Chapter 21
When I told Trish I was having dinner with Gabe, she made it her personal mission to get me together for the occasion. I had
neglected to pack more than a few sundresses. When I showed Trish the selections, she vetoed them.
“We’re not dating,” I insisted. “I don’t need a date outfit.”
“Anywhere you go with a man who is single, smart, and fine is a date,” Trish insisted. “I’ll be there in an hour.”
Sixty-three minutes later, I was buzzing her into the gate. Two minutes after that, she was walking up the steps. This time
she didn’t have any bags.
I flopped down on the couch.
“Oh no,” Trish said, popping her fingers. “There is no time for that. You have to find a dress, get a pedicure, and get some
hair removed from your face and legs.”
“I wouldn’t have to shave my legs if you’d let me wear jeans.”
“Well, I won’t. Change out of that house bra and get your flip-flops on.”
There was no point in pretending I wasn’t game for whatever she was suggesting. I missed my girl, so I got myself ready.
Trish handed me her keys, declaring she’d already driven an hour and was tired.
“I have no idea where to shop around here,” I said.
She pulled her seat belt on and tapped a button that lit up the navigation panel. “We’re going to Johns Island.”
“Why so far?”
Trish pushed her head into the leather headrest and rolled her neck so that she was looking at me. “I have a gift card waiting
to be used at a very unique shop.”
The automated voice announced, “Your destination is in eighteen miles.”
Thirty minutes later, we were in the driveway of a house. Trish opened the door. “Trust me like ya know me.”
I recognized the woman who owned the house. She was the president of a large book club that frequently hosted Trish.
Trish introduced us. “Imani and Alex, meet each other.”
Imani was pleasant and said, “It’s long overdue. Trish always talks about you, and I’ve read a few of your books.”
I thanked her for that after she offered us sweet tea and Benne Wafers. Then she showed me into a room that had been converted to a shopping space. It
was jam-packed with clothing in every corner. It didn’t appear that anything was a duplicate.
“Vy Boutique is the best-kept secret in Charleston,” Trish said, “that is, when you want something original.”
Something expensive, I thought. What was she thinking bringing me here?
“Look at this,” Trish said, handing me a dress.
It was the first thing I put my hands on, and I was already in love.
It was a knee-length A-line with a knot over the plunging neckline and the perfect shade of amethyst. My favorite color.
It was made out of a fabric that was dangerously similar to, if not actually, silk.
“I can’t afford this place, and you do not have a gift card,” I said, fairly certain this was not the kind of store that had that type of technology.
“I have a credit, and that’s the same thing.” She held the dress up to me. “Mission complete. This is totally you.”
“Try it on,” Imani said, pointing to a fitting room.
I paused, two seconds away from asking the price, but yielded to the stony look in my friend’s determined eyes.
Once I had the dress on, I was in love. It was more gorgeous on than it was on the hanger, but I’d found the price tag inside.
It was so far out of my budget that it was laughable. I opened the door, and Trish nodded. “I knew it was you.”
“I’m not buying this. It’s ridiculous that I’m in here looking for a dress for a date like a sixteen-year-old. I have clothes.”
“Boring ones,” Trish said.
I ignored her jab about my wardrobe because she was right, especially if one compared it to hers. I defended myself with “Gabe
will be wearing jeans. He always does.”
“According to his pictures, he was anointed to wear jeans,” Trish said, accurately capturing him. “Probably from a very young
age. You, my dear, inherited something from ya mama.”
“What’s that?”
“A big butt.”
I released a breath through my nose. “I do not have a big butt.”
“Yes, you do. One that would be fabulous if you put it in custom-cut jeans. So unless you’re going to wear one of those shapers
that pulls everything up, you need a dress.”
I didn’t realize how much I had turned into a character in one of my romance novels. I didn’t write about the super-pretty heroines. My characters were everyday women. Pretty enough, but none of that seemingly unnatural beauty stuff. I kept it real. I hated shapewear.
Trish did some shopping of her own, and forty minutes later, we were in the car with the dress she’d put on an Amex card with
the other pieces, headed for the spa for my pedicure and hair removal.
Trish joined me for the pedicure.
“You have to let me pay for the dress.”
She waved me off. “Learn how to accept a gift. Besides, I am living vicariously through you right now.”
I selected a few shades of polish that would match my dress and climbed into the chair the manicurist directed me to.
