The Quincy Grill

by Roger Arsht

        If she were home in Wilmington, Annie Peterson and her best friend, Brooke Marshall, would be two of many bankers and brokers who were ending their week with two or three cocktails. The two women’s conversation would focus on stock trades, options, and the bond market – almost exclusively. They used to pay attention to the men in the bar, however, the pickings had become so slim for them now that they were over forty that they almost never raised their eyes to see who was coming and going. 

        This Friday was different. Annie sat nervously at a table for two at the Quincy Grille in Annapolis. She tried not to scan the restaurant for her mystery date. She tried to remain calm, but the way her fingers creased and wrinkled the edge of the white tablecloth betrayed her feelings. While her mouth was dry, she had yet to take a sip of her water for fear that the condensation dripping from the stem might leave spots on her silk dress. Internally, she was kicking herself for wearing a cocktail dress that exposed the tops of her breasts when a business suit would have sufficed. Nothing, however, was normal about this evening. The more she thought about how Brooke had talked her into writing that letter, the more she wanted to strangle her friend. But even more so, she was irritated at herself for mailing it. 

        Annie thought about that Monday morning six weeks earlier when Brooke skipped into her office with a tanned face and an overflowing smile. Annie pushed for details about her weekend. Brooke, who usually loved to reveal the details of her dating life, shared sparingly. She instead encouraged Annie to write a letter to Secrets Kept. “You won’t regret it,” she said with a glint in her eye that told Annie that Brooke’s weekend had been more than platonic. The only information she shared was that her date was blonde, handsome, and some sort of writer.  

        For weeks, Brooke pushed Annie to put her pen to paper, and eventually Annie acquiesced under the condition that Brooke would stop bugging her about Secrets Kept. Three weeks later, when she had almost forgotten she had written the letter, she received a dinner invitation from Secrets Kept with instructions as to where and when she would meet her mystery date. Annie had smiled when she read the handwritten note from Secrets Kept because it so confidently spoke of how she wouldn’t be disappointed in the choice the dating service had made for her even though they knew almost nothing about her. Knowing how particular she could be, Annie knew the chance of this blind date bearing fruit was slim. Nevertheless, she made the drive. If the date proceeded as she expected, she could bolt from the date and be home in a few hours with nothing lost except some time and her pride. 

        Annie’s mind raced as she scanned the guests walking through the door. She dismissed the striking man talking to the host. The way he tightened the knot of his tie and pushed his hair from his forehead with the palm of his hand made her believe that he had just finished a tough day of work rather than wanting to make a strong first impression. She was surprised when he followed the host’s finger that pointed at her. The man walked over, looked at her with an engaging smile, and draped his coat over the back of the chair opposite her. 

        “Hi, I’m Bertie,” he said while extending his hand. 

        “Bertie?” Annie said as she took his hand. 

        “Yes. Bertie. Well, Bertram. It’s the name my parents gave me. You look surprised.” 

        “No…yes…it’s not a name parents…give their children…anymore…I’m sorry,” she said, kicking herself for her blundering comment. 

        “Don’t be.” Bertie could see that Annie was embarrassed. “Let’s start over. You must be Annie.” 

        “Yes. I should have introduced myself.” 

        “You didn’t need to. I read your letter. Wonderful penmanship. Er…can you say that anymore?” 

        “I don’t understand.” Annie wished she could relax. 

        “Penmanship. Shouldn’t it be penwomanship or something like that? I’m trying not to use sexist language.” 

        “You’re serious? You’re questioning whether you should have used penwomanship instead of penmanship. Who does that?” 

        Bertie’s wide grin told Annie he was having fun with her. His smile also melted some of the nervousness she was feeling. 

        “You’ve used that line before. It’s too practiced,” Annie said while laughing. 

        “I haven’t. It popped in my head,” he said, and then added, “Tell me about yourself.” 

        “You read my letter.” 

        “I did. If memory serves, you wrote that you like to be listened to and that it doesn’t happen enough. So, I'd like to hear more about you.” 

