Fools Rush in(30)

“How about the accent up here?” Lorenzo said, just as I put another spoonful into my mouth. A spoonful with a big lobster piece in it, which would require significant chewing.

“Did you hear that guy at the bar?” Lorenzo went on, oblivious to my accelerated mastication. “‘Joe Cahpenteh the Cahpenteh.’ Is that still considered English?”

I put my spoon down and swallowed. “Actually, as you’re visiting here,” I said as if addressing a child, “you are the one with the accent, not the Cape Codders.” And should a Brooklyn native be making fun of anyone’s accent?

“I know, I know,” Lorenzo said, grinning sheepishly. “But come on.”

“And Joe Carpenter happens to be a very nice guy.”

This got his attention. “Do you know him?” he asked.

“I was talking to him, wasn’t I? We went to high school together.”

“Oh, shit! You’re from here?” His dismay, whether at putting his foot in his mouth or at my point of origin, was almost funny to see. Almost.

“Yes, I was born and raised here,” I said sternly.

“But you don’t sound like those…those people, uh, the natives,” he backpedaled.

“Well, I haven’t really lived here since I was eighteen. And my mom’s from Connecticut, so I suppose I sound more like her.”

Lorenzo wisely refrained from further comment, and we turned back to our bisque.

My mind was whirling. Lorenzo, his dark god looks aside, had yet to say something to make me like him. However, he did have the aforementioned dark god looks, and furthermore, Joe Carpenter was sitting twenty feet away, well aware that I was on a date with a very handsome man.

“Why don’t we talk about something else?” I said, offering the olive branch.

“Good idea,” Lorenzo replied.

“Tell me about your graduate work,” I said.

Oh, how I regretted those words twenty minutes later! Lorenzo was off and running with the subject, clearly very full of himself and his subject. When Katie brought our dinners, I toyed with my earring, our teenage sign language for Help me.

“Can I get you anything else right now?” she asked with a pleasant smile. Apparently she didn’t remember. I tugged on the earring.

“No,” Lorenzo answered, not politely. Katie cocked an eyebrow at me and made her escape.

“So, anyway, as I was saying, this professor just didn’t grasp my theory about the species’ mating habits, even though I knew, and everyone else knew, that I was really onto something. I mean, with tidal patterns that consistent, you’d expect that the head of the migratory crustacean department would have given even a little thought to the fact that…”

His voice droned on. And on. And on. The next time I suffered a bout of insomnia, I would recall this conversation word for word, and I’d be out in seconds flat. Taking a few sips of my drink, I could clearly understand why my fellow Cape Codders had passed this guy over. I glanced at the bar, where Joe was tucking into a burger. He waved a little, and I smiled back. Now there was a man. A good, unassuming, hardworking, honest man who must be tricked into thinking I was having a wonderful time with this idiot in front of me.

Pretending Lorenzo had said something funny, I burst out laughing, shaking my head as if I couldn’t believe what he’d just said. Lorenzo stopped talking, confused.

“That’s too much,” I exclaimed.

“What?”

“That they, uh, didn’t get your theory?” I guessed.

“Right. Actually, I was telling you about my third-year in the doctorate program.”

“Oh, I know,” I said, grasping. “It’s just that, before, you know. They didn’t understand.”

“Uh-huh.”

Again, Katie came to the rescue. “How is everything tonight?” she asked. A loaded question. Speaking of loaded, I took another slug of my vodka drink, which was becoming more and more delicious as my tongue grew more and more anesthetized.

“Everything is wonderful,” I answered, opening my eyes a fraction too wide. She smiled in understanding. Hopefully, she’d been eavesdropping as she’d served the tables around us. I’d have been disappointed if she wasn’t.

“Actually, my swordfish was a little tough,” Lorenzo stated. “Are you sure it was really swordfish? Because I’ve eaten at places that try to pass off shark as swordfish.”

Katie’s expression became granite. This was taboo. Visitors to the Cape should never disparage our fish. Fishing is the heart and soul of the Cape, and out-of-towners were not allowed to question our fish’s authenticity. I took another gulp of my drink.

“I’m quite sure it’s swordfish,” Katie said in a voice as cold as the Atlantic in February. “Would you like to speak with our chef?”

Them was fighting words. Uh-oh. If the chef came out here, then everyone in the entire restaurant would know what I knew: Lorenzo Bellefiore, Ph.D., was an idiot.

“Oh, no, no, no, no,” I interjected hastily. “No. Lorenzo, the cheesecake here is wonderful. Want to try a piece?”

“Fine,” Lorenzo muttered, still staring sullenly at Katie. “And coffee. But if you don’t have real cream, forget it. I hate when restaurants charge you two dollars for a cup of coffee and then give you skim milk to put in it.”