CW 33: Perfect

I wrote this today as part of my commitment to the Clarion West Write-a-thon. A dedication means that person sponsored it by donating to CW, and then provided me a writing prompt that sparked the piece. If you would like something written especially for you, please consider sponsoring me.

Here’s all the work of the 41 days. You’ll also find these pieces cross-posted at Sterling Editing as incentive for writers to practice their editing and story-building skills.

Enjoy.

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Perfect

For Jill Seidenstein. Thank you for your support of me and Clarion West.

Jack got to the restaurant a half hour early to make sure everything was ready. The champage chilling. A duck breast reserved for Holly because it was her favorite. And the small box safely handed to the matire d’ for the dessert presentation. That was the part Jack found hard: giving the ring to a stranger.

“Take good care of it,” he said. “I want tonight to be perfect.”

“Of course, Mr. DuBois. Of course.” The man smiled. “I know what it’s like.”

“How long have you been married?” Jack said.

The maitre d’ laughed. No, he snickered. “Oh, not for a while now.”

Jack managed a smile, but he was imagining Bam! Pow! right in the kisser. It was like a doctor making jokes about cutting off the wrong leg while you were on the gurney counting backward by sevens. And now his hand was trembling a bit. Did he really want to punch the guy?

The maitre d’ was looking at Jack’s hand too. “I think I’m a little nervous,” Jack said. He looked at his watch. The fussing over preparations had taken forty-five seconds. Only twenty-nine more minutes until Holly arrived. He blinked. Maybe she could come early.

The phone rang. Holly. Kismet. God, he loved that woman and her perfect timing. He answered and said, “Honey, want to start early? I can move up the reservation.”

“Jack, um…” Uh oh. That was not stress he heard in her voice, it was not. “My meeting’s running long. Goddamn Rick Marcuso is insisting that we talk about delivery schedules seventeen months out, can you believe this asshole?”

It was stress. Now Jack wanted to punch Rick Marcuso too. He could feel his face becoming tight. The maitre d’ stepped back with his hands raised a bit, I’ll just give you a moment.

“I’m not sure how long I’ll be,” Holly said. “Could we just stay in and have pizza?”

“No!” Jack said. “Um… no, honey, just… just take as long as you need. I’ll get our table and wait for you.”

The maitre d’ had seemingly become fascinated with the molecular structure of the wood grain of his podium.

“Jack, really–”

“Holly, I’ll wait. Take your time. Love you.”

“Fine,” she said. “Whatever. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He ended the call and tried to hand the phone to the maitre d’. “That’s yours,” the man said.

“Oh. Right,” Jack said. “I think I’m a little nervous. Oh. I think I already said that.”

The maitre d’ said, “Perhaps you’d like to wait in the bar?”

#

Forty-nine minutes and three martinis later, the maitre d’ led Holly into the bar. She was still in her work clothes, swinging her briefcase and wearing the adrenalized mad-dog grin of a woman who has just stomped her enemies into the corporate mud. She was practically vibrating. He stood to embrace her.

“God, I need a drink,” she said.

Jack said, “How about champagne?”

She smiled. “Perfect!” Behind her, the maitre d’ smiled and gave Jack an approving nod. Everything’s back on track.

The champagne was chilling at the table. Holly beamed at Jack as the maitre d’ popped and poured and left them with a discreet smile.

Jack opened his mouth to say To us or I love you, but Holly clinked her glass with great gusto against his and said, “Jack, you must be psychic,” and drank a big gulp of champagne. “Psychic. Because not only did I crush Marcuso in the meeting, I got co-ownership of the project and I’m in charge of the goddamned delivery schedule now. So here’s to Rick Marcuso for shooting himself in the foot.” She raised her glass again. “Fuck him.”

She drank another hefty gulp and said, “Honey, are you okay?”

“Sure,” Jack said.

“You need food. We should have stayed in, we’d be eating by now.” And before Jack could respond, she had touched the arm of a passing water server and said, “Excuse me, can we please get some service?”

“Um, sure,” the server said, and gave Jack a look that blended sympathy and Uh oh, not going so great, huh?

Perfect.

Jack watched the water server confer with the maitre d’, and the maitre d’ said something, or did he snicker? Jack wanted to punch him again. Instead he smiled at Holly as she gave him her blow-by-blow with Marcuso over the last of the champagne, and the appetizer, and half of the penne pesto she ordered instead of the duck because she was too wound up for anything fancy. He would be happy if he never heard the name Marcuso again. Jesus, was he really going to propose to a woman who called guys by their last name like they were all in the locker room? Was he really? Yes. Yes! He was. Oh god, the dinner plates were being cleared away and the waiter was saying, “And now for dessert–”

“Oh, let’s just get the check,” Holly said. “It was a great dinner, but I’m pretty beat.”

“No!” Jack said. Holly blinked. The waiter smiled desperately and looked back and forth between them. “I mean… ” Jack said, “Um, I’d really like some dessert, Hol.”

“Fine,” Holly said. “Whatever. Get what you want, I’ll be right back.” She sighed, stood, slung her purse over her shoulder and trudged toward the bathroom.

“Well–” the waiter said delicately.

“Just bring me the fucking shortcake,” said Jack.

Holly was in the bathroom for seven thousand hours. What did women do in there? It was too hot in the room. He could feel the sweat under his arms. The whipped cream was melting. It was perilously close to dripping all over the diamond discreetly tucked under one of the strawberries beside the shortcake. This was a terrible idea. It was the across-the-universe opposite of perfect.

Holly sat down opposite him. “Okay,” she said, “Eat your dessert, Mr. Sweet Tooth, and let’s get out of here.”

Was he really going to propose to this woman who all of a sudden had no sense of timing whatsoever? Was he really going to hand this diamond — that he’d agonized over on four separate visits to the jeweler, until he’d been sure it was perfect — to a stranger? But then she smiled and shook her head and said, “Sorry. Take your time. I love you.” And he loved her too and his brain was melting along with the whipped cream and all he could think to do was say, “Here, have a bite.” And push the plate across the table. Well, really, he kind of punched the plate, and it slid and caught on the tablecloth and shot the shortcake right into Holly’s chest.

She shrieked and came to her feet, flapping at her chest with her napkin, shoving shortcake and berries and whipped cream onto the carpet, and “No!” Jack said, and scrambled out of the chair onto his knees and began pawing through ruins of the cake as Holly said, Jack, what are you doing? Jack, stop it! Stop it! and everyone was staring and at the side of the room the maitre d’ put his hands over his face and Jack finally found the ring inside a dollop of whipped cream, and held it up and shouted, “Holly, would you shut the fuck up, I’m trying to ask you to fucking marry me!”

The room was absolutely silent.

“I love you. Please marry me,” Jack said. He could see from the corner of his eye the maitre d’ and the waiter holding each other’s hands in a death grip.

“Oh my god,” Holly said.

The room held its breath. The world hung suspended. Jack’s heart stopped beating. The whipped cream slid off the ring onto his finger, because his hand was shaking.

Holly’s eyes filled with tears, and she smiled a perfect smile.