Ditching The Dream (Dream Series) (5 page)

“Wow. This will look amazing on you. With your cheekbones and elegant neck. My boyfriend would kill me if I cut even an inch off my hair. What will your boyfriend say?”

Ha! That’s a laugh. Greg would hate it! He had always loved my hair. “I don’t care what he thinks. I hate it,” I said, feeling bold.

“That a girl!” She pulled my hair together and put it in an elastic hair band. “You have quite a bit of length here and it’s in good shape. Would you like to donate it? Maybe Locks of Love?”

I smiled. “Yes. That would be great. Thank you.”

She pulled out her scissors and looked at my reflection squarely. “Are you sure? Last chance…”

“Go for it!” I grinned.

While she cut my hair, she asked me all sorts of questions. I revealed that I was new to New York, married, but my husband stayed back in California for work, and that I was job hunting today. She didn’t judge one bit that my husband hadn’t traveled across the country with me and went on to talk about her boyfriend, and when she first moved to New York.

Forty minutes later, I was turned in the chair to see my reflection. I was stunned. I looked like a whole new person. I
felt
like a whole new person. A trendy person. And I felt like I’d had about twenty years cut off. Twenty heavy years.

“You are a magician with those scissors, Bobbie. I
love
it!” I turned my head, checking the style from the sides. I looked
chic
… and
young.
She’d kept the bangs on the long side and styled the pixie into a very modern shape, with pieces pulled down over my forehead, pointing this way and that. It made my eyes seem alluring instead of too big.

“And you can even play with this style,” Bobbie said. “With a little pomade, you can make it a bit spikier for when you want to go out on the town. Or you can play with the shape and go with a roaring twenties vibe,” she continued as she moved my hair here and there. “You can blow it dry and make it very soft looking… I would
love
to do this with my hair. What will your guy say? Aren’t you excited for when he sees it?”

I shrugged and smiled. He would probably freak out. It felt good to be rebellious, even if it was just with my hair.

With the attitude of a whole new woman, a spring in my step and a hundred and twenty dollars lighter, I sauntered back onto Lexington Avenue. I loved the gentle breeze that blew along my neck and shoulders. I loved the sensation. My head felt fantastic and I continually checked out my reflection in the windows as I went along.

Walking to my next opportunity with renewed vigor, I passed by the most heavenly scent. Steak. I looked up and saw the sign. Ed Scott’s Steak House.

I glanced down at my phone and noted the time. There were four new voicemails and a few texts, all from Greg. I shook my head and chose to just ignore them for now, yet again. It was already two-thirty. No wonder I was so hungry. I mean, how long can coffee carry a person?

I stepped inside and was enveloped with a sumptuous, meaty aroma. The place was rather busy considering it was fairly late, but maybe ‘Late Lunches’ were really a thing here in New York. I noticed a man in his thirties, who was quite frazzled with his hair mussed, top collar undone and tie pulled loose. Standing next to him was a petite, intimidated hostess. The two were thumbing through a stack of papers.

“What did you think of this one? She looked okay?” the hostess suggested.

“But her work history? She’s not maintained a job for longer than three months at any one place. No,” he growled back. He looked at the stack of papers in his hand and started to lay them down like playing cards. “To be honest, there’s not a good one in the stack! Horrible manners, too much perfume, not enough soap, not enough clothing…” he listed.

I was getting hungrier by the minute, standing there and watching people eat juicy steaks, and fluffy baked potatoes, so I cleared my throat to get the attention of the duo at the hostess stand.

The man looked me up and down, then barked, “Do you have your resume?”

Omigosh. They’re
hiring
here?
He thought I was here for some job? Serendipity? Before even asking about the job that I would be ‘here for,’ I politely smiled and dug into my bag. “I do,” I said, pulling out my folder and handing him a resume.

“So, Elizabeth. I see your restaurant experience is more than twenty years old? You know that we use computers these days, not hand tickets, right?” he snapped.

“That’s fine. That’s good actually. I’m very tech savvy.” I thought that was a good answer.

“Have you ever tended bar before? Do you have your license or certification? What’s your specialty drink?”

