pulled up to the valet stand in front of the restaurant. An attendant came over immediately. They usually did when the car was a Porsche.
Moments later, we were inside The Melting Pot. The restaurant was warm and inviting, done in a combination of dark beige and burgundy. Intimate, curved booths lined the walls. Unique lighting fixtures hung above the tables, reminding me of blown-glass designs I’d seen in Venice.
I liked the place. A lot. My mood instantly brightened.
The restaurant was full of chatter. Happy people all around us were laughing and talking and dipping various items into pots of fondue.
“I hope we made the right choice,” Robert mumbled.
I glanced at him as we approached the hostess stand. He didn’t make eye contact with me. I didn’t bother asking him what he meant.
The hostess sat us at our table in the center of the restaurant. I took my shawl off and placed it and my clutch on the seat next to me.
Robert was looking around. Not a casual glance inspecting his surroundings, but more of an intense, evaluating look.
Some of the diners were throwing curious glances our way, as well.
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
