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I suddenly understood why Robert had muttered that comment. The crowd was young—late twenties to late thirties, mostly. Young and attractive. You didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that Robert was uncomfortable here.
Uncomfortable because of our age difference.
I reached across the table and took his hand in mine, letting him know that I wasn’t uncomfortable. After eight years of marriage, I was used to the second glances we got from some people. At first those looks had bothered me, but not anymore.
I was with my husband, and if the rest of the world didn’t like it, they could go to hell.
In the beginning of our relationship, Robert had had no problem going out with me in public. He’d been a fit and attractive fifty-nine. And when he colored the gray in his hair, he looked more like fifty. So while there was obviously an age difference between us, he hadn’t been bothered by it.
But over the last few years, his face had aged considerably and his posture was no longer as imposing as it had once been. Because of knee replacement surgery last year, his gait wasn’t the strong, confident stride it had been when we’d met.
Once, Robert had been able to walk into a room and have heads turn—that’s the kind of attention he commanded. Not anymore.
The physical changes, capped off by a full head of gray hair he could no longer be bothered to color, troubled my husband. Oh, he never said as much, but I could tell. He was sixty-seven and looked it—his body defying his ageless spirit more and more.
“This place is beautiful,” I said, hoping to distract him from his thoughts. “The ambience, the decor…” I glanced up at the goldish-orange light fixture above our table, which sort of resembled a large, upside-down wineglass with a very long stem. “Remember that shop in Saint Mark’s Square—the one where we almost bought that chandelier before we realized it wouldn’t look good in our place? I wonder if these light fixtures came from there.”
“Perhaps.” Robert released my hand to withdraw his reading glasses from his jacket pocket.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” I said, hoping that being extra sweet would help his discomfort dissipate. “I keep hearing how fabulous the food is, that the menu is second to none.”
“Let’s hope so,” Robert stated.
He lifted his menu. Even with his glasses on, he squinted slightly as he read.
Something tugged at my heart as I watched him. A little sympathy. I was sorry about the changes age was bringing about that neither of us could control. I wasn’t thrilled about heading toward forty. I could only imagine how Robert felt, nearing seventy.
He needed something else in his life. Something positive to concentrate on, as opposed to life’s ticking clock. We both did.
Which was why I was hoping we’d get pregnant sooner rather than later.
“Good evening.” A man’s voice drew our attention, and I glanced up. The waiter who had arrived at our table wore a crisp white shirt, black tie and burgundy apron neatly tied around his waist. There was an air of confidence about him that said he’d been doing his job—and doing it well—for a long time.
“Good evening,” I replied. Robert continued to peruse the menu.
“Have you been here before?” the waiter asked.
“No,” I said. “We haven’t.”
“Then welcome. I think you’ll be very pleased. Our cheeses are aged to perfection to create the best possible fondue. You can enjoy them with bread or fruit. We have salads as well, if you prefer. And all of our entrées are cooked in our popular fondue styles.”
“Mmm.” I looked at Robert before meeting the waiter’s gaze again. “Sounds delicious.”
“The dinners for two are very popular, and come with a cheese fondue, salad, and one of three entrée items.” He pointed to the page on my open menu.
“Ooh, the surf and turf looks good.” I glanced at Robert. “What do you think, sweetheart? Lobster tails?”
“I think that we need a few more minutes to make up our minds,” he said.
“Certainly.” The waiter smiled cordially at both of us before his gaze landed on me. “My name is Alexander. And madam, the surf and turf is one of our more popular items. You certainly won’t be disappointed if you decide on it.”
“All right.” Robert’s tone held a tiny note of impatience. “You’ve done your job. Now run along and give us some time to make up our minds.”
Now run along?
My eyes went wide as I stared at him, shocked by the demeaning words. “Robert,” I began when the waiter was gone, “that wasn’t a very nice thing to say.”
“You would say that, wouldn’t you?”
I was confused by the comment. “Do you expect me to approve of you being rude to our waiter?”
“It was like he didn’t even know I was at the table,” Robert went on.
“That’s because I was the one doing the talking. You barely gave him a second glance.”
“I saw how he was looking at you.”
What was Robert getting at? That the waiter had been out of line? “He was looking at me like he was our waiter.”
“Right,” Robert said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
I didn’t understand what was happening. The waiter had been professional and cordial. He hadn’t ogled me or anything like that. So why was Robert making an issue out of nothing?
Because he never wanted to come here.
Was that what this was about—Robert making an issue because he didn’t want to be here? He hadn’t been interested when I’d suggested the place time and time again, and the moment he’d seen the crowd, there’d been a visible change in him.
“It’s that dress,” he said.
“The dress?” Again, I was confused. “This is the one you wanted me to wear, remember?”
“But what did you do to your breasts?” His expression was one of disdain as he lowered his eyes to my chest. “You’re wearing some kind of bra that makes them look larger. As if you got breast implants.”
Certainly that couldn’t be the issue. Even though I was annoyed that he seemed to be trying to sour the mood, I forged ahead gently. “What’s wrong? Is there something else bothering you?”
Robert pretended he didn’t hear me. Pretended to be absorbed in reading the menu.
It was probably best to let the matter drop. I lifted my own menu. “Do you want to do one of the entrées for two? Or decide on a cheese fondue and maybe a couple other items?”