I felt as if I were the target of a firing squad, with one marksman. He was pelting me with questions. I wasn’t sure how I filtered through, but I replied with, “Well, I do make some spectacular martinis.” In our book club back in Napa, I was always the bartender, something I was suddenly
very
grateful for. And most of the time when we got together for “book club” there was very little dishing about the book, unless it was a steamy read, as was our current trend. Often it turned into a cocktail party, designing and drinking new creations.

“Spectacular, huh?” he shot back.

Oh, I hoped I hadn’t oversold myself here. “May I show you?” I asked, gesturing toward the bar.

He seemed taken aback with my confidence. Maybe it was the haircut talking. I hoped I could deliver. He held open the pass-through counter and we both scooted in, with him leading the way. Leaning against the bar with his arms crossed, he called out to the blonde with a high pony tail on the other side of the bar, who was listening to a customer.

“Shelby, this is Elizabeth. She’s going to make a ‘spectacular martini.’ ”

“Have at it, girl,” Shelby smiled.

I quickly scanned the shelves, spotting what I’d need. Grabbing a martini glass, I filled it with a few ice cubes, and soda water and left it to chill. Next, I filled a martini shaker with ice, snatched a jigger and started measuring vodka, blue curaçao, and simple syrup. I popped the top on, and gave it a good fifteen second shake.

I eyed the manager; he seemed dubious. I dumped the icing water, with a nice shake to clear as much water from the glass, and poured the bright blue liquid into the frosty glass.

“Pretty short,” he snorted.

I shot him a cheeky grin and wink. “I’m not done.” I picked up the small bin of maraschino cherries and carefully poured a thin stream into the glass. Due to its density, it sunk straight off to the bottom, filling the bottom quarter of the glass. With the tongs, I popped in a cherry and slid the drink over to him.

He looked the drink over. “What do you call it?”

“A Firecracker. It’s more a Fourth of July drink, but –”

“That’s fine,” he said cutting me off. “Shelby, what do you think?”

“The drink’s got flair. Her technique could use a little work, but that’s easy.”

He reached over and tasted the drink. He smacked his lips. “Not bad,” then slid it over to Shelby.

She tasted it then licked her lips and took another sip. “I’d say it’s really good, John.”
Ah, the angry man in charge is John. Okay.

Shelby and John grilled me on several other drinks, from a simple Old Fashioned and a Cosmo, to a White Russian. Then Shelby handed me the recipe book for some of the house specialty cocktails and asked me to mix up a couple.

“What’s your wine knowledge like?” she queried.

“More than adequate,” I replied confidently.

“What’s your favorite varietal?”

“Well, depends on what I’m eating, but my favorite ‘go-to’ is a red zinfandel or a Malbec, but on warmer days I’ll take an oaky chardonnay.”

My eyes darted between the two. John looked my resume up and down, and then me. He noticed the rings on my left hand. “You married?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Hopefully that means you won’t be screwing the staff.”

“Omigosh, no!”

“I guess you’ll do. I don’t have any more time to waste on this. Can you start Thursday?”

“I’d like to clarify the pay.”

“Sixteen an hour. Forty hours a week. Plus tips. You’ll start on tables. The servers tip out fifteen percent when you move up to the bar.” He paused as if he expected me to complain or haggle. “Can you start Thursday?” he continued.

“Absolutely.”

“Be here at 10:30. The uniform is all black: shirt, slacks, no jeans, and shoes” he said, scrutinizing my shoes. “And I suggest more comfortable footwear. Don’t be late. And don’t give some lame L train excuse either!” he grunted, shoving a file folder at me. “Employment packet. Bring the papers all filled in on Thursday. And study our menu. Oh, do you have your certificate?” he asked, sticking his hand out to me. I stood rooted to the spot. “You are certified?” He glared at me, clearly exasperated.

“No, I’m not but –”

“Shit!” He sighed loudly and ran a hand through the little hair he had left. “We can register you. As long as you’re registered you’ll be good. You’ll be taking the next bartending class that’s available. I’ll let you know the time and place. Tuesdays will always be your days off, and one other day, which will fluctuate.”

