A Pinch of Ooh La La by Renee Swindle

Let’s do this.
    The host greeted me while I searched the restaurant (wood tables, open kitchen, a full bar lit up like Christmas) for Samuel. I was saying a little prayer that he’d at least somewhat resemble the photo he’d posted on the Web si—
    There.
    A table near the left wall.
    His skin was the same dark brown as Dad’s, and it glowed warm and soft under the dim lights. Skin you could lose yourself in, I immediately thought. He sat up straight as he read the menu; his shirt was crisp and his jacket was draped neatly behind him on his chair. And there, right below his perfectly kissable lips, was the Cary Grant cleft in his chin as promised in his photos. He was so gorgeous, so fiiiiine, as Bailey would say, my first impulse was to crawl into his lap and say,
Marry me?
My second impulse was to run home as quickly as possible and change back into the dress. I could hear Rita in my ear then:
I told you! I told you!
    I started to take a step backward, but as soon as our eyes locked, I knew it was too late to turn and run.
    It was when he began to stand from the table that I saw EllaFitzgerald, enshrouded in a golden light and magical pixie dust, floating down from jazz heaven. Not the skinny Ella but the Ella who’d dwarfed Louis Armstrong in size. She wore a yellow dress that flowed around her feet as she drifted to and fro behind an unknowing Samuel. When music began to play, she beckoned me forward and said in her surprisingly girlish soprano,
He’s so handsome! You are so lucky! Don’t be afraid. Come say hello!
She then began singing “Someone to Watch Over Me.”
    When we were kids, Dad would tell us that all musicians went to jazz heaven after they left the earth, and sometimes they liked to come back to pay a visit. Bendrix often said he’d heard gunshots before he went to bed as a kid, while I was being tucked in with stories about jazz heaven. What could I say? That’s how we grew up. And while I didn’t really see visions (no, I wasn’t that wacky), I did like to imagine the greats looking out for me.
    On the night I’d first met Avery, for instance, I’d imagined Miles Davis paying me a visit. He leaned next to one of Avery’s paintings at the gallery, playing “My Funny Valentine” on his trumpet. I stared at Avery and then at Miles and knew I was done for. When I stepped closer, Miles said in his gravelly, throaty voice:
This Avery Brooks motherfucker is the fuckin’ real deal; he’s a fuckin’ cool cat.
(Sorry to drop the f-bombs, but that was Miles—
F this, F that
.) He continued:
If I was alive right now instead of in this fucking fantasy of yours, I’d buy all these motherfucking paintings.
I should’ve known that seeing an image of Miles when I’d met Avery was a bad sign, though.
Miles and that fusion period.
What was that about? Dad, and everyone, said he needed to expand—that’s what a genius does, but I still thought his foray into that period opened the road to all the pseudo-contemporary mess we have to put up—
    â€œAbbey? I’m Samuel.”
    â€œYes, you are. I’m Abbey.” I’d been so lost in thought I hadn’t realized he had approached me.
    â€œYes, nice to meet you.”
    â€œI should have worn a dress.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    I felt myself grow hot. Had I said that out loud?
Shit. “Nothing.” I reached for a save: “I just said I feel—slightly underdressed.”
    â€œYou look fine.” I caught him looking me over as he pulled out my chair.
    I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath until he smiled full on, a razzle-dazzle, top-hat-and-tails, kick-up-your-heels smile. “It’s very nice to meet you in person.”
    Ella peeked out from behind him with a big grin and pinched both of his cheeks.
He likes you! Isn’t he cute?
She sang a few bars of “Stay As Sweet As You Are” before