“I would expect nothing less.” I go to the sink to wash my hands after shaking my head over the plate of rather gloppy deviled eggs I just made. Obviously, I don’t have Simon’s cooking gene, but it seems his best effort to teach me today has failed wildly. “So, Simon,” I start a little cautiously, “now that even I am dating, I was wondering about you.”
“Wondering about me what?” Simon is leaning over the cheese platter for a bird’s-eye view while he obsessively rearranges the positioning of the cheeses.
“Wondering about you dating. I mean, are you? You haven’t mentioned anyone.” I dry my hands and then pause. “Oh. But maybe you wouldn’t have. Because I’ve been such a closed-off shrew.”
“Allison!” He stops fussing with the cheeses and glares at me. “Don’t talk about yourself like that. I do not have a boyfriend, nor have I been dating. I don’t know how to meet people, really. What am I going to do? Go cruising a gay club at my age?”
“You’re only forty-three! But I’m not sure a club is the best idea. What about online dating—”
I am interrupted by the doorbell.
“He’s here! He’s here!” Simon shouts. “Where are the grapes? Oh, never mind. I’ll add those later.” He tears off his apron and beams at me. “Are you ready? Do I look okay? Should I answer the door? Do you want to make an entrance?”
Simon has gone bananas. “You look very handsome. How about I answer the door, and you finish your wine.”
“Yes. Good thinking. I will be right out.” He takes a big drink. “You look very pretty in red, by the way.”
I’ve got on one of the things Simon bought me yesterday, and I must confess that I’m enjoying wearing the fluffy red mohair pullover. Paired with the black leather pants he insisted I buy, it’s an outfit Steffi would approve of. I make my way to the door, and I’m actually delighting in the lights and garlands and endless decorations that grace the house. When Simon goes all out, he really goes all out. And I pretty much love it.
I’ve barely opened the door when Esben starts talking. “I know it’s ridiculous. I’m sorry. My mother made me wear a suit. I told her it was crazy, and no one goes to dinner at their girlfriend’s house wearing a suit, but at a certain point it became easier just to put it on than to convince her it was not 1940.”
The last thing he should be doing is apologizing, because he looks absolutely . . . well, dashing. He’s wearing a black suit with a red button-down shirt and swirly multicolored tie, and I am so taken aback that I cannot speak. Or move. Or do anything.
“Oh God, it’s that bad? I’m sorry. I should have thrown some clothes in the car and changed in a McDonald’s or something. Allison? Please say something before I strip down here on the front step out of sheer humiliation.”
“Sorry, sorry.” I smile. “Although, that does sound pretty tempting . . . you look gorgeous. Seriously. I think I love your mother.” I swing the door open wide and shiver from the chill.
“And I think I love those pants that are painted on you.” Esben’s hands go to my waist, and his mouth goes to the spot just below my ear that he knows drives me crazy.
The gift bag in his hand crinkles against my lower back while he snuggles against me. I’m used to seeing him every single day, so even the very short time that we’ve been apart has left me wanting. But there’s Simon and his beef Wellingtons to consider, so instead of plastering Esben up against the front door, I take his hand and lead him into the main room. My father is desperately trying to look casual while setting a smoked-salmon tray on the coffee table next to the insane cheese festival and my mangled eggs.
Simon stands up and smiles warmly. “Based on the way Allison is now glowing more than that hideous inflatable Santa across the street, you must be Esben.”
“Simon!” But I laugh.
Esben steps forward and shakes his hand. “It’s really great to meet you, sir. I’ve heard so many nice things about you.” Esben indicates the gift bag he’s holding. “So, my mother sent this with me. I think it’s an ornament.”
“What a very kind thought. And that bag over there,” he says, gesturing to a velvet bag on the sideboard, “is for your parents. It’s a bottle of red from a California vineyard I’m crazy about.”
California. I think of Steffi immediately. This cruise she’s on better be stupendous, because I would love to have her here with us right now.
Esben glances at the coffee table as he starts to sit. “Oh, a cheese platter! Look at that bad boy.” Then, to Simon’s delight, Esben leans over and examines it from above. “Nice placement. I’m hesitant to disrupt your artwork, but, if I’m not mistaken, that’s a Saint André, right?”
Simon is beaming rather smugly at me. “It is! Please, help yourself.” He hands Esben a plate, and I sit back and smile as the two begin an in-depth discussion about cheese. I knew I had nothing to worry about.
Simon’s dinner proves to be another culinary success, but, even better, Esben, Simon, and I talk nonstop. The conversation flows easily, and there is more laughter than there’s been at this table before.
We do run into a small hitch during dessert, however. With Simon’s guidance, I’d been responsible for the trifle and its layers of whipped confections, sugared berries, chestnut mousse, and chocolate shavings, and it certainly looks gorgeous. As I sit back to watch the two men in my life take their first bites of my labor of love, it only takes one bite for me to realize something is very wrong. Both make valiant efforts to conceal that there’s a problem, but it’s of no use.
“What?” I demand. “What is wrong? I did everything you said, Simon!”
Simon wipes his mouth and holds the napkin against his lips for a moment while he composes himself. “There is a slight issue. With salt.”
“Salt? There’s no salt?”
I taste the trifle. It’s horrible, and I immediately spit out my bite into my napkin. “Oh God!” I look at them apologetically, but they’re both too busy giggling.
Esben takes a big drink of water. “It was . . . it was a really beautiful trifle, though.”
“Yes,” Simon agrees kindly. “Aesthetically, you were right on target. But since we are now without a dessert, why don’t we venture into the North End. It’ll be very festive there this time of year.”
Esben perks up. “I bet I know what you’re thinking! Mike’s?”
“This kid is good,” Simon says, looking at me. “Exactly! A little chocolate cheesecake!”
Simon drives us to the North End, Boston’s Little Italy. This area of the city is tremendously charming, and the old-world feel of the neighborhood has me enchanted tonight. Wreaths hang from arches above the streets, white lights twirl up and down lampposts, and we pass a Santa Claus standing on a corner, collecting donations.
When we are all seated at a small table inside Mike’s Pastry, I stare at my plate, taken aback by the size of my slice of the chocolate mousse cake that dares me to tackle it. “Both of you pose with your desserts made for giants. I need to post this important moment.”