        “I did say that. But it doesn’t work that way. I don’t work that way. I don’t know you. It takes time for me to open…to be comfortable with someone.” 

        “Okay. What would make you comfortable with me?” Bertie confidently asked. 

        “Since I didn’t get a letter telling me about you, I feel like I’m at a disadvantage.” Annie paused and bit her bottom lip. It was a sign that she wasn’t comfortable. “Can we have a drink first?” Annie said, slowly. “This whole situation…it’s awkward.” 

        “Absolutely. I’ve been dying for a dirty martini all afternoon.” Bertie motioned to the server who took her order, but not his. “What’s your first question?” 

        “What do you do when you’re not…you know…entertaining women?” Annie’s felt badly about the snarky question she has just asked. She tried to change the subject to something less confrontational. She decided to ask about what had just happened. “He didn’t ask what you wanted to drink?” 

        “I’m not always here on dates,” he grinned. He was pleasant enough but a little too confident for Annie’s taste. “I’m an editor. I work for a large publishing firm. I’m also a ghostwriter. And yes, I’m here enough that the servers know what I drink.” 

        “Have you written anything under your name?” 

        “I can show you the portions of some bestsellers that I’ve written.” 

        “Isn’t it frustrating helping other people be successful and not having your work in bookstores?” 

        “I haven’t discovered a compelling story that will make me a bestselling author. I want to author a novel that explores love, pain, greed, hatred, redemption…rebirth.” 

        “That’s quite a list. But you are writing your own material?” 

        “Yes. I’m working on something now.” 

        “What is it? Is this Secrets Kept business part of a writing project?” 

        “Maybe," he answered, and then changed the focus back to Annie. "You wrote that you’re a consultant.” 

        “Investment strategist. I tell wealthy people where to invest their money, avoid taxes, plan their estates. That sort of thing.” 

        “Sounds interesting. Tell me more.”  

        The server brought her a glass of Chardonnay and Bertie his dirty martini. Something about this man intrigued her. Yes, he was a stranger, but an interesting and handsome one whose magnetic smile, green eyes, and blonde hair intrigued her for a few reasons. Annie smiled to herself because she knew measuring Bertie by his appearance was a shallow thing to do. All the same, her last few dates had gone badly because she had judged the men too harshly. She was determined to be a little less serious and make the best of this evening. Certainly, driving from Wilmington to Annapolis for this, she reminded herself, was unusual and adventurous – two things that had been missing in her life for too long. 

        “Most of the time, my clients are men who are successful and wealthy. The president of the firm sets up the initial meeting. Many of my clients prefer to work with the top person in the firm as if he does more than glad-hand. Regardless, I come to his office and share my investment strategies with the client. They rarely agree to what I propose at those meetings no matter how impressed they are. It’s just a matter of time before my boss excuses himself from the room and the client invites me to have dinner and drinks under the pretense that they want to know more about what I have planned for their money. They know it’s inappropriate. Their egos are so big they don’t care. Many of them feel that their wealth and the commissions I might earn will tempt me from acting in a professional manner. It’s unfortunate when men believe that their wealth and power insulate them from…well…condemnation or worse. When I decline, my boss and the client retreat to the golf course. A few days later, the client calls me on the phone where they ask me to execute exactly what I told them at our previous meeting. They don’t like to give a woman credit for making them money.” 

        “They don’t ask for another meeting?” 

        “They don’t want to be rebuffed a second time. Also, once they do some research, they discover that the financial returns I deliver to my clients are…well…exemplary.”  

        “That’s a shame how men resort to those base tactics. Work should be about respect, acknowledgment, and achievement. I’m guessing that you don’t play golf,” he said with a mischievous squint of his eyes and a raised eyebrow. 

        Annie could see that Bertie was intentionally trying to keep the conversation light. It seemed like he didn’t want to get caught in a clinch and she could respect that on a first date. “You're right. I don’t play golf.” Annie nodded, and then said, “I sent my letter to a company called Secrets Kept. How did you discover them?” 

