The Little Blackbird

Dominic paced up and down the street in front of the Little Blackbird cafe, and took some deep, calming breaths. Why couldn't he force his racing brain to come to heel? Stop thinking worst case, start thinking best case. Yes, this was his first date (practically a blind date) with someone he'd met on the internet. But he knew James, they'd been online friends for about five years, and everything in their interactions said he was a nice, kind man who would make a great real-time friend, even if they didn't click physically. It would be all right.

But would it?

After all, this was his first ever actual date with a man. His last date had been thirty-seven years ago with the woman who had become his wife. That had been a real blind date and Nic smiled at the memory. He'd ordered a glass of the house Merlot, and she'd hated him on sight, being an incredible wine snob. As usual, the thought of Margo calmed him like nothing else could. She would approve of this move, be proud of him for managing a first date with a man. Not a hook-up or a pick-up, a sit down to dinner date.

Nic looked up from his thoughts to see a person that he knew had to be James. Tall, slim, early 50s, with too long hair and glasses that gave him a professorial look. Nic began to walk in his direction as though an invisible wire pulled him forward like a magnet. Both smiling, James stuck his hand out to shake and Nic grabbed it and pulled him in for a hug.

Nice, he thought, this feels nice. Suddenly he knew it was going to be a great first date. Then they got inside the cafe and within the first few seconds realized it had been a poor choice. The water glasses looked murky, the menus were greasy. Nic didn't want to be rude, but he wasn't sure he could eat in this place. Food was, after all, his forte.

As if reading his thoughts, James asked, "What do you think our chances are with the house Merlot? This place is called the Little Blackbird."

Nic must have looked confused so James explained, "Merlot is French for Little Blackbird."

"I think we're better off with a bottle." Nic tamped down his fears about the food as he perused the wine menu.

Predictably, it took an age for a member of the hipster wait staff to stop their conversation over by the bar long enough to look their way. Finally a gangling youth, dressed entirely in black of course, ambled over to take their drink order.

"I think," James said once the waiter had gone, "This may have been a really bad idea."

"It's my fault. You're new here, I should have made some recommendations."

In unison, they both got up from the table, and then James' face turned white. "Oh my God, I must have forgotten my wallet at the hotel. I tried on so many different outfits . . ."

"I have some cash on me, but not much. My bank recently sent me a fraud notice, I'm getting new cards tomorrow."

While they were still fumbling around at the table, the wine arrived.

"Let's book," Nic suggested.

Without another word, they made it out of the Little Blackbird; once out onto the street they both burst out laughing.

"I've never run out of a restaurant before," James confessed.

"But we never opened the wine. So technically we didn't run out on a tab. We're likeable rogues, not incorrigible thieves." Nic took a deep breath. "I could not have eaten there," he admitted.

"No, it was awful." James' face reddened with embarrassment. "Two first date faux pas accomplished, pick a horrible place for the date, and then not have the money to pay."

"You know, my apartment is just a few blocks from here and my freezer is stocked with ready-made meals."

"That would be a huge faux pas," James grinned, "going to your place for dinner. You are almost certainly a serial killer."

"Almost certainly."

Ten minutes later, they were standing by the island in Nic's bespoke kitchen, having just opened a bottle of Merlot. "This should breathe."

"It should," James responded, "but this seems to be the night for faux pas, so I'll pour."

After filling both their glasses, James lifted his in a toast, "To us."

Later, as they rummaged through the big chest freezer, James asked, "Did you cook all this food?"

"Some, most if it I inherited from my wife's personal chef."

James' eyes narrowed and his mouth turned ugly. "You have a wife?"

"Not anymore, she's dead. She died a few months ago."

"But you were married to a woman?"

"For thirty-five years," Nic admitted. "But it's not like you think. Margot knew I was gay. We were best friend, never lovers."

Though James' features had lost that ugly look, Nic felt none of the warmth of a few minutes ago.

"You know what it was like, it was illegal. Shameful. To my Catholic parents, a sin. I buried who and what I was for a long time, until I met Margo. Which is strange, since I basically married her to appease my parents." Nic smiled and tried to make a joke of it. "What a huge sigh of relief when I announced our engagement!"

"You should have told me. How could you keep such an important part of yourself a secret?"

"Not a secret, never a secret. It didn't seem to impact our friendship."

Now James looked disappointed, and Nic thought his heart would break. Without notice he felt the first sting of tears run down his cheeks, and turned away, trying to brush them off. This time it was James who pulled him into a hug, and they stood there in the butler's pantry, the freezer wide open, Nic sobbing as if a great dam had been released.

When the flood began to ease, James got him a paper towel from the kitchen. "You know what?" Nic patted his eyes, "I don't feel like any of this stuff. How about I cook for you? If you're staying?"

"Of course I'm staying, this is the best first date I've ever had. The faux pas keep coming."

Nic blew his nose in the towel and then lifted his eyebrows in a gesture meant to be comic. they both laughed in a huge release of tension.

"How about an omelet? I make great omelets?"

"Sounds good, I'll sit here and watch." James slipped his slim body into one of the stools by the island. "And you can tell me about Margot."

"Are you sure?" Nic fought to control the nervous tone in his voice. "Talking about my ex would be an incredible faux pas."

"She was a big part of your life, I think I need to know about her, don't you?"

"Of course," he said, and opened the fridge, his hands instantly going to the ingredients he needed. Eggs cheese, ham, mushrooms, scallions, spinach."

"Spinach and mushroom okay?"

"Perfect."

James' grin matched his own and Nic began to think things might work out after all. The truth was, he'd never been especially good in his relationships with men. Too much need, too little understanding. Of himself most of all.

Nic got a bowl and his small wire whisk and began to beat the eggs to a nice froth. Them he place a bit of butter in his small All-Clad and put it on the lowest possible heat to simmer while he washed the mushrooms and scallions.

"Stainless steel, not copper?" James asked.

"It has a copper core, but with this pan I can keep the heat very low. Eggs should always be cooked at a low heat, especially omelets. Though not everyone agrees with me."

James appeared to be fascinated as he watched Nic slice the mushrooms and scallions with deft strokes of his knife. The vegetables went into another small pan lined with butter, and then be put several handfuls of spinach on his cutting board.

"Margo," he said, "was a remarkable woman. She was a food critic."

"And you a chef." Nic had worked in the same Seattle restaurant for over twenty years before he retired. He'd never wanted his own place, was happy working behind the stove and the flat top, content to create without the worry of management.

"She was also a financial planner, like her father. Except she took it to the next level. She wrote books, taught classes, and had private students she tutored. To be certified, there's a big exam. She basically wrote the Bible on financial planning in the Pacific Northwest."

"She came from money?"

"He father left her millions while she was still in her twenties. And she multiplied that many times, although I never knew her exact worth until she died. We didn't talk about money, it was the one thing she was secretive about."

And we didn't really live together, after the first few years. She had a place out in Laurelhurst and I lived here, close to work. But we got together on the weekends and had the best adventures." Nic smiled at the memory.

"You weren't working on the weekends?"

"I worked four evenings a week, Monday through Thursday. Which meant I didn't have the pressure of the weekend and I could create. That's why I stayed," he explained, "it was the perfect job for me."

While Nic worked on the omelet, he told James about Margo's sense of humor, her vitality, her strong sense of justice. He talked about how she gave most of her money to various charities. And finally he talked about how Margo had helped him accept his gayness, to not see it as shameful or wrong.

"She would have been very proud of me right now."

By the time Nic was ready to serve, they were back to the easy-going swing of earlier. Despite all the faux pas, things *were* going to be all right.

"More Little Blackbird?" he asked, and picked up the bottle to pour.