Hot Flash by Carrie H. Johnson Page A

I won’t say I did not get caught up in the attention from the get-go. It was mesmerizing. I was spellbound—until the first time my phone buzzed.
    It was Nareece.
    We nibbled on the appetizer of escargot with butter, garlic and parsley and made goo-goo eyes at each other like a scene from a sweet-sixteen-and-never-been-kissed movie. No direction needed. By the sixth Nareece disturbance, I was sufficiently stupefied and needed a break to shake off the trance anyway. After one heavenly bite of the entrée, poulet—French for chicken—with aligot potatoes, I excused myself and went to the ladies’ room to take the call.
    Before I could say a word, Nareece pounced. “What happened? Where are you?” She was teetering on hysterical, her voice piercing my ear.
    â€œIs everything all right?”
    â€œNo. Everything is not all right. I’m scared, Muriel. I’m scared for my life and my family’s life. Why aren’t you here? I need you here so we can open the envelope and fix things.”
    â€œNareece, did something happen? What do you mean, you’re scared for your life? Did someone threaten you?”
    â€œNo, not exactly.”
    â€œThen what are you talking about? You just sent my blood pressure through the roof.” I struggled to keep my voice in check. “You’re taking this thing to someplace it doesn’t need to be. We don’t even know what’s in the envelope. It could be somebody playing some kind of a joke.”
    â€œYeah, right.” She snorted with sarcastic laughter. “Who the hell do you know that can make that kind of joke or even knows that much about me to make that kind of joke? Who?”
    For a moment I listened to the hollowness of her heavy, fast breathing in the phone.
    â€œI’ll be there tomorrow, Reece. I promise. I’ll call you when I get on the road.”
    She clicked off without even a grunt of acknowledgment. It seemed her regular modus operandi of late.
    I rang her back, but it went straight to her voice mail. I left a message. “Reecey, I love you. Whatever it is, we’ll work it out. I’ll call you tomorrow when I get on the road.” I hung up and called back again just in case, but it went to voice mail again.
    When I returned to the table, Calvin stood and pulled out my chair for me, a gesture I thought long retired from all existing etiquette teachings. On second thought, it probably was gone from existing etiquette teachings. Calvin was old school.
    â€œYou good, babe?” he asked, scooting his chair in. When he was done, he reached out and covered my hand with his. “Anything you want to talk about?”
    â€œNo. I mean, it’s my sister.” I sighed. “I’m going to visit her for a few days. There are . . . issues.”
    â€œCan I help?”
    â€œBelieve me, you are helping right now.”
    A pretty salad of persimmon, pear, and avocado followed the entrée. Calvin explained that while Americans tend to eat salad before the entrée, it was customary in many European countries to eat it after.
    The best part was the wine, Four Bears Sauvignon Blanc 2010, that accompanied the appetizer and the Byron Pinot Noir 1996 that complemented the entrée. It was the effect of the wine I’d say that would not let me leave our getting-to-know-each-other conversation alone.
    â€œCalvin, this is lovely. Thank you.”
    â€œMuriel, I would love to spoil you for the rest of your life.” He leaned in. “I get the most pleasure out of pleasing you, seeing that smile of yours light up your beautiful face. And best of all, that ugly face you make when you come.”
    â€œUgly face! I make an ugly face, huh? So you’re saying you have a problem with the way I look when I’m—”
    We laughed. I probably could have been embarrassed or insulted or something in one of those corners. Instead it felt right, a quirk of mine that only he knew