“I’m trying to make up my mind.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
As we both perused the menu in silence, I decided I would let Robert choose our meals. Everything looked great, so it wasn’t as if I’d be disappointed. He was clearly irritable, and I wanted to keep him happy.
It was something I did a lot.
Why shouldn’t you decide? a tiny voice inside me asked.
Before I could even contemplate the question, Alexander arrived again, a warm smile on his attractive face. This time I noticed that he did stare at me before turning to Robert. But he had to look at someone first. Just because it was me didn’t mean he wanted to fuck me.
“We’ve hardly looked at the menu,” Robert all but snapped.
“Take your time.” Alexander clasped his hands together. “But may I start you off with a drink? Some wine or a cocktail?” He looked at me. “Or perhaps a martini.”
“Or perhaps my wife.”
My eyes grew wide with shock and horror. I gaped at my husband before looking at the waiter, who appeared absolutely mortified.
“Excuse me?” Alexander asked.
“Jesus, you’re salivating over her like she’s an item on the menu.”
“Robert, stop it.”
“It’s true,” he insisted calmly. “Isn’t it, Alexander?”
Embarrassment mixed with my horror. I pushed my chair back and stood. I was certain that people around us were overhearing this ridiculous conversation, and I could no longer stay here.
“Sir, I apologize if I somehow—”
“You’re not the one who needs to apologize,” I said, cutting Alexander off. I gave Robert a pointed look, barely keeping my fury contained. And to think I’d been concerned about keeping him happy. I picked up my clutch and my shawl. “We’re leaving.”
“Good idea,” Robert said.
Worry creased the waiter’s brow, almost as if he suspected Robert was the type to lodge a complaint with the manager. If that was his assumption, then he’d read my husband correctly.
Alexander held up both hands, a sign of submission. “If I was disrespectful in any way, I apologize.”
“Next time, look at a woman’s face—not her tits—when you’re speaking to her.”
I heard the words and cringed. For the first time in our marriage, I wanted to slap Robert.
I didn’t dare look around for fear everyone within earshot had heard his crude words. I wanted to meet the waiter’s dejected eyes and tell him that my husband’s high blood pressure medication was making him act like an asshole. But all I could do was head for the door before the embarrassment killed me.
I didn’t stop until the cool evening breeze hit my face. With Robert moving more slowly these days because of his knee, I made it outside before he did. And once there, I wanted to scream.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Not with the valet attendants and other patrons nearby.
Robert had been rude on other occasions, more often than I liked these days, but his behavior tonight was completely uncalled for.
Was it his age, his medication, or his growing insecurity? Or was this the real Robert? Had I overlooked his true nature all of these years?
Yes.
The answer sounded in my mind—and it scared me.
Chapter Three
I wrapped my shawl around my shoulders as I stood outside waiting for Robert. I didn’t turn back to see how close he was, or if he’d stopped to complain to the manager. It was just the kind of thing he would do.
Several agonizing seconds passed and no Robert. My curiosity getting the better of me, I turned. He was a couple steps from the entryway.
People were staring in his direction with the kind of interest reserved for tabloids and reality shows.
Despite my anger, I reached for the door and opened it for him. It was something I did all the time, the kind of thing a younger wife did to take care of her elderly husband.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” Robert said casually, as though he hadn’t created a public spectacle inside.
I didn’t respond. Just watched as he approached the valet stand and handed in our ticket.
A few minutes later, our yellow Porsche 911 Carrera pulled up to the curb. The young valet who’d brought it held the driver’s door open for Robert, then made his way around the car and opened the passenger door for me.
Not going to accuse him of staring at my tits? I thought sourly.
No, Robert just handed the young man a ten. Then he revved the engine and began to drive.
Angry, I stared ahead blankly. I was going to give Robert the silent treatment if he spoke to me, but he didn’t say a word, either. After a couple of minutes, I glanced his way to gauge his mood. On his face, I saw a contented expression—and if I wasn’t mistaken, a hint of smugness. Not at all the look of a man who’d acted so outraged that a waiter had been inappropriately ogling his wife.
If he truly believed that ridiculous claim.
Robert hit a button to turn on the stereo, and classical music filled the car. He thrummed his fingers against the steering wheel like a man who didn’t have a care in the world.
“I say we head to the country club. You can count on professionalism there.”
I turned my gaze from his face to my window. To the country club…gee, what a surprise. Suddenly, I couldn’t help thinking that Robert had orchestrated the whole ugly incident just so we would leave The Melting Pot. He hadn’t wanted to go there in the first place, and what a perfect plan, to make the experience so uncomfortable there was no way we could have stayed.
Did you do it on purpose? I wanted to ask him. Did you humiliate our waiter just so you could get your way?
Yes. You know he did, Elsie.
And I did. That was exactly his style. Passive-aggressive bullshit so that he could always get his way.
After a few minutes, Robert asked, “Are you not going to speak to me again?” He sounded almost cheery.
I said nothing.
“Elsie…”
“You embarrassed me,” I said. “Not to mention that poor waiter.”
“That poor waiter needs to learn some respect.”
Now I faced Robert. “What are you talking about? He wasn’t looking at my tits, as you so crudely put it.”
“He was.”
“I didn’t see it.”
