Good Luck with That Page 12

  One night in the fall, my core group of friends and I went to a new restaurant. New Haven was always spawning new eateries, and this one featured tapas and a great drinks menu. There were seven of us—two couples and three singletons (two men who’d never asked me out, and myself). Monique and Reggie had just announced their engagement, which was hardly a surprise—they’d been together since the first day of Torts. We were toasting them, eating and talking and trying not to be too obnoxious as we discussed the latest case before the Supreme Court. After all, there were other people here, normal people with jobs and families. We ivory-tower people could be nice, too.

  Toward the end of our meal, a man in chef whites came over to our table. “I hope everything was to your liking tonight,” he said, a faint accent in his voice.

  “Oh, it was wonderful! Amazing! Well done!” came the chorus.

  The chef smiled, and I felt a warm tightness start in my stomach. His eyes stopped on me, and stayed there.

  “Everything was great,” I said.

  “I am so glad,” he said.

  His hair was dark and pulled back into a short ponytail, and he had a neat beard and mustache. He was a little shorter than average, and slender, and there was nothing really remarkable about him.

  Except his eyes. His eyes were . . . well. They were dark and turned down at the corners, big brown eyes with thick eyelashes. And his smile, God. He looked so happy. Just because we’d liked his food.

  “I hope you’ll come again,” he said.

  “Reggie Elliott,” said Reg, offering his hand. “This is my beautiful fiancée, Monique Fontaine.”

  “Rafael Santiago,” he said, and I practically slid off my chair.

  Now that was a name. And the way he said it . . . my God.

  “Hello,” murmured Helen, who was sitting next to me.

  My friends gave their names and shook his hand, and he made his way around the table, schmoozing like any good chef.

  “Where are you from, Rafael?” asked Bennett.

  “Barcelona,” he said, and I swear, my ovaries doubled in size.

  I was the last one at the table. He was talking to Helen now, and my heart was thudding and hot. I was abruptly nervous—what if I forgot my name? What was it again? What if my voice squeaked? What if I went into a fugue state and humped his leg?

  He took my hand in both of his. I definitely wanted to hump his leg. God! This was not like me! Lust and I collided, and I sucked in my stomach without thinking. His hands were warm and smooth, and he held mine with the faintest bit of pressure. An electric current twined up my arm, hot and tingling.

  I was supposed to speak, wasn’t I?

  “Georgia Sloane,” I said. “Dinner was excellent.” Did I sound normal? I hoped so. I wished I’d had an exotic name, like Marley, who was Marlena Apollonia DeFelice. My name was boring. Too WASPy. Too . . . forgettable. I didn’t even have a middle name.

  Get ahold of yourself, a part of my brain hissed. You met President Obama last year, remember? Calm down!

  “Georgia,” Rafael said. “I’m Rafe.” He held my hand a minute too long, and his brows came together a little, as if he was surprised. “I hope you’ll come again.”

  “No, yes! We will. Absolutely!” I babbled. “Thank you. Great. It was great.” Smooth, Georgia.

  He let go of my hand, which fell to my side, limp. “Can I get you anything else tonight?”

  The group assured him we were all set, and so he went back to the kitchen, and I tried hard not to watch him.

  “Friends, I believe Georgia has a crush,” Helen said, and I felt my face burn. I smiled and rolled my eyes amid their kind laughter, and I didn’t deny a thing.

  A minute later, the waitress came over with two bottles of champagne. “To toast the happy couple,” she said.

  I looked over at the kitchen—it was open, and Rafael Santiago was looking at me. Right at me. He gave a very old-world nod, a hint of a smile on his beautiful lips, and then went back to work.

  It took me three days of intense planning (and yes, crash dieting) to figure out how to get back to the restaurant while being incredibly casual about it. I asked my professor to lunch, told her a few of us had eaten at this great new restaurant—El Encanto, which I’d later learn was Spanish for the spell.

  I was already under his. Insert the cheesy music.