        “A friend told me about them. I was assured that Secrets Kept’s clients are successful and discrete. They have two rules they hope we obey. They want us to keep the existence of Secrets Kept quiet unless were recommending them to someone we trust, and they want us to keep whatever we say to each other private.” 

        “I don’t know if I should be happy or insulted.” 

        “Why?” Bertie asked. 

        “Why wouldn’t you keep what I tell you private? Isn’t that normal? I would expect nothing less from someone I was seeing. It shouldn’t be a question.” Annie took a deep breath and another sip of her drink. “I’m sorry. I’m being…hard on you.” 

        “I like that about you. I want you to know that I’m legit. Too many women, and I can’t blame them, are on guard for con men or creeps. Secrets Kept appeals to people who like to control their environment and the people they interact with. It’s a dating service for men who want a discrete relationship with a serious woman.” 

        “I’m confused. Secrets Kept appeals to women who want a serious relationship or who are serious?” Annie hesitated before continuing. She wasn’t sure if this date was going to make it past one drink. “And does that mean I’m serious? Serious as in I’m desperate to find the right man or serious regarding the work I do.” 

        “Neither,” Bertie said nervously. “The men and women who write to Secrets Kept want their dates preselected so that they aren’t wasting their time…and I can see that…this isn’t going well.”  

        At this point of the conversation Annie was simmering. She had had enough of this charade. It was a question of when, not if, she would get to boiling. “Wow. Where do I begin? Isn’t it coincidental that Secrets Kept put my friend Brooke and me in contact with a handsome, blonde, writer – those were her words. Secrets Kept isn’t a company or a service. It’s you. Secondly, you’ve missed the whole 20th and 21st centuries. Men shouldn’t have casting couches where they ask women to take off their clothing so they can prescreen them. My friend, Brooke, told me…” 

        “I won’t even acknowledge that I know anyone by that name. I told you that keeping secrets is something I take very seriously, and nobody is asked to take their clothes off,” Bertie said defensively. 

        Annie shook her head. This date was spiraling downward and if she bit her bottom lip any harder she was sure it would start to bleed. “Does Brooke know that Secrets Kept is solely you? Does she know that I’m on a date with the same man who she enthusiastically spent a night with six weeks ago?” 

        “I don’t think so,” Bertie said quietly into his martini glass. “We didn’t exactly spend a night together. Not in the common meaning of those words.” 

        “Who are you, Bill Clinton? How dare you mince words. Will you excuse me?” Annie asked, as she pushed back from the table and removed the napkin from her lap and grabbed her purse. 

        Bertie reached forward, touched her wrist, and held her from leaving. “I hope you come back,” Bertie said sheepishly. 

        “I didn’t take my wrap. I woman doesn’t leave that behind if she’s going to leave. A man who’s dated as much as you have should know that. I need a few minutes to calm myself. And please don’t touch me unless I give you permission to do so.” Annie said as she pulled her arm away. She could see that she had created a scene by the way other tables were watching her. She then walked angrily to the lady’s room.  

        Annie had hoped being away from Bertie would give her a few moments to regain her poise. Instead, she was assaulted by the smell of colognes and perfumes being liberally applied by the half dozen women in the room. What Annie found more troubling was how the women were considerably younger than she was. The necklines of their dresses plunged deeply, and the six-inch stilettos accentuated their Pilates refined legs and butts. The women were totally focused on their appearance as if they were in a competition. Annie couldn’t avoid that truth as she sought a little mirror time to touch up her lipstick. Since she hadn’t been on a date in six months confirmed for Annie that she too part of this competition, that she was losing, and as much as she didn’t want to admit it, she was lonely.  

        Annie’s experience in the lady’s room sobered her. She was forty-three going on eighty. She had not been in a relationship for years and she couldn’t remember the last time she had sex. As she walked back to the table, she decided that she needed to ease up on this guy. He was handsome, well-dressed, and conversational even if he was a liar. Annie smiled sadly. That put him three notches higher than other first dates. She couldn’t help herself as she walked to the table to mumble angrily to herself how, ‘Her date and his Secrets Kept dating model was nothing short of Philistine.’