Page 69 of The Maverick
Maybe it was.
Maybe I was finally learning to be obvious.
Back at the apartment, Tasha was out and Devon was sleeping and Geoff was at the kitchen table with his book. He looked up when I came in—first at me, then at the flowers I was carrying.
He looked at the flowers for a moment. Then back at his book. Then back at the flowers.
"Those are nice," he said, in the careful tone of a man who had decided not to ask.
"Yes," I said, in the tone of a woman who had decided not to explain.
I set them on the kitchen counter where I could see them from the table, then held up my apron pocket in the general direction of where the card was and said "I called a podcast producer who heard me play and wanted to talk. Left her a voicemail."
He looked at me for a moment.
"Good," he said. Then he went back to his book.
That was exactly the right amount of response. I went to my room.
Getting ready for The Palmetto Rose took longer than I wanted it to and less time than I feared.
The problem was the gap between what I owned and what the occasion seemed to call for. I'd never been to The Palmetto Rose. I'd never been to anywhere like The Palmetto Rose. I didn't know if we were having drinks on a balcony or drinks and dinner or just the balcony and then he'd send me home at nine o'clock, and the not knowing made packing for it impossible.
I showered again, to wash the restaurant off, then laid everything I owned on the bed.
The brown leather boots. A dark pair of jeans without any wear in the knees. A black top I'd bought at a thrift store in KeyWest that was simple and fitted and had a small V at the neck that was tasteful without being understated. A cardigan in a soft cream color that Tasha had given me at Christmas because she said it matched my skin.
I stood there and looked at it all.
I thought about the women I'd seen going in and out of places like The Palmetto Rose on my walks through the historic district—the linen and the silk and the effortless.
I thought about the fact that Tommy had restrung my guitar on a restaurant floor and eaten my mama's jam off grocery-store bread in my small Charleston bed and saidI know what you arewithout needing me to explain it.
I put on the jeans and the black top and the cardigan and the boots.
I curled my hair loose, the way I'd done for The Piazza, the way that took twenty minutes but looked like it hadn't. I put on the small gold earrings that had been my grandmother's and that I wore only for things that mattered, and I looked at myself in the mirror above the bathroom sink and thought:this is what I've got and it's enough.
I believed it. Mostly.
Before I left I made myself eat—scrambled eggs and the heel of a bread loaf, standing at the kitchen counter with my coat already on. I wasn't going to arrive at The Palmetto Rose hungry and make assumptions about what the evening included. I was going to arrive having taken care of myself, the way I always took care of myself, and let the rest of it be whatever it turned out to be.
The eggs were good. Simple and hot and mine.
I washed the pan, dried it, put it away.
Tasha came through the front door just as I was pulling on my gloves and she stopped in the doorway and looked at me—just looked, for a full second—and said, “Wow.”
"Don't," I said.
"You look beautiful."
"I said don't."
"I'm saying it, anyway." She stepped aside to let me through. "Go. Have fun. Text if you need anything."
I went.
The Charleston evening was cold and clear and smelled like the ocean, the way it always did. Somewhere ahead of me, The Palmetto Rose was waiting with its partial harbor view and its good bourbon and Tommy Dane on a balcony.
