Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
THOMAS
The candlelight glistens against the golden highlights of Finley’s hair. She looks positively gorgeous tonight. “Let’s pretend neither of us know what lies ahead and just enjoy tonight for what it is,” I tell her. “Our first, of what I hope will be many, dates.”
Finley removes her napkin from between her silverware and puts it on her lap. “I’ll try.”
The waiter comes over and greets us before asking, “May I bring you something from the bar to start?”
Picking up the wine list, I ask my date, “How about a glass of champagne? We are celebrating after all.”
She nods her head slowly. “That sounds very nice, thank you.”
I order a bottle and when the waiter leaves, I tell Finley, “If I hadn’t met you, I’d already be on my way back to New York.”
“I find that hard to believe,” she says. I notice her looking at my sweater as she reaches out her hand and rests it on my forearm. Within moments she’s petting me.
I want to tell her that I like it when she touches me, but I’m afraid if I draw attention to it, she might stop. So, instead, I say, “I’m not lying to you. Getting to know you has been the highlight of being here. You are a big part of my trying to make a go of life in Elk Lake.”
She blushes delicately. “Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
Leaning toward me, she says, “You make me feel more special than any man ever has. I’m not sure I know how to process that.”
“You deserve nothing but the best.”
The waiter comes back and presents the bottle. Once it’s opened and assessed, he pours our glasses while telling us the specials. Finley orders the halibut with roasted asparagus and fingerling potatoes. I get the prime rib with mashed potatoes.
I can tell Finley wants to tell the waiter something, but she seems hesitant. That’s when I turn to our server and say, “I’d appreciate it if you could make sure the asparagus and potatoes on my date’s plate aren’t touching each other, or the fish, for that matter.”
He looks at me like I’m a controlling lunatic, but at the same time I feel the pressure of Finley’s hand as she squeezes my arm. “Thank you,” she whispers.
When the waiter walks away, I smile at her. “Any time.”
“Tell me more about your parents,” Finley says.
I lean back in my chair which causes her hand to slip off my arm. Darn it. “My dad is a retired cardiologist. He worked at the same hospital I used to.”
“What about your mom?”
“She stayed home and raised my sister and me,” I tell her. “While other people had nannies shuttling their kids all around the city for various activities, my mom was determined to be our main caretaker. Her motivation increased when Vivie was diagnosed.”
“My mom did the same,” she says. “She also tended the garden, the chickens, and canned most of our food for the winter.”
I try to imagine my mother gardening and I can’t. Our farm fresh food came from the Union Square farmers’ market, and our flowers came from the bodega on the corner. “That sounds like a wonderful way to grow up,” I tell her.
“It was. I mean, it was all I knew. A lot of my friends had parents who both worked, and while they had more things—you know, vacations, and more clothes—I had a super strong relationship with my mom and dad. I wouldn’t have traded that for anything.”
“I hope I get to meet your parents someday,” I tell her. “I’m looking forward to you meeting mine next week,”
She looks alarmed. “You want me to meet them?”
“I assumed you’d want to see the looks on their faces when I presented them with my calendar.”
Finley smirks. “I would like to see that, but don’t you think it’s a little too soon for me to meet them?”
“No,” I assure her. Then I tease, “We don’t have to introduce you as my fiancée.” Her cheeks turn pink, so I add, “You’re the reason I’m finally getting back at them, after all.”
She seems to relax after that. “We’re going to have to finish up your pictures tomorrow if there’s any hope of getting the calendar here on time.”
“I’ll pay to have it shipped overnight, if I have to,” I assure her.
The rest of the meal is spent in enjoyable conversation. I share some of my most embarrassing stories, like the time I walked into a street sign when I heard someone call my name; and the time I was on my first date in high school, and I tripped and fell into Bethesda Fountain in Central Park.
I learn that Finley doesn’t like hamsters or porcupines. She likes caramel syrup in her hot chocolate, but does not like actual caramel because it’s too sticky.
Our meals are delicious and we both clean our plates. For dessert we share a pear galette and a lemon tart. Finley also orders a hot chocolate.
When all our dishes have been cleared, she leans back in her chair and declares, “That was the best meal I’ve ever had. I’m stuffed.”