Trish followed, taking the seat next to me. “You deserve a nice evening in a pretty dress. How long has it been?”
She probably knew better than I did because she kept tabs on everything. I fought sighing but couldn’t hold it in. “I don’t
know, but I also don’t want to get my heart all invested . . .”
“You’re not giving him your body, so what else do you have?”
I laughed. “You are infuriating.”
“No. I am your best friend. I know you’re scared, but you’ll always be alone if you don’t step out of your comfort zone and
spend time with a man.”
I sighed again.
“He likes you. You two have so much in common with the writing.”
All writers weren’t the same, and Trish knew that. I didn’t respond.
She reached for my hand across the table and squeezed. “What’s the problem?”
I relented and told her the truth. “I’m intimidated by him. You haven’t seen him. He’s so worldly and deep.”
“I checked out one of his interviews on YouTube. I know what you mean.” Trish shimmied her shoulders teasingly. “Maybe he likes that you’re not worldly and deep—that you counterbalance each other.”
I hadn’t considered that, but it was a little insulting. “So I’m the opposite of him?”
“You’re thinking too much about who he is,” Trish continued. “I think the man wrote a book that was important to him, and he put his entire heart into it. He
never expected it to take him to the places it’s taken him. His words, not mine.”
“He’s always had this super-intellectual way about him, even when he was selling books in the store.”
Trish squeezed my hand again and let it go. “Alex, he asked you out. The same way you see his personality, he sees yours.”
“I hear you, but . . .” My words trailed off. “I have got to get my career back on track.”
“You will get your career back on track, but you have to give yourself space and time to be creative.” She picked up one of
the bottles of purple polish I selected and handed it to me. “The writing will come. For tonight just be that girl in one
of your books.”
Gabe was not a man who was late, which meant I was out of time. I wanted a few more minutes with my hair, but it wasn’t going
to get any better. Except for the perspiration, which one might assume was a dewy setting spray, I looked pretty.
My toes were painted lavender. The color contrasted fashionably with my yellow patent leather platform sandals. I grabbed
my new favorite thing, a lemon-colored crochet boho bag, and peeked out the window for Gabe.
Tires crunched the gravel as Gabe’s car pulled off the road and onto the parking area behind my car. Within seconds he was up the steps and on the porch. I didn’t wait for him to ring the bell. I slipped out the door like a nervous teenager on her first date.
Gabe inspected me with way too much interest for a casual outing between friends and said, “You look great.”
We stood there with the crickets filling the silence before I asked, “Should we go?”
Gabe looked at his watch. “Yeah, we’ve got reservations.” He was dressed in jeans—designer-looking ones from what I could
see of the stitching—and a jersey polo shirt that stretched across his chest, announcing loudly that he had abs. Tight ones.
I was glad I wasn’t underdressed for wherever we were eating. Reservations didn’t mean fancy in Charleston. It just meant
you would have a table.
Gabe extended his arm, and I walked beside him down the steps to the car.
“Did you want me to put the top up?” he asked, looking at my hair.
I hadn’t even noticed the convertible top was down. I had enough gel and edge control to hold down a mobile home in a hurricane.
Humidity was not wrecking my life tonight. “It’s fine.”
The ride up Highway 17 couldn’t have been more picturesque if I’d written the scene myself. The heat had let up some, and
the breeze carried the smell of honeysuckle flowers like God had planted them just for this night. Gabe pulled into a parking
lot and guided the car into a space in front of Carolima’s Lowcountry Cuisine. Gabe opened his door and popped around to let
me out.
The convertible, the breezy night air, and Gabe’s presence took me back to my college years when life was light and free.
My purple sundress and strappy sandals took ten years off me.
I felt like I was gliding on a moving walkway into the building.
Carolima’s was a popular catering company serving not only soul food but Gullah dishes.
Gabe pointed us in the direction of the building next door, Sweetgrass Hall, a popular banquet hall owned by Carolima’s.
“What’s happening here?” I asked, too curious to wait and see.
“This is a pop-up hosted by a friend. He’s working on getting his own spot, but in the meantime, he has weekly dinners at
different locations. It’s exclusive and secretive. You have to be on a list to know what’s next. The food is always excellent.”
As we walked in, everyone greeted Gabe. He introduced me to each person, and then we were ushered by the hostess to what had
to be the best table in the place.
Afrobeat music was being piped through the speakers. The lighting was soft and was intentionally doing the job of making everyone
look good.