Chapter 3 #4
Our seats are indeed excellent—center orchestra, close enough to see the actors' expressions but far enough back to take in the full spectacle of the production. Desmond seems pleased with himself as we settle in, and I have to admit that he's put a lot of effort into this date. I don’t know if he’s hoping this will be something more or if this is how he tries to charm every woman he takes out, but I’m impressed.
I try not to show it too much—I don’t want him to realize just how inexperienced I really am when it comes to romance, but I also want him to know that I appreciate all of this.
“This has been a wonderful night so far,” I murmur as I sink down next to him, smoothing down my skirt. “Really, the best date I could have thought of.”
“It’s not over yet.” He smiles, placing his hand over mine on the armrest between us, and I let myself enjoy the feeling of a man’s hand on mine.
It’s an intimacy that I haven’t had often, and I hadn’t realized how touch-starved I was until tonight, when Desmond can’t seem to keep his hands off me at any possible opportunity.
Hadestown is spectacular. The music is haunting and beautiful, the performances are incredible, and the staging is unlike anything I've ever seen. I find myself completely absorbed in the story of Orpheus and Eurydice, their love and their loss, the Greek tragedy of it all. I stop thinking about the night and how it’s going and how I feel or don’t feel about what Desmond has said, and just lose myself in the production.
During intermission, Desmond buys us drinks and we discuss the show.
He's clearly knowledgeable about theater—he’s been to nearly every show off Broadway, and plenty here in Boston and Seattle—and his insights are thoughtful and interesting.
I find myself warming to him even more, glad that I agreed to this date.
It feels like being on a date with someone who is my equal, someone who understands the world we both live in and its challenges, but who doesn’t seem to be trying to seduce me just for who I am.
At least, I haven’t gotten that feeling yet.
"The actress playing Eurydice is incredible,” I say as I sip my champagne, enjoying the fizz of the bubbles on my tongue. “And she’s beautiful, honestly.”
"She is," he agrees. "Though I have to say, I prefer the woman next to me." He gives me a half-smile and a wink, and I shake my head, laughing through my drink.
It's a cheesy line, but the way he says it, I can’t help but think that he means it. "Flatterer."
"Just honest," he says, moving closer to me in the crowded lobby. "I'm having a wonderful time tonight, Annie."
"So am I," I say, and it's true. Despite my earlier reservations, I am enjoying myself.
The second act is even better than the first, and by the time the final curtain falls, I'm emotionally wrung out in the best possible way. The audience gives a standing ovation, and I find myself clapping enthusiastically.
"That was incredible," I say as we file out with the crowd. The theater is warm, and I’ve taken off my jacket until we get to the lobby, leaving my shoulders bare except for the thin straps of the dress. I see Desmond’s eyes graze over the bare skin, heat flickering there in the emerald green.
"I'm glad you enjoyed it," Desmond says, looking pleased. "The night's not over yet, though. I thought we could go for drinks."
I pause, realizing that I’m not in any hurry to end the evening. "Where did you have in mind?"
"There's a place I know. Very exclusive, very private. I think you'll like it."
Something in his tone makes me hesitate. I lick my lips, and I see his gaze drop to my mouth, his pupils darker than before. It feels like the room around us momentarily blurs, like it’s just us for a moment, and I take a nervous breath. "What kind of place?"
Desmond smiles, taking my elbow as we move through the crowd. "A speakeasy. Very authentic, very discreet. The kind of place where we can actually have a conversation without being overheard."
I glance around at the crowd of theatergoers and spot Leon near the exit, watching us carefully.
The idea of somewhere more private is appealing, but something about Desmond's eagerness makes me cautious. I have no plans to let this date turn into anything more than that—not tonight, at least. I’m not even sure if I’m going to let him kiss me goodnight, yet.
"I don't know.” I bite my lip. "It's getting late, and I have an early meeting tomorrow."
"Come on," he says, his hand finding the small of my back and applying gentle pressure. "One drink. I promise I'll have you home at a reasonable hour." He smiles at me. “Not before midnight, probably, but you won’t turn into a pumpkin. I promise.”
