Stay Tuned

Chapter 50

As Rick predicted, I made it through the six o’clock newscast unscathed. Now, on to round two.

I parked my car and surveyed the scene. Even from the outside, Blue Bistro looked unusually crowded for seven o’clock on a Friday night. People milled around outside on the stone-covered terrace, glasses of wine in their hands, waiting for a table. Reservations were hard to get, even a month in advance. Chris must have pulled some strings to make it happen this soon.

Inside, the restaurant bustled with activity. The servers carried huge trays, high in the air, loaded down with shrimp, steak, and cocktails. Whispered conversations and soft piano music blended together at the bar.

“Moore, party of two,” I said to the petite hostess who wore a headset and too much black eyeliner. She wrinkled her forehead and scanned the long list in front of her, using her pencil. “Seven o’clock,” I added, trying to be helpful.

“Your table’s ready.” With a blank expression, the hostess tapped the pencil tip on the paper, circled our name, and motioned for me to follow. She slipped two menu cards into the crook of her arm and headed for the back of the restaurant without another word. As I trailed behind, she shuffled her feet along the dark wood floor and bobbed her head like she was listening to an iPod.

Every few steps along the walkway, people at tables on either side looked up from their dinner conversations. Some wiggled their fingers hello. I smiled automatically and lifted my hand to wave back, hoping I’d composed myself not to look upset.

Chris was running late. He had called and left a message during one of the hundred trips I made to the bathroom that afternoon. When I played it back, he sounded upset. Shaken up, if I had to describe it.

Well, that makes two of us.

But Rick was right. Jumping to conclusions was not going to help. We made it through the six o’ clock show. Now, I needed to get the facts. I added my own mantra:
 
There was plenty of time to be hysterical later.

“Your server will be with you shortly,” the hostess said, and pulled out my chair. She stared at me intently. As I slid into my seat, the couple at the next table began to whisper.

“Are you Melissa Moore, from WSGA?” The hostess screwed up her face, curious, and handed me a menu. Her voice was low, but apparently, the people nearby could hear just fine. They waited for my response, too.

I smiled and nodded.

The hostess brightened and leaned in to whisper, still clutching the other menu. “You’re doing such a good job!”

“Thank you, it’s been a wonderful experience.” My face flushed red.

The couple at the next table went back to sipping wine. I pressed my lips together and glanced down at my lap. Now, I was thankful to be in the very back of the restaurant. At least the only audience behind me was a row of leafy palms. I inhaled deeply and opened the menu.

I scanned the entrees while the couple at the nearby table got up to leave. The woman caught my eye and walked over cautiously.

“Sorry to disturb you, but we couldn’t help overhearing that you’re Melissa Moore, who works at WSGA?”

She was about my age, with a pleasant face, dark hair, and glasses. Her husband tugged at her arm and looked mortified that she was interrupting me.

The woman ignored him. “Are you celebrating? What’s the happy occasion?”

“We’re having a date night,” I explained. Surely, he’d be here any minute. What was keeping him? I prayed Chris would come up behind the couple and tap the woman on the shoulder. No such luck.

“Oh, fun!” the woman gushed. “Have a good time.” Her husband practically carried her away from the table.

The server appeared at my side. “Wine, ma’am?”

“A bottle of Pinot Grigio, please.”

I checked my cell phone. Half-past seven. Was it really that late? I debated calling, then put the phone away. If some sort of work crisis kept him, Chris knew better than to let me sit here. Didn’t he?

The server appeared with a huge ice bucket and the bottle of wine. He poured my glass, and let me sample it.

“Perfect,” I said. He nodded and re-corked the wine. The ice crunched and crackled as he nestled the bottle down to chill.

“Will your party be much later?” The server frowned. “May I bring you something else?”

My stomach rumbled. Up until this point, I hadn’t given food much thought. “He’ll be along any minute now.” I gestured at his empty seat. “You know how Fridays can be, trying to get out of the office, all of the last minute projects and phone calls.” My voice wavered.

I realized my waiter probably had no idea what I was talking about, since he looked like he was still in college. He nodded politely anyway. “Of course.”

The menu bobbled in my hand. “How about an appetizer? The bruschetta?” It was a trusted favorite of mine, not Chris’s, but he had lost his vote on this one.

“Sounds delightful.”

I shifted in my chair, which was beginning to get uncomfortable. Was he seated at another table and I didn’t know it? Without being too obvious, I scanned the restaurant, looking for a familiar face. Across the room, my doctor, Jennifer Freeman, was having dinner with her staff. She caught my eye and waved.

At least another fifteen minutes ticked by. I was beyond upset and annoyed. The waiter returned and filled my water glass again while I checked my cell phone for messages. Nothing.

By now, half the ice had melted in the champagne bucket. Chris wasn’t coming. It was time to go home.
 
“May I have the bill, please?” I asked quietly when my waiter walked by.

On command, he produced a slim black folder from his pocket and handed it to me. I opened the case, glanced inside. It was blank. “There’s nothing here,” I asked, confused.

“Taken care of,” the waiter answered. “A friend.”
   
“Oh my goodness.” Who? My doctor? The lady with the glasses? “Thank you,” I murmured, glad someone wanted to take care of me.

I pushed back from the table. My chair slid back easily. The moment I stood up, Chris ran into the restaurant.