The Invitation

“Have you heard from Prince Charming yet?” Fisher opened my refrigerator and took out a container of yesterday’s dinner, even though it was only 7AM.

I shook my head and tried to hide my disappointment. “It’s probably for the best.”

“What’s it been, like, a week now?”

“Eight days. Not that I’m counting.” I’m totally counting.

He looked me up and down. “Why are you dressed so early?”

“I just got back from watching the sunrise.”

“You know, you can set the background of your laptop to some pretty nice sunrises and sunsets and sleep in.” Fisher popped off the Tupperware lid and forked a full breaded chicken cutlet as if it were a lollipop. He bit off a piece.

“That’s not quite the same, but thanks. Umm…do you want me to heat that up for you? Give you a plate and knife to cut it up? Or better yet, make you some eggs for breakfast?”

“No need.” He shrugged and took another bite. “Why don’t you call him?”

I looked at my best friend blankly. “I can’t call him.”

“Why not?”

“Because he probably changed his mind. Are you forgetting how we met? I’m shocked he even asked for my phone number. I’m thinking he had a temporary lapse in sanity and thought better of it after I left. Besides, I have a date tomorrow, anyway.”

“With who?”

“Ben.”

“The guy you met online? That was a few weeks ago, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. I was supposed to go out with him a few days ago, but I canceled.”

“How come you canceled?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Just had a lot to do.”

Fisher gave me a look. “Nice try. But I ain’t buying it. You were hoping Prince Charming would call and wanted to keep your calendar free.”

“I wasn’t waiting for Hudson to call.”

“Have you checked your phone for missed messages more than once this week?”

“No,” I said—waaay too quickly and sounding completely defensive.

I totally had, a few times a day, actually. But I knew how Fisher operated. He was relentless. It’s what made him such a good lawyer. If he found one little string hanging, he would keep pulling and pulling until the entire sweater unraveled. So I wasn’t about to hand him that thread on a silver platter.

He studied me. “I think you’re full of shit.”

I rolled my eyes.

“You know, you can go out with more than one person at a time…”

Luckily, our conversation was interrupted by my landline ringing, my business phone.

“I wonder who’s calling Signature Scent on a Saturday. I guess it could be a vendor in Singapore. It’s still Friday there, right?”

Fisher chuckled. “Wrong way. It’s Sunday there.”

“Oh.”

I found the phone in the living room, where it sat on top of a box of samples. I cradled the receiver on my shoulder as I picked up the box, too. “Hello?”

“Hi, is this Stella Bardot?”

Returning to the kitchen, I opened the box and took out one of the small glass jars packed inside. “It is. Who’s this?”

“My name is Olivia Royce.”

The jar slipped from my hand. It hit the kitchen tile with a loud clank, but luckily, it didn’t break. I fumbled to grab the phone from where it was balanced on my shoulder. “Did you say Olivia Royce?”

“I did. I hope you don’t mind me calling. I couldn’t find a website, but when I Googled the name of your company, this number came up, so I took a chance.”

“Umm… No, not at all. Of course not.”

“I received your note and gift. When I mentioned what you’d sent me to my brother, he told me you were starting a new fragrance company that made custom scents. I would love to order some perfumes for my bridal party, but I couldn’t find you online.”

“Uhh…the website isn’t up yet.”

“Darn. Can I possibly order them directly from you, then?”

“Sure. Of course.”

“Eeep! That’s great. I’ve been struggling to figure out what to get each of the girls. I want something personalized and special. This is so perfect. I absolutely love mine, by the way. Thank you for doing that.”

I couldn’t get over this conversation. Olivia was calling me to place an order, not ream me out for crashing her wedding? Was it possible she didn’t realize I was the same person? I didn’t think so, since I’d mailed her gift and an apology note in the same box, and she’d obviously had a conversation with Hudson about me.

“Thank you. I, uh, I can send them some kits and make their orders a priority once they tell me what they like.”

“Oh no. I want it to be a surprise. I know a lot about them—maybe I could just tell you what they normally wear and a little bit about them and you could come up with something?”

I wasn’t sure that would be as effective as the way I normally did it, but there was no way in hell I could say no to her. “Sure, that sounds good.”

“How’s Monday at twelve thirty?”

My forehead wrinkled. “Umm… Twelve thirty is fine.”

“Okay. Would Café Luce on Fifty-Third work? Is that too far for you? Do you live here in the City?”

My eyes bulged. She wanted to meet in person? I’d assumed she meant she was going to pencil me into her calendar for an email or a call.

