Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Chuck got there early and still felt late.
He’d offered to pick her up—it had felt like the gentlemanly thing to do—but she’d chosen to meet him there instead.
He hadn’t taken it personally—after all, her father was a police officer.
A woman walking out her door to meet a man she barely knew was taking a risk either way, but letting him know where she lived on the first date added another layer.
He respected her caution. If anything, it made him like her more.
The Laurel Room floated in warm light behind tall panes of glass, the kind of place that swallowed street noise and sent it back as a whisper.
A pianist in the corner played standards, the notes soft enough not to pull focus from conversations.
White marble flooring with tan veins led from the entrance into the bar area, while rich burgundy carpet began at the hostess stand and carried through the dining room.
Golden embossed wallpaper, ivory linens, and polished brass gave the room an easy kind of elegance.
He checked in and was glad he’d made a reservation because the place was almost full. To avoid staring at an empty chair, he chose to stand at the bar within sight of the front door and let the hostess know where he’d be.
He’d worn the blue shirt, the brown tweed sport coat, brown dress pants, and polished shoes. He checked his appearance in the mirror behind the bottles and rolled his eyes at the one lock of hair that insisted on falling onto his forehead no matter how his hair was styled.
The bartender set a coaster down. “What can I get you, sir?”
“Club soda with lime.”
The glass sweated on the napkin. He turned it once. Don’t sell it, he told himself. Let her know you see her. That’s enough.
He didn’t notice the door open—it was more like the room shifted.
Voices dimmed for a moment. Heads turned a fraction.
He followed their attention and saw her in the mirror first. She wore a navy dress with a black wool coat draped over her arm as if she’d just taken it off.
Her makeup and jewelry were subtle, enhancing her beauty without calling attention to themselves.
Her hair was down, and her heels clicked twice on the marble before sinking into the carpet.
Pivoting around, he strode over to her. “Marie.” His voice sounded breathless, as if he was surprised she actually showed up. He kinda was.
“Hi, Chuck.”
They stood close enough for him to catch the faint scent of her perfume as the door swung closed behind her.
The overhead lighting softened her features, making her eyes look even darker than he remembered.
He wanted to tell her that she looked gorgeous.
Instead, he settled on, “I’m glad you’re here. ”
“Me too,” she said, giving him a long, assessing once-over that made it clear she noticed the effort, even if she didn’t say anything about it.
The hostess appeared. Their table waited, small and tucked halfway back, where the music drifted without getting in the way. He pulled out her chair, and she sat with that straight-backed ease that said she belonged anywhere she decided to be. He took the seat across from her.
A waiter approached with a pitcher of water and a practiced smile. “Good evening. Welcome to The Laurel House. My name is Marcus. Can I start you with drinks or something from our wine list?”
Chuck looked to her. “A bottle of chardonnay?”
She nodded. “Sounds good.”
“California, please,” Chuck told the waiter, then waited until the man moved off before leaning in slightly. “Figured I’d play it safe. Red stains, and I don’t think either of us wants to deal with that, at least not on a first date.”
She smiled, a quiet flash that made something in his chest uncoil. “Good call.”
They both reached for their menus. He wasn’t in a rush to read his—it just gave his hands somewhere to go, something to do while his pulse settled.
The pianist slid into “Close to You” by The Carpenters. He could smell butter, lemon, and rosemary wafting out from the kitchen. He ignored his open menu. “So... uh... how was your day?”
“Good. I ran some errands and met my mom for breakfast. My dad had to work. I’m trying to enjoy some normal moments while I can.”
“Normal?” he asked.
She let out a quiet breath. “I don’t even know what that is anymore. Between college, med school, my semester abroad, and now with a six-year residency coming up... whatever other people mean by normal hasn’t applied to me in a long time. I don’t know when it will again.”
He took in her subtle honesty and realized it made sense.
If a relationship developed between them the way he hoped, he wouldn’t be first in her life—her work would be.
It was her dream, not a phase. Could he accept that?
He weighed it for all of two seconds and already knew the answer—she was worth it.
“That’s a lot,” he said. “But I’m sure it’s rewarding. You don’t get that far without a deep commitment. You should be proud of yourself.”
