on it?”
    “Donna Reed’s aprons were always clean. Or was it the
Brady Bunch
cook?” He shook his head. “One of those early domestic goddesses on Nick at Nite.” He studied her with his surgeon’s eye before pushing some short hair behind her left ear. “There. A little disheveled from preparing dinner for the media mogul. Now I must go. Wouldn’t do to be caught in the kitchen. Remember, be yourself. He’ll be enchanted.”
    The minute Harry and his optimism were gone, Rebecca started fretting again. She wandered around the condo making last-minute adjustments. Since it was one of those rare perfect fall nights in Chicago, she opened the doors to the narrow terrace.
    We’ll have drinks out here.
    Harry had re-created the table setting from a picture in one of his late aunt Harriet’s Carolyne Roehm home- living books. He’d used Granny’s antique linen tablecloth, the large blue Venetian glasses, and the blue and white Staffordshire china. In the center he’d placed a white soup tureen full of dahlias in reds, ranging from Bordeaux to champagne. At the base of the large tureen, he’d mounded red grapes and plums. Rebecca backed away, not wanting to shift even a napkin, spoon, or flower for fear of messing up its perfection.
    She wandered back into the kitchen.
    There’s something wrong with this picture. Too neat if David comes in here.
    She lifted the lid on the soup, dipped in the ladle, and dribbled a few green drops along the burner.
    Much better.
    Still unsatisfied, she opened the refrigerator and took out the bowl of whipping cream for the fresh strawberries. Two smears on the countertop looked right.
    The phone rang and, her heart pounding, she answered it. “Mr. Sumner to see you, Miss Covington,” her doorman, Malcolm, announced.
    “Please send him up. Thanks.” She just had time to put the whipped cream back in the refrigerator and light the candles on the table before her doorbell rang.
    It feels like my heart jumped into my throat. Stop. I’m not afraid of anything.
    To prove it, she opened the door on David’s first ring.
    He didn’t look quite as much like Pierce as he had at first glance across Allen’s dance floor, but he possessed enough movie star looks to make any healthy woman’s pulse flutter.
    Even if he is the enemy.
    “Hello, David.” Feeling breathless again, she ushered him into the tiny mirror-lined foyer.
    “Hello, Rebecca.” His mouth curling in his slow, sexy smile, he handed her a large bouquet of pink roses in various stages of bloom and a bottle of chilled Cristal champagne.
    The dimple dented his cheek as he removed the white linen handkerchief from his breast pocket. “May I?” he asked and touched her cheek. “Dessert, I presume.”
    His touch sent hot shivers along her skin. She was surprised the chilled champagne bottle she clasped didn’t start sizzling. Catching sight of her flushed face reflected again and again in the mirrors, she tried to