“It was my favorite in Elk Lake.”
“What was your favorite meal ever?”
I don’t even have to think about it. “It was a footlong hot dog, pink cotton candy, and a strawberry lemonade. I was ten and my parents took me and my sister to Coney Island.”
Finley laughs. “I think maybe your favorite meal has gotten tangled up with your favorite memory.”
“That’s possible,” I tell her. “Although I got pretty sick on Dino’s Wonder Wheel. Which was not a great memory.”
“What’s that?” she wants to know.
“It’s a gigantic Ferris wheel. The cars toward the middle slide back and forth while the whole thing spins around. It’s the oldest ride at Coney Island,” I tell her.
She looks a little green around the gills. “I’m not a huge fan of amusement parks.”
“They’re very stimulating,” I tell her.
Finley’s eyebrows knit together. “Does your sister like them?”
“She went for the food,” I tell her. “She used to wear her noise canceling headphones, and she’d bring a blanket along. That way she could sit down and throw it over her head. You know, create a sort of sensory deprivation cave?”
“I like to make a cave out of my bedcovers,” she says excitedly. “It feels like I’m in the middle of a soft hug.”
Finley is nothing short of magnificent. I love finding out about her likes and dislikes. I even find her more peculiar quirks to be charming. Reaching over, I take her hand in mine. “You’re a lot of fun to spend time with.”
She lowers her eyes to her lap before slowly returning them to my gaze. “So are you.”
“What do you say we get out of here and go sit in the main room next to the fireplace?” I ask. When I looked up the lodge online, the website header was a picture of rocking chairs in front of a roaring fire. I can’t think of a better place for us to keep the evening going.
“That sounds very romantic,” she says. She’s blushing again, which is another thing I love about Finley. You know how she’s feeling just by looking at her.
After paying the check, I ask the waiter if he would put the vase of flowers out in the lobby so we can collect them easily before we leave. I slip him an extra twenty for his kindness.
As we leave the restaurant, Finley says, “I hope there are chairs available for us.”
“There will be,” I assure her. I know this because after booking our table at the restaurant, I called the front desk and reserved the two best seats.
Walking into the great room is an enchanting experience.
There are love seats and overstuffed chairs all around, creating intimate gathering spots.
There’s only one chandelier here and it’s positively enormous.
The flickering lights reflect around the room like a thousand fireflies in the sky, making it feel like you’ve walked into an enchanted forest.
The far wall consists of a giant vaulted picture window that looks out into the woods.
There are several torches burning outside for effect.
On the opposite end of the room is a giant stone fireplace that looks big enough to walk into.
There are eight rocking chairs situated opposite it.
Two of them are empty except for the “reserved” signs hanging over their backs.
“You’ve thought of everything,” Finley says, looking enormously contented.
There’s something about her that makes me want to impress her. In the past I’ve dated women who are nonchalant about everything. They act like they’re bored because they’ve already done everything there is to do. Finley is refreshingly nothing like that.
“I wanted tonight to be special,” I tell her while removing the signs.
As we sit down, she says, “I don’t think I’ll ever go on a date this good again.”
“I feel like you’ve just issued a challenge,” I tell her. She stares at me wide-eyed, so I tell her, “I don’t want this to be your best date ever. I want you to go on much, much better ones.”
Her eyes turn sad. “I’m guessing that’s not going to happen. But even if no one ever treats me this nicely again, I will always remember what you did for me.”
My heart physically aches at hearing this. “It sounds like you’re saying you’re not going to go out with me again.”
Finley stares at me for the longest time before saying, “I’ll go out with you again. I just don’t know how many more times after that.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t think I’m enough to keep you in Elk Lake, Thomas. And when you go back to New York, I don’t want you to break my heart.”
I don’t really know how to respond to that. I can’t assure her I’m not going to leave. If my work situation doesn’t get better, I won’t be happy in my career. Yet I’m enjoying getting to know Finley so much that I’m starting to wonder if I could ever walk away from her.
“One date at a time,” I remind her. Then I take her hand in mine and give it a squeeze. “Let’s just enjoy each moment as it comes.”
“I’ll try,” she tells me.
But something in her tone makes me nervous.