Free Do You Promise Not to Tell? by Mary Jane Clark Page B

she was taking too much time trying to decide what to wear.
    Six dresses were strewn across the gaily-flowered quilt on her antique iron-and-brass bed, and five pair of shoes were arrayed on the floor.
    It
’
s just dinner, for God’s sake. What’s the big deal
?
    When Tim Kavanagh called asking if she’d like to have dinner, she’d only hesitated a moment before saying yes. It had surprised her how much she’d been anticipating the evening all week. Most times she found herself dreading new dates.
    Not that there really had been that many of them. She knew that she didn’t give out the signals that said “approachable” and “available.” Truth to tell, she usually didn’t want to get involved. It was simpler that way, which translated into “safer that way.”
    But it felt different this time. Pat laughed to herself.
You idiot! What makes you think you are exempt from the natural human desire for the companionship of the opposite sex? Admit it. You’ve missed it for a long time. Too long
.
    She’d narrowed the selection down to her black wool long-sleeved dress or her blue velvet cocktail dress. The black was always safe. She could dress it up with her pearl earrings and necklace.
    But the velvet was more sensuous and, frankly, sexier. It hugged her well-exercised figure. When she wore it, she felt decidedly more feminine.
    Go for it.
    On went the velvet. She fastened on rhinestone earrings but chose to wear nothing at the open neckline. She slipped on black suede high-heeled pumps over her sheer dark hose. As Pat turned before the full length mirror, she felt confident about her appearance.
    Farrell and Peter applauded when she came out of her bedroom.
    “What a bod, Pat! You look fabulous,” exclaimed Farrell. “You make me want to get right to the gym.”
    “Okay, you two. Thanks for the compliments to this nervous mother going out on a date for the first time in a long while. Farrell, you’re sure this is okay?”
    “Of course it is.
You
’
re
the one doing me a favor, having me out for the weekend after I invited myself. I’d feel terrible if you canceled your date. Go, have a good time. Peter and I will have a little dinner and then I’ll let him get back to Seton Hall where he should be on a Saturday night.”
    Pat went out into the cold March night and slid into the front seat of her eight-year-old Volvo. Tim had wanted to pick her up, but she’d insisted on meeting him at the restaurant. She always felt safer when she had her own car.
    She drove the thirty miles into Manhattan and miraculously found a parking spot on West 58th Street, a half-block from her destination.
    Tiny, twinkling white lights glittered, framing theentrance to Petrossian. Even in the dark, Pat could see the architectural ornateness of the building that housed the renowned restaurant. Amid the limestone gingerbread and scrollwork, bizarre little gargoyles perched on the walls, smiling or grimacing upon the people on the sidewalk below.
    You guys look like you’re daring me to come inside
, Pat thought as she went up the steps, where an imposing doorman awaited her. She drew a deep breath as she entered.
    Inside, a small shop offered the delicacies for which Petrossian was known. Jars and tins of caviar, foie gras, and pâtés lined glass shelves, while packages of smoked salmon, sturgeon, and eel rested in glistening display cases. Truffles, Russian caramels, and vodka- and cognac-filled chocolates beckoned temptingly.
    Pat looked to the right, into the restaurant, and spotted Tim Kavanagh waiting at the art deco-style bar. She saw his eyes sweep over her and she could tell by his expression as she walked toward him that he was pleased. She was glad she’d opted for the midnight-blue velvet dress.
    Tim rose to greet her.
    “You look wonderful,” he whispered.
    “Thank you.” Pat felt the old tingling sensation, something she hadn’t felt in a long time.
    A navy-blazered gentleman guided them to their table for