  When we walked in, Rafael came out of the kitchen almost immediately. “Georgia,” he said, and my name sounded round and beautiful and lovely. “I am so happy to see you again.” He took my hand in both of his again, and words failed me. Then he turned to my professor. “Hello, I am Rafael Santiago, one of the chefs here.”

  Lunch was interminable. It may have seemed like my professor and I were discussing the finer points of Sierra Club v. Morton, but I can assure you, my mind was elsewhere.

  When we’d paid the bill, I did something unprecedented. I lied. “Shoot,” I said, looking at my phone. “I have to return this call. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Sure thing, Georgia,” my professor said.

  I called Marley, who was, as ever, my go-to friend in times of awkwardness. She picked up right away.

  “Hello,” I said. “It’s Georgia Sloane returning your call.”

  “Why, hello, Georgia Sloane,” she answered merrily. “Did I butt-dial you? I don’t think so. How the hell are you?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. How can I help you?”

  “You could rub my feet. Why are we talking like this?”

  “Absolutely. I’d be happy to.”

  “Is this one of those weird phone calls where one of us is killing time so we don’t look like such dorks?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “And why are we killing time today, Ms. Sloane?”

  “I could be ready to make that move we discussed last April.” When we’d discussed my perpetually singleton state over mojitos, down at the Jersey Shore with Emerson. Hopefully, Marley would remember.

  She did. “Oh, my God, is there a man there?” she squeaked.

  “Not quite yet, no.” My face was pulsating, I was blushing so hard.

  “But we’re pretending to have a deep and meaningful conversation so he’ll notice you?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “In that case, I’d like to tell you that the president would like to appoint you to the Supreme Court. Can I tell him you said yes?”

  “That’s extremely flattering. Would it be all right if I think about it?”

  “No, lunkhead. It’s the Supreme Court! Say yes.”

  My heart froze, then charged ahead. Rafael Santiago had just come out of the kitchen and was looking at me.

  “Thank you so much for the offer. You’ll hear from me soon.”

  “You’d better call me tonight and tell me everything,” Marley said.

  “Of course. Thank you again.” I hung up and stuck the phone in my bag, and the chef approached. Even the soles of my feet broke out in sweat.

  “Did you enjoy your lunch?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, and my voice cracked.

  He smiled. “Do you have to leave right away?”

  “No.”

  “May I sit down?”

  God, his manners. “Yes.” Me, on the other hand . . . I should try to come up with something other than one-word answers.

  It was past two, and the lunch crowd had mostly cleared out. We looked at each other, though I couldn’t hold eye contact for more than two seconds.

  “Um . . . how long have you worked here, Rafael?” I asked, wondering if that was a stupid question, wondering if he just wanted to ask me if he could cater for Yale, wondering if he was looking for a green-card marriage, wondering why a guy who looked and spoke the way he did would hit on me, if indeed he was hitting on me.

  “About a month,” he s
aid. “Before this, I worked in Pamplona, where my father grew up.” He smiled. “It’s a beautiful city. Have you ever been?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Ah. Someday, I hope.”

  Those were eyes you could get lost in.

  “Georgia Sloane, would you have dinner with me?” he said at the very same moment I said, “Do you use a lot of butter in your cooking?” because it was the only thing I could think of to say.

  He laughed, and I fell in love with him right then and there.

  We talked for two hours that day—two hours!—until he had to get back to the kitchen.

  Of course I went out with him—to a movie, because I’d been terrified that I’d run out of things to talk about.

  It was my first date. Ever.

  He took my hand in the darkened theater, smiled at me, and didn’t say a word during the movie. For the first time, I didn’t even want popcorn. His hand was warm and calloused, and he held mine firmly, and to this day, I have no recollection of what movie we saw.

  Afterward, we walked home, had a deep discussion about Matt Damon versus Ben Affleck. It was easier for my lawyer’s mind to get started on a conversation with a “versus” in it. At my little apartment, as I fumbled for my keys and wondered what normal people did (ask him up? ask him if he wants coffee? a drink? tell him to drive safely?), he took my face in his hands and kissed me.