“Yes, I live in the City. And Café Luce sounds good.”

“Perfect! It’s a date. Thanks, Stella! I can’t wait to meet you.”

Ten seconds later, the line was dead. I stared at my phone. Fisher had been watching the entire conversation play out on my face.

“Who was that?” he said.

“Olivia Royce.”

“And she is?”

“The bride whose wedding we crashed.”

The next day, I arrived twenty minutes early at the coffee shop. Ben had wanted to pick me up for our date, but I preferred to meet people I didn’t know well in public so I was always in full control of when I could leave. I bought a decaf latte and took a seat on a couch off to the side of the counter. My local coffeehouse always had newspapers and magazines for people to browse while they drank their overpriced coffees, so I picked up The New York Times and started to flip through the Sunday Style section. Halfway through, I froze when I saw a photo. After blinking a few times to make sure I wasn’t imagining things, I lifted the paper closer to read the announcement.

Olivia Paisley Rothschild and Mason Brighton Royce were married on July 13th at the New York Public Library in Manhattan. The Rev. Arthur Finch, an Episcopal priest, officiated.

Mrs. Royce, 28, whom the groom calls Livi, is a vice president of marketing. She graduated from the University of Pennsylvania and received an MBA from Columbia.

She is the daughter of Charlotte Bianchi Rothschild and Cooper E. Rothschild, both deceased, from New York City. The wedding was hosted by her brother, Hudson Rothschild.

Mr. Royce, also 28, founded his own IT firm and specializes in security and compliance. He graduated from the University of Boston and received an MS in Information Technology from NYU.

I couldn’t believe I’d stumbled on their wedding announcement. What were the chances? I hadn’t read the Sunday New York Times in years, so it felt like a freaky coincidence. Fisher always said if you put positive thoughts out there, positive things would come back to you. That might explain this. I’d certainly done enough thinking over the last week and a half about a certain man who had asked for my number, but then never called.

Earlier this week, I’d been flipping through the channels and happened to pass Dancing with the Stars. Even though I never watched it, for some reason I kept it on. When the couples slow danced, I reminisced about how it had felt to be in Hudson’s arms at his sister’s wedding. That had led to me remembering how much rhythm he’d had, which in turn made my mind wander to other things his good rhythm might be helpful with. Then, on Friday night when Fisher came over after work, he’d brought me a bottle of Hendricks gin. It reminded me of the way my arms had broken out in goose bumps when Hudson whispered in my ear, “The night’s young, Evelyn. Dance with me.”

I’d never in a million years expected him to ask me out when I showed up with my tail between my legs at his office to pick up my phone. But once he did, I’d let my imagination run away with itself. I’d even put off my second date with Ben. But after spending more than a week waiting for my phone to ring, I finally realized it was dumb to avoid a perfectly nice guy—one who had called multiple times—just because another guy might possibly dial my number.

Ben walked in a few minutes before the time we were supposed to meet. I took one last glance at the wedding photo in the newspaper before closing it. I was determined to not ruin my date by letting thoughts of another man sneak in.

“Hey.” Ben kissed me on the lips.

It was only our second kiss, since our first had been at the end of our last date, but it was nice enough. There was no tingle, and goose bumps didn’t run down my arms or anything, but we were in the middle of a coffee shop, so what did I expect? When Ben pulled back, he handed me a box of Godiva chocolate I hadn’t noticed in his hand. “I was going to get you flowers, but I figured you’d have to carry them with you all night. This you can probably toss in your purse.”

I smiled. “That’s very thoughtful of you. Thank you so much.”

“I made a reservation at a steak house. After, if you’re up for it, there’s a comedy club next door with an open-mic night tonight.”

“That sounds great.”

“You ready to go?”

“Yup.”

I picked up my empty coffee cup and tossed it in the garbage on the way out. When I reached for the door handle, Ben beat me to it. “Please, let me.”

“Thank you.”

Outside I looked left and then right. “Which way are we heading?”

“The restaurant is a few blocks from here. It’s on Hudson.”

“Hudson Street?”

“Yeah, is that too far to walk in heels? I can grab us an Uber.”

“No, no. That’s fine.” But seriously…Hudson Street?

We started to walk. “I haven’t tried the place yet,” Ben said. “But it has incredible reviews, so I hope it’s good.”

“What’s it called?”

“Hudson’s.”

I had to stifle my laugh. Hudson’s on Hudson Street? So much for not letting thoughts of someone else creep in tonight…