Free Berry Picking by Dara Girard

Chapter One
     
    Dear God please don't let that be him. Paula Oyelowo offered this silent plea as she sat in a West Indian restaurant, Island Dining, watching a tall, dark man speak to the maître d’ then walk towards her table. Except “walk” would be the wrong word. He bounded towards her through the elegant restaurant like the proverbial bull in a china shop. The men she usually went out with were more refined, like stallions. He was no stallion. His tie was crooked, one of the collars of his white shirt was up and the other down, his light gray tweed jacket had a dark smudge near the hem and he was vigorously wiping his hands with a paper towel--staining it black. Paula cringed. She’d been told he was an engineer, not a mechanic.
    Paula forced a smile, but remained seated as she greeted her blind date, wishing, for the twentieth time, that she'd said no to the suggestion. But she'd promised her best friend, Tamara, that she'd try him out. Her friend had been insistent and over a six-month period, had bugged her every day until she said “yes.” She had decided she would start to be mature when it came to relationships. She sighed. Being mature had meant going out with men who were a little older, in settled careers, and looking for marriage, but she had her standards and “first impressions” played a major role in her selection scheme. And she wasn’t impressed. He was almost forty. Just in her age range since she’d hit the big 4-0 soon. In four years to be exact, but time seemed to be barreling towards her. It was time to get serious. To settle down.
    “You’re not getting younger, and before you know it, you’ll be too old for any man to want,” her mother liked to remind her. With a repetitiveness that bordered on the neurotic. Sure, she could still attract the under thirty set--especially those twenty-five to twenty-eight--but she hadn't had much luck with permanency. After two relationships that had ended badly she was willing to try something, or rather someone, new. But this date looked all wrong
    “Sorry I'm late,” he said in a rush, his accent a mix of a Northeastern region she couldn't place. At least he sounded sincere. “There was this lady with a flat tire.” He collapsed into the chair in front of her then jumped up again as if on springs. “I haven't introduced myself.” He held out his hand and promptly knocked over her water glass.
    Paula leaped up in time so that the water only splashed her, rather than soaking her skirt. She bit back a swear word.
    “Sorry about that,” her date said, reaching for the glass and hitting the flower in the center of the table with his elbow.
    Paula grabbed the tiny crystal vase before it fell. “That's all right,” she said. “Sit down. I'll handle it.” Which she did by moving the vase off to her side of the table. She was used to handling crises. As a Management Consultant at a prestigious firm in Washington, D.C., she worked on merging the firm’s clients with new partners to utilize and optimize their services. She was a genius at using technologies to provide greater opportunities for companies to form collaborations with others that advanced the decision-making capabilities of their organizations. It was a tough, high-profile position, and over the past seven years she had made a name for herself in the industry. Paula inwardly groaned, wondering why Tamara thought to set her up with such a clumsy man. One would think that by his age he would be able to manage his oversized hands and feet, instead of moving around like an awkward sixteen-year-old going through a growth spurt. He didn't need to introduce himself. She already knew the vital statistics. Name? Conrad Baynard. Age? Thirty-eight. Occupation? Mechanical engineer. Income? Six figures. Tamara had used that as one of his selling points as well as telling her he was one of the finest men she'd ever met.
    He had a nice face. Not remarkable, but comfortable. Nothing to make her