  Just a gentle press of the lips, warm and sweet and perfect. My keys fell out of my hand, and I kissed him back.

  I’d never been kissed before.

  It didn’t matter. That kiss showed me what kissing was all about.

  “Can I see you again?” he whispered, his mouth barely leaving mine.

  “Yes, please.” I felt him smile. One more kiss, oh, yes, I loved kissing, my whole body was melting against his, my insides squeezing and pulsing. He pulled back a little, kissed me on the forehead, then rested his forehead against mine. Our bodies were barely touching, but to me, it was like we were wrapped in gold, this man I barely knew and already loved. He cupped my face in his hands and looked at me, and I thought I could stare into his bottomless dark eyes for the rest of my life.

  “I will call you tomorrow,” he said, then went down the steps. I watched him go, stunned by that golden warmth, by his charm, his kindness, his specialness.

  He turned and smiled. “Good night, Georgia Sloane.”

  I may have waved, still in the sweet shock of first love.

  He did call me the next day.

  We went on another date, and another. His hours were crappy—he worked six nights a week, but he had Mondays off, and we did ridiculously romantic things like drive down to the Maritime Aquarium at Norwalk to watch the seals, take walks at East Rock Park, wander through the old cemetery in the middle of New Haven, meander through the Yale Center for British Art, which I hadn’t managed to see in three years at school. And, eventually, we even slept together.

  That one took months to accomplish.

  Oh, we made out a lot. He was the best kisser on the face of the earth. Sometimes, I could forget my physical being and just melt and surge with the hot wanting, the slide of our mouths, the taste of him, his beautiful skin and silky hair.

  I wanted to sleep with him. I just didn’t exactly want him to sleep with me, because then he’d have to see me without clothes, and I wasn’t sure I could stand that.

  So, until the fateful day, I was the Couch Contortionist, because there were always areas I didn’t want Rafe touching. He was physically perfect, at least in my eyes, which was terribly unfair. He could put his hand on my breast, but not on my waist. There was a roll of fat there. What if he felt the Super-Smoothie-Under-Shaper that had cost me $125 and squished my torso into one firm, sausage-like casing? Even him touching my upper arms bothered me. I told him I was ticklish. That only got me so far.

  He thought I was shy, rather than petrified. He asked me, gently, if I had had any bad experiences with men. And yes, I had . . . of the empty-as-a-vacuum kind, because at the age of twenty-seven, I was still a virgin.

  Here’s another confession. I was putting him off until I could lose more weight.

  I loved seeing Rafe’s eyes light up as I ate something he’d made. It was almost foreplay, knowing his hands and creativity had gone into making what was now in my mouth, and he wanted me to like it, to love it, to want more. But the calories, the calories. Weren’t my thighs big enough? I had to be so careful, more than ever, with everything I ate.

  I knew we would sleep together, and I knew he’d be good at what he did.

  But in the back of my mind echoed every insult, every unkind nickname, every taunt my body had ever elicited. Hunter, loudly exclaiming his disgust at my rolls of fat at the country club pool when I was six and I thought I looked cute in my first two-piece suit. My mother’s constant admonition not to eat so much, so often . . . or, conversely, telling me to eat more kale, more lettuce, more appetite suppressants. I remembered going to the mall with my friends to buy the requisite white dresses for graduation from Concord Academy, Kendra Hughes trying—and failing—to zip me into the biggest size they had while our other friends waited outside the dressing room, clutching their teeny, single-digit-sized dresses, feeling sorry for me.

  So I put him off until I’d lost fifteen pounds . . . by which time my fear that he’d break up with me for not sleeping with him overshadowed my body image woes.

  On the fateful night, I made him turn off the lights.

  “I think you are very beautiful, Georgia,” he said, a little sadness in his eyes.

  “Thanks,” I said briskly. “But I think it’ll be awkward enough, though, don’t you?”

  “No, I do not,” he said, and there went another chunk of my heart.

  But he turned off the lamp, and when he kissed me, when we lay down on the bed, free from clothes, it was everything. Even though I was still imperfect. Even though I winced when he ran his hand over my abdomen.