Something in her posture shifted—not softening, exactly, but like she recognized the difference between flattery and respect.
She took a small sip of water and swallowed. “What about you? What did your day look like?”
“I had a new listing and two showings. One couple with champagne taste on a beer budget. The other can’t agree on anything—they like a place until the other one points out a porch light they hate or a closet that’s too small.”
“Which is harder?”
He huffed out a quiet breath. “Flip a coin. With the first, you have to let them down easy without making them feel unworthy, then find them the perfect place that they can afford. With the second, you’re basically trying to help them see what they actually want instead of whatever they reacted to in the last ten seconds. ”
She gave a faint, knowing smile. “So you’re half counselor, half salesman.”
“More like I just try not to make anything worse,” he said.
“Some agents don’t care as long as they get the sale.
I’ve seen my share of couples whose purchase sent them into foreclosure, bankruptcy, or divorce within a year—sometimes, all three.
Mostly, I listen until I know what not to talk them into. ”
“Your mother taught you that?”
“She did. I learned a lot from watching her over the years.”
The wine arrived, and the waiter poured a small taste. Chuck sampled it, nodded once, and the glasses were filled. The bottle was set in an ice bucket at their side—the small ritual making the night feel officially underway.
She raised her glass. “What should we drink to?”
“To new beginnings—without trying to write the entire story in one night.”
An easy smile brightened her face, and her shoulders eased. He hadn’t noticed she’d been holding herself so tightly until she wasn’t. She touched her glass to his with a gentle clink. “I like that.”
Their waiter returned with a basket of warm rolls and a side of butter, took their orders, and left them alone again.
“So, tell me more about your mother?” she asked, selecting a piece of bread.
He could have skated around the subject, but decided to lay it all out there.
Marie had tough times ahead, and so did he.
“She’s the greatest. I couldn’t have asked for a better mom.
A heartbreaking sigh escaped him before he could stop it.
“Unfortunately, she won’t be around much longer.
She was diagnosed with a brain tumor a few months ago—glioblastoma.
Reaching across the table, she set her hand on top of his and squeezed. “I’m sorry. That’s a difficult diagnosis for anyone to receive.” Her tone held no pity or sugarcoating—just empathy, real and unforced. He could see exactly why she’d chosen medicine.
“Thank you. Some days are better than others. Today was a good one. My aunt—her sister—and I moved in to take care of her.” He rolled the stem of his glass between two fingers. “Between the two of us, we keep the house clean, cook, take Mom to her appointments, and just be there for her.”
“That’s all you can do.”
“It is.” He drew a slow breath. “I’m telling you because if there’s ever a night I have to cut things short or cancel at the last minute, it won’t be because I lost interest. My mom comes first right now. I want you to know that up front.”
She nodded once, no hesitation. “I get it. In a few weeks, the hospital will come first for me.”
“That’s what I figured. And I’m not scared off by that. I just wanted to start this honestly.” He had to get off the depressing subject so they could both enjoy the rest of the dinner. “So what does residency actually look like? I know the word and that it takes a few years, but that’s about it.”
“One year of being the lowest on the ladder,” she said. “Long shifts, call nights, having everything you do be questioned until you prove you can be trusted. Then five more years of the same, but with more seniority.”
“I didn’t know a residency lasted six years.”
“It depends. I’ll have three years of general surgery and another three specializing in plastic surgery.”
“Really? Wow. Did you know you wanted to be a plastic surgeon from the get-go?”
“Yes.” No hesitation, no softness around it.
“I’m mainly interested in reconstruction of deformities due to birth defects, injuries, and diseases.
.. the kind of work that gives someone their face or function back.
There aren’t many women in that lane,” she said, “which means I don’t get to be average. ”
There was no swagger or bravado in that statement—just fact. “You don’t sound average. Far from it.”
She took another sip of wine. “Come January second, my life will mostly consist of little sleep, vending machine dinners, and fighting to get assigned to the cases that actually teach you something—the difficult and strange ones that everyone else wants to get too.”
“Then I’m glad I met you before you disappeared behind all that chaos.”