Free Hot Flash by Kathy Carmichael Page A

been deluding myself, which was a thought that had occurred to me when I was on my way to meet him. My eyes focused on something in Tony’s hand. A box? Maybe he’d brought me a gift?
    He arrived at my table, leaned over and bussed my cheek. “Hi.”
    “Hi.” My eyes narrowed. He wasn’t carrying a box. It was a stack of photos. Who brings photos on a date? “Did you have any problem finding the restaurant?”
    “No. Looks like a nice place.”
    “It’s one of my favorites.” No need to mention it’s one of my safe spots . “So, how are easel sales?”
    “Going great. How’s cooking?”
    “Just fine.” I wasn’t quite sure how to get a conversation going and sought some safe subject. I mean, what do easel salesmen want to talk about? I knew nothing about easels. As I opened my mouth to stick my foot in it by mentioning religion or politics, our waiter approached. “Can I get you a bottle of wine tonight?”
    He ran through the list of specials and Tony and I quickly placed our orders.
    Do you ever have one of those moments, not exactly déjà vu, but where you know that what is coming isn’t going to be good?
    It happened to me when Tony, who had been sitting opposite me at the table, changed chairs to sit beside me, photos in hand.
    “This is my kid, Charlie. Isn’t he cute?”
    I looked at the photo he held up. Charlie had an uncanny resemblance to Eddie Munster. “Very cute. How old is he?”
    “Five. This one’s a picture of him in front of our … I mean, what used to be our house. I live in an apartment now.”
    His boy was only five? Amazing. What with the peach fuzz mustache, he looked about fourteen. “Nice house.”
    “Bridget got it in the divorce.” He seemed sort of choked up as he looked at the house photo. I could understand where he was coming from since we obviously shared a passion for houses—dream or lost.
    “I have a son, too. Stephen.” It wasn’t much of a conversation starter, but it was the best I could do at the time. Since Tony was upset, I was hoping to get him on another subject. But none of my attempts worked. By the time our entrées arrived, he’d hit his stride.
    “I miss my kid. I miss my house. I miss my wife. I miss my life!”
    When dessert arrived, I realized I’d hit the low point in my dating life, because my date was blubbering. Literally. Crying into his Crème Brûlée.
    “I want my life back. Why did she have to kick me out? Why? Why?”
    With each “why,” he smashed his forehead with his spoon. “Now, now.” I forced the spoon from his fingers and patted his back, not knowing what else to do.
    But he continued blubbering. Other diners were beginning to stare and were looking at me as if I’d done something to upset the poor man. One woman glared at me, so I held up my hands in an exaggerated shrug to let her know I wasn’t responsible.
    She turned away, but it was too much. I had to escape. Grabbing my handbag, I popped up from the table. “Gotta go visit the little girls’ room.”
    My tone came out a lot more frantic than I’d hoped, but if this wasn’t an emergency, what was? I’d have done almost anything to get away. I’d have yelled fire if Kurt wouldn’t have doused me in fire extinguisher foam as retribution. As I trotted to the restroom, toilet paper origami called to me.
    By the time I’d applied more lipstick and gone through every freshening-up routine I could think of, I remembered my cell phone. I dialed my home number.
    The phone was answered on the second ring. “Thunder Storm residence,” said the voice.
    At first I thought I’d called the wrong number, but the voice sounded sickeningly familiar. “Is this Davin? What are you doing answering the phone? Where’s Stephen?”
    “He’s in the bathroom. How’s your date going?”
    Like I was going to discuss it with him? “None of your business. Any chance Stephen is coming out soon?”
    “Considering how much time the two of you spend in the bathroom, I’m