  “Your skin is so soft,” he whispered, kissing my neck, my shoulder, his hands finding all the places no one had ever touched.

  This love was like being sucked into a tornado, a thrilling, terrifying ride, not knowing where I would land, if I’d be broken when I did. It was so foreign. That saying about love making the world new wasn’t enough to encompass my feelings. It was more like I was an alien visiting a strange planet. Being loved, feeling safe . . . being first in someone’s eyes was not something I understood.

  He brought me home to his family in Staten Island—mother, father, three younger sisters, two aunts, three uncles, seven cousins, two grandparents. They were lovely, hugging me, Rafe occasionally translating for an aunt or uncle who didn’t speak English, his sisters teasing him about dating someone “ten times smarter than you, Rafe. A hundred times. A million.” I smiled and laughed and even ate a little bit.

  “They loved you,” Rafe said smugly when we left. “As I knew they would.”

  But they didn’t love me, of course. How could they? I’d been completely fake, forcing myself to talk, to spin answers about my family into something happier, to be bright and cheerful and Marley-esque.

  The real me was the one who’d gone to the bathroom and pressed my knees together to stop their shaking. The real me had hidden food in her napkin and dumped it in the toilet because I couldn’t afford the calories. The real me yearned to be home, alone and safe. The real me yearned for Pringles and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, because I didn’t know how to do this relationship thing.

  And yet, I loved him. I loved him so much it was too much. He had such power over me. The thought of him leaving me made my entire soul shudder in fear.

  He wanted to meet my family. Dad and Cherish and the girls, no problem. They adored him. When Rafael held Milan, then a baby, I had to look away, my heart so full I thought it might rip apart. The fear grew and grew the longer we w
ere together.

  When I finally took him home to meet my mother, Hunter and Mason, I felt almost a sense of relief. This false image of me would take a hit, and he wouldn’t love me so much, and it would be easier. More real. I wouldn’t feel that sense of doom that this beautiful, alien world of love wouldn’t last, because the longer it did, the more I wanted to stay there.

  “Hola,” my mother said as we went in. “¿Habla usted inglés?”

  “Sí,” he said, “pero me alegra tanto que hables español, Señora Sloane.”

  “I don’t . . . I’m sorry, I don’t speak your language,” Mom said, her voice louder than necessary. “Would . . . you . . . like . . . to—”

  “Knock it off, Mom,” I said. “His English is better than yours, and he’s not deaf.”

  “Is that how you introduce us?” Mom said with a martyrish sigh. She took a sip of clear liquid, which I’d bet my left arm wasn’t water.

  “Mother, I’d like you to meet Rafael Esteban Jesús Santiago,” I said, using his full name for maximum effect. “Rafe, my mother, Kathryn Ellerington Sloane. Big Kitty to her friends.” The dear man didn’t bat an eye.

  “A genuine pleasure, Mrs. Sloane.” He took her hand and bowed over it, like Mr. Darcy. Mom looked at me, confused, but stood aside so we could go into the chilly white foyer.

  Mason, then eight, was waiting eagerly to one side. Hunter’s heavy hand gripped his shoulder, lest the child show happiness or enthusiasm. “Hi, guys,” I said. “Rafe, this is my brother, Hunter, and his wonderful son, Mason. Hi, sweetie.”

  I opened my arms for a hug, and my nephew wriggled away and wrapped his skinny arms around me. Then he offered his hand to Rafe. “I’m her nephew. Her favorite person.”

  Rafe laughed. “I will remember that. It is very nice to meet you, Mason. I have heard many good things about you.” He offered his hand to my brother. “Hello, Hunter. A pleasure.”

  “You’re a cook?” Hunter said, shaking Rafe’s hand once—hard—then dropping it.

  “Yes. A chef, actually.”

  “Same thing, right?” Before Rafe could answer, Hunter left the foyer. “Can we get this going, Ma?” he asked over his shoulder. “I realize George has never brought anyone home before, but I’m starving.”