On Second Thought(34)

“Was it Chris Hemsworth?” I asked, brightening.

“No.”

“Derek Jeter?”

“No. Jonathan.”

I made a face. “I was hoping for more.”

“And his ex-wife.”

“Oh! Do tell.” It must’ve taken a strong (or masochistic) woman to be married to our boss. I sympathized with her already.

“She looked like she was being stabbed in the liver, you know?”

“Don’t we all when we’re around him? What else? Is she pretty?”

Jonathan’s door opened. “Oh, Mr. Kent,” Rachelle said. “How are you? I love your tie.”

He glanced at the two of us. “Did you need something from Ainsley?”

“I did. And I got it. Thanks, Ainsley, hon!”

“Are you done with your mother’s column?” he asked me. “It’s only six hundred words.”

“Yep! Sending it now,” I said, smiling. He walked down the hall, and I scanned Dr. Lovely’s work, fixed a comma and emailed it to Tanya, who did the layout.

To be fair, Jonathan wasn’t a horrible boss. He was just incredibly stuck-up and rigid and irritating. And private. He never mentioned his children (the one photo in his office showed two little blonde girls, and I assumed they were his). He never came to happy hour with us or lingered in the staff kitchen asking about our weekends. Then again, we were his employees, and apparently we weren’t supposed to know he had a beating heart. He wasn’t called Captain Flatline for nothing.

I concentrated on work as best I could for the rest of the day, but my thoughts kept skimming to tonight. To the ring, that gorgeous, glittering diamond. Eric and I had talked in the past about what kind of wedding we’d have someday—fun and breezy with a great band, the kind of wedding where people ate and drank and danced and hated to leave.

And then, the bliss of being married. I’d make sure we were the kind of couple who hired a nice babysitter and still did fun things together. I wanted at least two kids. Maybe we’d name a son Nathan, even. Or use it as a middle name. Kate could be godmother, if Jewish babies had godmothers. I glanced at Jonathan’s door (closed) and Googled it. Yes, they could have godparents. Perfect. Kate would be little Nathan’s godmother.

My eyes filled up with tears on that one, and I grabbed a tissue and blotted them just as Jonathan opened his door, doing another office scan for slackers. He looked pained at the sight of me but didn’t speak.

At last, five o’clock came. We all left like little soldiers, except for Jonathan. He owned the joint, after all.

“Good night, Mr. Kent,” said Rachelle, shooting me a wry look.

“Have a good weekend, Mr. Kent,” said Deshawn, holding the door for us ladies.

“Bye, Mr. Kent,” said Francesca, the bookkeeper.

“See you Monday, Mr. Kent,” said Tanya.

“Good night, Jonathan,” I said.

“Good night,” he said, deigning to look up at us for the briefest instant before returning to his work.

Whatever. I had a dog to feed and hair to curl. The black velvet fit-and-flare dress? Too wintry. The white dress with red polka dots? Too Betty Boop. The green and gold? Too Christmassy.

I might just have to buy something new.

*

Le Monde was gorgeous, flickering with candlelight, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Hudson. I wore a new navy dress with a wide, pretty neckline and navy lace overlay and a pair of very high nude heels. Creamy satin clutch (also new) and a gold bracelet on my right hand. Didn’t want the diamond to have to compete with anything.

“Your party is already here,” the ma?tre d’ said, smiling at me. “Please, come this way.”

As I wove my way through the tables, a familiar face caught my eye.

Jonathan, talking with an attractive woman. Dear God! A date? A sister? His ex? A prostitute? A robot-companion? I’d text Rachelle the first chance I got.

I paused at their table. “Hello,” I said, smiling.

He looked up, nodded and went back to cutting his fish.

Nice. “I’m Ainsley. I work with Jonathan,” I told his companion.

“Adele. Nice to meet you,” she said pleasantly.

“I don’t mean to interrupt.”

“And yet you did,” he said, tilting his head. Human contradicts her words through actions. Strange.

“Jonathan,” the woman chided fondly. “Be nice.”

“Enjoy your dinners,” I said. Maybe he had Asperger’s. Then again, he was generally rude only to me.

Didn’t matter. There was my beloved, dressed in a gray suit, white shirt and the red tie I’d bought him for Valentine’s Day. Tonight, we’d be engaged. I paused for a second, taking it all in. Taking in Eric.

Sometimes, the image of him when we first met didn’t match this handsome adult in front of me. We’d been kids, after all. Then, his black hair was longer and curly. Now it was cut short, and the black had a few silver strands shot through it, though it was as thick as ever. He’d broadened in the shoulders this past year, thanks to his cancer journey and CrossFit regimen. But his eyes were the same, dark and thoughtful and kind.

My guy. He stood as I approached.

“Hey, babe,” I said, a happy lump in my throat.

“Hi,” he said. He kissed me on the cheek. Didn’t say anything about how I looked, which was a little unusual. He almost always noticed a new dress, and this one was killer—demure yet sexy, exactly the way you’d want your wife to look.