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Scene #7
"You must be Presley," he said, extending a hand toward her.
"You must be Caleb." "Only my mother calls me Caleb,"
he confided, giving her hand a little squeeze before he released
it. "When she wants to be stern with me." He favored her with a
crooked smile as they settled down at the table. "You can call me
Cal." "Oh, I think I'd rather call you Caleb," she decided
as she draped her bag and sweater across the back of her curved
chair. "Are we really going to be this formal? With a dress
like that, you passed formal a long time ago." Presley
smiled despite herself. The man had charm; she had to give him
that. But it didn't dissuade her from her purpose. Schooling her
features to reflect her serious tone, she said, "Let's get this
straight right now so there are no misconceptions later." She
leaned forward over the table. "I hate blind dates. The only reason
I'm here now is out of respect for my friend who desperately wants
to match me up because she's so happy." "Okay."
"Okay. Good." She sat back against her chair with an inelegant
slouch. "I'm a this-close-to-thirty —" she pinched her fingers
together in emphasis " — slightly well-adjusted single woman. The
only thing that keeps me from being fully well-adjusted is my
somewhat neurotic family." Caleb regarded her with a bland
expression as he allowed her free rein to rant. "My parents
came together in true romantic fashion. She got knocked up, they
got married. They had my brother Sam. He's the only one in the
family with the good sense to stay away from the rest of us. He
lives in Seattle. "The marriage wasn't working so my mother
tried to patch it up — twice - with more babies. That would be me
and my sister Lynn, who likes to mess with the happiness of
everyone around her. When that didn't work, my parents decided to
‘take a break' for awhile. They got along better then than they
ever had, so they decided to get back together. To celebrate, they
had my sister Merry, who's the only one of us that they had for all
of the right reasons. So they fawned all over her, which sent Lynn
over the edge. She's been making Merry — and everyone else, for
that matter — suffer for it ever since. "And there I am,
stuck in the middle of all that craziness, trying to smooth
everything out so everyone will love me and we'll all just get
along." She paused to take a sip of water from the glass set before
her, then added, as if it had just come to her, "Oh! And did I
mention that my father is prone to psychotic breaks that constantly
land him in the hospital? Not the sort of thing you want to bring a
new guy home to." "Okay." Caleb leaned forward over the
table with a slight twist to his lips. "My turn." With a
nod, Presley waved a hand in his direction, as if to present him
with the soapbox on which to give his speech. Caleb returned
the nod with one of acknowledgment. "In case Lori failed to
mention it to you, I'm a psychologist," he admitted. "A prospect
which usually sends all of my dates running to the hills, fearful
that I'm going to analyze everything they say, every gesture they
make, and declare them certifiable or something. "I usually
don't tell them what I do until the second date so I can get to
know them before I drive them into the hills when I question why
they made that particular comment about their mother." His smile,
and his tone, was self-deprecating. "Even my closest friends
sometimes wonder if I'm secretly analyzing things they tell me in
confidence. How do I know this? Because they ask me. A lot. Which
is probably why Lori set me up with you." Something in the
way he delivered that last statement pricked a nerve just under
Presley's skin. "Why did you say it like that?" she demanded.
"What'd you mean by that?" "You see?" he said,
self-satisfied, as he relaxed back against his seat. "You've just
proven my point." "What point?" "My chosen profession
tends to put a damper on my prospects," he stated. "Even with
someone like you." "Someone like me?" she repeated,
dumbfounded. For all of a second before the truth of it
materialized in her mind. "I don't believe it! You think I'm a
hooker?" "There's a lot of skin showing between your heels
and your hemline. What am I supposed to think?" "Not that I'm
a hooker!" "Would you please stop saying it that loud?" he
asked. "You're drawing attention from the others." "Oh, are
you sure it's my tone? Maybe it's my hooker dress." She
deliberately said the offensive word louder than the rest.
"Tell me," he encouraged, maintaining a calm air as he glanced over
the menu before him. "What impression did you intend to make with
that dress?" "Certainly not that I was for hire." "That
didn't really answer my question." "Well, that's all you're
going to get." Caleb didn't respond directly. He just toyed
with his menu, drawing a fingertip over its laminated surface in an
aimless pattern that was slightly erotic, and let the seconds pile
up into a minute. Then another. Finally, "Look, I think we both
know that you really don't want to be here. Lori warned me that you
might do something — outrageous — to put me off. But when I saw
that dress, I have to admit that I thought she said that just so
she could put me off." He glanced up at her then, his tone
reflecting genuine sincerity. "I'm sorry that I thought you were a
hooker — but you might want to think better of it the next time you
decide to pair up that dress with those shoes."
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