She riffs about her children for a moment, then zeros in on Derek with a series of questions about teaching millennials. She’s still the agent provocateur but a flirtier version for him. He’s gracious enough to engage with her, but he’s not spellbound in the way she was probably hoping for. Finally, sensing defeat, she shifts her focus to the other end of the table. Good. Guy will know exactly how to diffuse her verbal provocations, and I won’t have to deal with her anymore tonight.
My energy is flagging even more, and as I turn my full attention to Derek, I pray he’ll do most of the talking.
“What a fantastic meal,” he says. “This leaves the Ballston College cafeteria food in the dust.”
“I’m so glad you like it.”
He smiles warmly at me, as if sensing I need a boost. I still can’t get a handle on why his features end up working so well together. He’s got soft hazel eyes, but his eyebrows droop at the ends, and his nose is, well, huge—flat at the top and center, kind of bulbous at the tip and dented on one side. But the end result is attractive, a whole-being-greater-than-the-sum-of-its-parts effect.
“Did you make this tagine yourself?” he asks.
“Gosh no, there’s a chef in the kitchen. She runs a place called Pure Kitchen Catering. Have you ever heard of her?”
His expression turns pensive.
“Yes, actually I have,” he says after a beat. “I’ve never had any reason to use her but a friend of mine has.”
“And?” I sense there’s something he’s not saying.
“As far as I know he was pleased with the results.”
“I’m not impressed with the chef personally,” I say, my voice lowered, “but I have to admit this chicken is incredible. It’s one of those dishes that could make a reluctant boyfriend propose marriage if you served it one night.”
“You don’t condone that, do you?” he says, one eyebrow lifted mischievously.
“Using food to entice a proposal? It seems pretty harmless—unless, of course, you never make the dish again.”
He smiles. “That’s not exactly what happened to me, but close.”
“What do you mean?”
“I proposed to my now ex-wife not long after she served me this incredible roast chicken. She later admitted it was a rotisserie bird from the supermarket, that kind you see in the deli section, turning on spits in those big furnaces.”
I laugh. “Well, did she say she’d made it herself?”
“Not outright, but she presented it in a big pan, sprinkled with rosemary and surrounded by roasted vegetables.”
“That’s not why you broke up, is it? When you discovered the fowl play, so to speak?”
“No, no. She’s a great woman, but we got married far too young to really know each other.”
“Does she live here, in Saratoga?”
“She’s still in California. I was a reporter out there for a number of years. First in San Diego and later in LA.”
“How long have you been here, teaching at Ballston?”
“Three years. I’d always had a secret yearning to teach and happened to know the head of the journalism department, who fast-tracked me to the job. I’ve really loved it. The school doesn’t hold a candle to Skidmore, but it’s got a great mission. Many of the kids come from underprivileged backgrounds and they’re hungry to learn.”
“Do you see yourself in Saratoga indefinitely?”
“Actually, I’d love to live in New York City at some point. Teaching and writing there.” He pauses, as if deciding whether to elaborate. “If I get there, I’ll actually have your book to thank.”
“Really?” I say, stirred by his words. “How so?”
“I know women are more your target audience, but I picked up your book because I felt stalled on a few decisions that needed to be made. It inspired me to finally finish my novel.
“Fantastic. Have you submitted it anyplace yet?”
“Yes. And it’s coming out this winter.” He laughs. “I wasn’t even forced to go the self-publishing route.”
“Congratulations, Derek. I can’t wait to read it.”
And I mean it. I’m touched by his words, the fact that my book impelled him to move forward in life. Plus, it’s been weeks and weeks since I sat at a dinner with someone new, enjoying his or her company.
“By the way, I’m sure you could spot this request coming from a mile away,” he says, “but I’d be incredibly honored if you could speak to one of my summer classes. I’ve got one called Writing for Fun and Profit, and there’s so much they could learn from you. Unfortunately there’s no honorarium. The most I could offer is an umbrella with the college logo. Still, it’s one of those huge golf umbrellas that fit at least fifteen people underneath. Do you travel in packs?”
“Not unless hunting for prey,” I say, smiling. “But let me think about it, okay?” I’d like to help him, I would, but right now it’s hard to imagine summoning the strength to find my way to the campus, let alone plan a class and teach it. Just the thought of it makes my head start pulsing with a dull pain.
“Okay, but I warn you, I can be like a dog with a pork chop.” He scribbles his email address on a scrap of paper from his jacket pocket, and I give him mine in exchange.