“It should be a costume party,” Grace added, “with prizes. Maisie and I will need matching outfits. I’m seeing pink tulle and sequins.”
“There’s not enough tulle in Portland to make a costume for Desmond,” Monica said, “but I’ll come up with something.”
“Monica, this is a brilliant idea. I bet we could raise five or six thousand for Rainbow Gate!” Unable to contain my excitement, I jumped up from my chair and kissed Monica on the top of the head.
“Hang on, hang on,” Monica laughed. “Let’s not start naming figures until I have some time to crunch the numbers and come up with a ticket price. I’ll do the catering at cost, so that will help. And I’m sure I can get some of the vendors I work with to donate at least some of the food and rental equipment. If we have it in June, that should give us plenty of time to plan. And, hopefully, good weather.”
Grace turned the jacket she’d finished sewing inside out and carried it to the ironing board to press the seams. “It really does sound like fun. But before we start talking menus and decor, I want to hear about Dr. Dreamboat.”
“Dr. Who?” I asked.
“Dr. Dreamboat,” Monica said. “You don’t remember? The ER doctor—Dr. Francatelli. You pinned the nickname on him, right after you announced to everyone present, including the doctor, that I had a thing for Italian men.”
“Oh, no. Did I really?” Monica nodded. “I’m sorry. Those pain meds were too strong. I quit taking them.”
“It’s okay,” Monica shrugged. “Mark has a good sense of humor.”
“Mark?” Grace asked. “You’re on a first-name basis?”
Monica shrugged again, keeping her eyes on her work, but I could see a hint of a smile on her lips.
“He came around to the restaurant the next day. I brought his dessert out myself and we talked for a little bit, exchanged recipes. He likes to cook. And then I saw him again, day before yesterday.”
Grace and I exchanged a look.
“He came to the restaurant looking for you twice in one week?” I asked. “Sounds like things are moving quickly.”
“Not the restaurant,” Monica said. “I went to the ER on Saturday night. I had this weird rash on my arm.”
Grace looked at her blankly. “You went to the emergency room. For a rash?”
“Yes,” Monica said, frowning. “WebMD had a picture of a rash that was just like mine. Exactly like mine. Do you know what it was? Scarlet fever. It could have been serious.”
“And was it?” Grace asked.
Monica’s frown deepened, her forehead pleated like a set of shutters.
“No,” she muttered. “It was paprika.”
“Paprika?”
“I accidentally smeared some on my arm when I was experimenting with a new marinade, okay? But it could have been serious! Stop laughing. It’s not funny.”
One of Monica’s many good qualities is that she can see the humor in almost any situation, even when the joke comes at her own expense. Even as she protested Grace’s laughter, Monica’s own mouth started twitching at the corners. But before her smile had fully bloomed, a cloud crossed over her face. She put down her scissors and hinged her head back, staring at the ceiling.
“I already messed it up, didn’t I? I ruined it before it even started.” She smacked her hand to her forehead. “What’s the matter with me? Why do I always do this? And why with this one?
“He’s gorgeous. And he’s a doctor. Who likes to cook. And he’s Italian. A gorgeous Italian doctor who likes to cook. Basically, he’s perfect,” she said, still talking to the ceiling. “And, for a couple of minutes in the restaurant, when we were talking about cannoli fillings, we had a connection. He did like me, I could tell.
“But I had to ruin it, didn’t I? Instead of keeping my crazy under wraps until he got to know me well enough to think I was adorable and eccentric instead of nuts, I had to go to the ER with my paprika emergency so Dr. Perfect Italian Dreamboat would know right off that I am a complete train wreck.”
Monica groaned.
“Alex said I’m too pushy and he’s right. He said I need to back off a little, give people space. But did I listen? No, of course not. I ruined everything before it even got started.”
Grace left the ironing board and went to sit down next to Monica.
“Oh, come on. It’s not that bad. Maybe he thought you were just looking for an excuse to see him again and took it as a compliment. Maybe he thought it was cute. And it was, kind of. It’s the kind of story that couples tell each other when they go out to dinner for their tenth anniversary.”
Grace lowered her chin and her voice, pretending to be Dr. Dreamboat. “Honey, remember how you had such a crush on me that you smeared paprika on your arm and showed up in the ER just so you could see me?”
“Yes,” I chimed in. “Grace is right. This is one of those things that will make a great family story someday.”
“Not if I never see him again,” Monica said glumly.
“I bet you anything he drops by the restaurant again next week. He’ll come looking for you. And if he doesn’t? Well . . . then he just doesn’t deserve you. If he can’t recognize all of your wonderful qualities and laugh off a tiny touch of hypochondria, then it’s his loss.”
Monica stared at me.
“Nan, did I ever tell you about how when I was in the fourth grade and everybody in the class got invited to Hillary Resnick’s pool party but me? My mother gave me almost the exact same speech. It wasn’t convincing then either.”
She heaved a sigh. “Oh, well. I guess it was a little soon to be measuring him for a tux and reserving the wedding chapel. I’ve only had three conversations with him. So what if he’s a doctor? And Italian. And gorgeous.