That prickly feeling skates over the back of my neck again, but I push it away.
So what if he’s being eager, I tell myself.
We’ve been casting around the idea of this date for weeks.
He said himself that he was thrilled when we finally settled on it.
He’s just pulling out all the stops to make sure that there’s a second one.
I find myself agreeing, despite my reservations. "Okay. One drink."
His smile is triumphant. “You’re going to love it,” he promises, as we head back out toward where the valet has brought the car around.
I let out a sigh of relief as the heated leather of the seats sinks through the silk of my dress and into my skin, thawing out over the short ride to the bar.
The speakeasy is hidden beneath a nondescript building in the North End, accessible only through an unmarked door and down a narrow staircase.
Desmond gives the password to a man behind a slot in the door, and then we're ushered into a dimly lit space that looks like it traveled forward from the 1920s.
The décor is all dark wood and brass fixtures, with intimate booths lining the walls and a small stage where a jazz trio is playing softly.
The clientele is clearly upscale—well-dressed men and women speaking in low voices around dimly lit small tables, narrow booths built into the walls, and the scent of smoke and perfume coloring the air.
A bartender in a suit with his hair gelled back and a thinly waxed pencil mustache is shaking a cocktail.
"This is amazing," I say, genuinely impressed. "How did you find this place?"
"I have my sources," Desmond says mysteriously, guiding me to a corner booth that’s dimly lit enough for privacy, but still gives us an ample view of the room. "What would you like to drink?"
"Surprise me," I say, sliding into the booth. The leather is soft and worn, and the lighting is so dim that I can barely make out Desmond's features across from me.
Desmond smiles. “Sweet, sour, spicy? Gin, whiskey, vodka?”
“Sweet and gin,” I tell him, an answering smile on my own lips. I feel like we’ve been cast back in time here, and he was right—this place is worth whatever sleep I lose because we’ve been out late.
He goes to the bar and orders for both of us.
I watch him go, enjoying the view of his leanly muscled body and the handsome profile of his face as he leans across the bar.
He comes back after a moment, his gaze lingering on me as if I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and I have to admit it’s as intoxicating as any of these drinks could be.
Our order arrives quickly—a Bee’s Knees for me and a whiskey neat for him, served by a waitress in a flapper-style dress who calls Desmond by name.
"You're a regular here," I observe, feeling a small flash of jealousy. The waitress is gorgeous, stick-thin with sharp cheekbones and finger-waves in her short black hair, and I can’t help but wonder how they know each other so well.
“I’ve been here a few times,” Desmond says with a smirk. “It’s one of my favorite places.” He raises his glass in a toast. "To new beginnings."
"To new beginnings," I echo, clinking my glass against his.
The cocktail is delicious—gin and honey, and lemon, sweet and a little tart. I take another sip and feel the alcohol warming my chest.
"So," Desmond says, leaning back in the booth. "How is your family? I know about Ronan, of course, but what about your other brother? Tristan, isn't it? I think I’ve met him fewer times in person than I have you."
"Tristan lives in Miami now," I say. "He's married, expecting his first child. He stays busy. I haven’t seen him since…” I swallow, hating the pall that bringing it up again might cast over the night. “Since the funeral.”
“Ah.” Desmond gives me a curious look, his expression smooth, although I think I see a flash of pain in his eyes. “Does Tristan not get along well with the rest of the family, then?”
“It’s not that.” I shake my head, taking another sip.
“He didn’t get along well with our father, that’s true, but Padraigh spent a lot of time in Miami watching him, all the same.
He just needed to… strike out on his own.
And now that he has, and he’s got all these responsibilities in Miami, he can’t come home as often.
” I bite my lip, thinking of how for years, the three of us—me, Ronan, and Tristan—were all here in Boston.
It feels strange, having one third of us gone.
“I heard what happened to your father,” Desmond says sympathetically. “As the head of the Connellys, it affected us as well. I understand Ronan’s decision. Agree with it, even.” He says it as if that should matter, and I purse my lips, wondering why that rubs me the wrong way.