MARY TRACE WAS one of those freaks of nature who actually loved first dates. She knew she was an anomaly, should maybe even be studied by scientists, but she couldn’t help herself. She loved the mystery, the anticipation. She always did her blond hair in big, loose curls and—no matter what she wore—imagined herself as Eva Marie Saint in North by Northwest, mysterious, inexplicably dripping in jewels and along for whatever adventure the night had in store. Besides, it had been a while since she’d actually been on a first date, so this one was especially exciting.
“I was expecting someone...younger.”
Reality miffed out Mary’s candle. The surly-faced blind date sitting across from her in this perfectly lovely restaurant had just called her old. About four seconds after she’d sat down.
Sure, this apparent prince wasn’t exactly her type either, with his dark hair neatly parted on one side, the perfect knot in his midnight blue tie, the judgmental look in his eye. But she’d planned to at least be polite to him. She’d had some great dates with men who weren’t her physical ideal. She certainly didn’t point out their flaws to them literally the second after saying hello.
“Younger,” Mary repeated, blinking.
The man blinked back. “Right. You must be, what, in your late thirties?”
Mary watched as his frown intensified, his shockingly blue eyes narrowing in their appraisal of her, a cruel sort of humor tipping his mouth down.
A nice boy, Estrella had said when she’d arranged the date. You’ll see, Mary. John is a rare find in a city like this. He’s got a good job. He’s handsome, he’s sweet. He just needs to find the right girl.
Well, Mary faced facts. All mothers thought their sons were nice boys. And just because Estrella Modesto happened to be the kindest mammal on God’s green earth didn’t mean she didn’t have one sour-faced elitist for a son.
“Thirty-seven,” Mary replied, unashamed and unwilling to cower under the blazing critique of his bright blue eyes. “My birthday was last week.”
“Oh.” His face had yet to change. “Happy birthday.”
She’d never heard the phrase said with less enthusiasm. He could very well have said, “Happy Tax Day.”
“Evening,” a smooth voice said at Mary’s elbow. Mary looked up to see a fairly stunning brunette smiling demurely down at them. The waitress was utter perfection in her black vest and white button-down shirt, not a hair out of place in her neat ponytail. Mary clocked her at somewhere around twenty-two, probably fresh out of undergrad, an aspiring actress hacking through her first few months in the Big Apple.
“Evening!” Mary replied automatically, her natural grin feeling almost obscene next to this girl’s prim professionalism.
Mary turned in time to catch the tail end of John’s appraisal of the waitress. His eyes, cold and rude, traveled the length of the waitress’s body.
Nice boy, Estrella had said.
Mary knew, even now, that she’d never have the heart to tell Estrella that nice boys didn’t call their dates old and then mentally undress the waitress. Mary was a tolerant person, perhaps too tolerant, but there were only so many feathers one could stuff into a down pillow before it snowed poultry.
“Right,” Mary said, mostly to herself, as John and the waitress both looked at her to order her drink. How nice of him to pull his eyes from the beautiful baby here to serve him dinner. She turned to the waitress. “I think we need a minute.”
Mary took a deep breath. She asked herself the same question she’d been asking herself since she’d been old enough to ask it—which, according to John Modesto-Whitford, was probably about a decade and a half too long. Can I continue on? If the answer was yes, if she conceivably could continue on through a situation, no matter how horrible, she always, always did.
She pinched the bridge of her nose. The answer to that question was going to come in the form of what shoes he was wearing, which she hadn’t seen yet, as she’d arrived at the restaurant after he had.
In Mary’s experience, men who wore wingtips were a lost cause. Not to mention men who wore wingtips to go along with their perfect hair, perfect tie and mean eyes. Wingtip shoes were some sort of inscrutable, masculine symbol, she was sure of it. Members of the wingtip club probably communicated with one another in secret, smirky eyebrow lifts, effortlessly transmitting information about the women in their general vicinity. She hadn’t figured out the why of it; she simply knew