We’re late to it, but Lucy holds her glass up for a toast anyway, and my smile grows at the soft sound of the contact between us. We pull away just as the food arrives, our tickets probably pushed to the front in an attempt to delight the boss. The next few minutes are centered around our food, and compliments to the chef. Then we exchange stories back and forth, settling into the unspoken relief of being able to catch up in person instead of through tired phone calls.
She tells me about the rush of guests at the resort over the past weekend, when they’d hosted some huge celebrity wedding, and the welcome drop in chaos over the past few days. I get the gossip about people who are close to becoming friends and those Lucy would rather never speak to again. There are construction projects to be coordinated and new entertainment to book for the upcoming months, and the mention of music has me filling her in about Darren’s plan to hire a band to play at Trailhead.
Lucy brings up the idea of expanding the resort’s retail wing—currently limited to a semi-traditional gift shop and a clothing boutique full of swimsuits and sundresses—to include a bookstore and some kind of art gallery. That reminds me to tell her more about Adrian’s grand opening, beyond whatever quick story I’ve given her already. We talk about the pictures and Darren and Beau, and somehow we end up waxing poetic about tapas. Then the subject of tapas leads us to wine, and an intense discussion of the bottles I’ve already tasted at home, and theothers I’m looking forward to trying soon.
Our dinner is incredible, and the company is even better, but I’m not particularly surprised when Lucy pulls out her phone while we pour the last of the wine and wait for dessert. She has an important job, even if she's officially off the clock, and I don’t mind the interruption. I’m close to reaching for my phone too, but then she tilts her head and grins across the table at me.
“Darren’s the one who’s great at trivia, right?”
“He’s very good, yeah, but I—” I pause, confused about what Darren’s quiz skills have to do with my daughter’s job, and then surrender to a shrug. “He’s usually busy working those nights, but he’s definitely the best competition I have there.”
“You’re missing out on trivia night tonight,” she says.
“I am, but I’m sure I’ll be back there next week.”
“He’sextremelyattractive.”
“Who’s extremely attractive?” I ask, afraid I already know the answer when Lucy dangles her phone over the table. I take it, look at the picture of Darren she’s pulled up, and sigh. “Well, yes, that’s why he makes hundreds in tips while wearing a work uniform that leaves half his body bare. I thought you were checking work emails, though. Why are you looking at him?”
“I don’t know, dad. Why have you been talking about him? In the past hour, I’ve heard about his favorite tapas, his take on the wine I sent you, which of Adrian’s photographs he bought for himself, which of Adrian’s photographs reminded him of you and me, the bad music he listens to in his car, and the nursing skills he might’ve picked up from his mother. So, now that yourmotorcycle accident is old news, is there anythingelseyou’d like to tell me?”
There’s so much mischief in her eyes, but I don’t miss the spark of hope flickering just behind it. She’s all Michelle for a moment, and it takes my breath away, but even once I’ve recovered, I’m not sure how to answer her. Whatever guilt I’ve been waiting for still doesn’t arrive, but I don’t think it’s time for a confession either way. Or it’s exactly the time for it, as long as I pretend everything is as simple as I want it to be.
“I’m still not lonely, and I’m still not looking for a special someone,” I say. “But it’s been damn nice getting to know my friend.”