I stood stunned, rooted to the spot. I just got a job. Not what I had gone for, but I got a job. Must have been the haircut.

I cautiously took the packet from him and slid it into my bag as we walked back to the hostess stand. I stood there for a moment before he barked again.

“What?”

“I’m hungry. I’d like to eat. May I have a table?”

“Fine, but your employee discount doesn’t start until after your 30 day probation.”

“Okay,” I smiled.

Twenty minutes later, I was eating a divine steak salad and enjoying a gorgeous glass of cabernet. I kept reaching up to my neck, thrilled with the absence of the hair that normally hung there. As I surveyed the tables all through the restaurant, I noticed that a majority of the clientele here were seemingly well-to-do business types. Many were on their smart-phones, or laptops, having a business lunch. I decided to pull out my iPhone to try and blend in.

I was not surprised to see another missed call from Greg, another one from my mother, one from Bradley… Oh, good grief.
Did Greg call our kids about this?
There were also a couple new text messages from Greg. The man never had the time to text and call me like this before. Figured. In the texts app, I ignored Greg’s ever growing list and opened the one from Jessica:

1:29PM

Hey, hon. You finally bit the bullet

and ran away? Best of luck, talk

to you soon!

I would have to call her later tonight and fill her in on my wild adventure of the past twenty-four hours. I started to contemplate my new job. A bartender. Well, hey, at least it’s in a nice place and not at all like any of the stuffy offices I’d applied to earlier today. And the tips in a place like this were probably pretty good too.

I took into account my projected wages, not including tips, and started to calculate how much that would boil down to in my paycheck so I could start to search for an apartment tomorrow. I figured the paycheck would pay for rent, my tips could pay for everything else. And I always had my inheritance fund if I came up short.

I tried not to feel too guilty that I would not even be staying in this job for a year, although part of me wondered if I would be here that long. I was tucking my iPhone back into my purse when I noticed someone at the bar looking at me. No, looking wasn’t the right word. Studying…inspecting…ogling was more like it. He wasn’t what I would call a
pervert
, but I was still more than a little uncomfortable with the untoward attention. I tried to look away but couldn’t.

He had startling handsome features that were familiar, but I couldn’t figure out why. He was probably ten years older than me, with salt-and-pepper hair, greyer on the sides and darker on top. His face was gorgeous with a chiseled jawline that perfectly displayed a warm and charming smile. His eyes were dark and intelligent. Even his nose had a graceful elegance. He was the sort of man you could just stare at, and he seemed confident enough that he wouldn’t mind one bit. Of course, dressed in the suit he was wearing, that fit him like a glove, who wouldn’t be confident. He must have had that suit custom made.

He simply sat at the bar practically ignoring the man sitting next to him, who was going on and on. Mr. Handsome paid little attention to him. All of his focus was on me. I felt nearly naked.
I hope he’s not a regular.

“Can I get you some coffee and dessert? Ed Scott’s cheesecake is one of New York’s best,” my server offered as she cleared my dishes.

“As delicious as that sounds, I’d better not. I haven’t made it to the gym today,” I joked with her, pulling my eyes from the man at the bar. She was a sweet gal, maybe a couple of years younger than myself. “Just the check will be fine, thank you.”

After paying my check and leaving a nice tip for my server, I quickly made my way out onto the street. I had to get away from
him
. I don’t know why, but he made me nervous. Like I wasn’t in control of myself with those dark eyes focused on me.

I headed toward the subway station a few blocks from the restaurant, but along the way I passed a real estate office, with the front window displaying many listings. Feeling bolstered from having landed a job, I decided to head in and check out rentals in the area.

Inside I was greeted by a woman who gave the impression that she’d rather be anywhere in the world than behind her desk, and that she’d been sitting at said desk for the better part of her life. She was shuffling through stacks of paper and muttering under her breath. Desperately hoping that she was not the agent I would be assigned to, I cleared my throat to get her attention.

She peered over her reading glasses, and looked me over. “Can I help you?”