Two Wrongs (Meant To Be 1)

Caroline Duval, daughter of Richard Duval, CEO of the Northfield Group, and Gran’s bridge partner’s granddaughter

27 years old, divorced, twice

Currently unemployed, last job three years ago as a receptionist in a plastic surgeon’s office

Dark hair, will be wearing a red dress, will meet you in the bar

A bit high-strung but just needs to meet the right man who knows how to handle her

Great. An unemployed, high-strung, double divorcee.

Just my type.

Not.

CHAPTER 2

Natalie

The warm June evening sunlight comes through the cracked windshield of my parked 1978 Cherry Red VW Bug.

Lady bug as my father calls it, and me.

I’m Facetiming with my younger sister, in our usual pre-probably-crappy-date ritual. “How many Thursdays in a row is this?” Sasha asks as she stares back at me from the Facetime window. She’s got a filter on, so she’s got little fox ears and twitching whiskers.

“Ten. I think. What’s the date again?” I do my best to sound like I don’t know exactly what day it is. I take a peek in the rearview, poking at my hair and lamenting I can’t seem to get my signature red lipstick to be Gwen Stefani perfect.

I pop my lips together twice, a habit I trying to break and turn my attention back to my phone.

“It’s June 9th! My wedding is in two days! You little monster. How do you not remember dates?” She lets out a hoarse exhale of exasperation. “Anyway, so that’s…” Sasha scribbles something on a piece of paper out of sight, then shakes her head on a smile. “Ten Match.com dates. Ten evenings of total masochism.” She glares at me. “If that’s what you’re after, girl. Betcha’d look fab in leather.”

“Ha-ha-ha,” I say crinkling my nose on a smirk.

“Anyway, Dad will arrive tonight. Then all that will be missing is you.”

Oh, Dad. He’s my rock. After my mom cheated on him with the next-door neighbor, he was willing to stay and work things through to keep the family together.

My mother’s response was to empty the bank accounts, hire the best divorce attorney she could with his money even though she had a trust fund she never seemed to want to share with him or us, and proceeded to not only drag him through the mud, but leave him virtually destitute with the barest of visitation then moved us three states away.

He followed. No way was she keeping his daughters from him.

Lovely lady. Honestly. Also, not invited to Sasha’s wedding.

“I better get going. Boredom and free food await.”

“’M-kay,” she chirps. She blows me a kiss on the screen. “Message me if you need an SOS call.”

“I will. Love you, sis.”

I end our call, scoop up all the random shit that fell out onto the floor of the passenger’s side when I slammed on the brakes to miss a black cat that crossed in front of me as I turned into the parking lot here. I shove the items back into my bag, and then get out of my Bug. I look up at the sign on the front of the restaurant. “Amalfi’s.” The front is all windows, and the glow of candles and low lighting fills the floor-to-ceiling glass.

I’ve wanted to come here for months. It’s an Italian-Greek fusion, apparently the owner-chef’s heritage. A woman, no less. It’s got five stars on the local Yelp and some food critics blogs.

I’m a foodie down into my soul but my wallet prevents me from indulging as often as I’d like and ironically, on my own I can barely make toast. As I pass through the front door into the beautiful cream and white entry with tall green plants making a dividing wall into the dining area, I daydream of a food blog someday. YouTube, Insta…maybe even my own show.

Getting paid to eat. What could be better?

“What can I get you?” asks the bartender as I sit down. He’s wearing a white shirt and black bow tie, sleeves rolled up and I think of the Billy Joel ‘Piano man’ song and for a second as there’s a sadness in his eyes but it’s quickly replaced by a genuine smile and a friendly wink.

“A Tom Collin’s,” I say, sitting up straight as I admire the deep carving on the antique bar. The place is busy for a Thursday night, which is a good sign as far as food quality goes.

“Been a while since I had anyone order one of those. Very retro.”

I smile and shrug, plopping my purse on the bar stool next to me. “I’m a retro sort of gal, I guess.”

“You got it,” he answers on another wink, grabbing a glass and mixing my drink, then sliding the it over the smooth wooden surface on a white paper napkin. “Want me to start you a tab?”

He meets my eyes with the question, but before I can answer a flash of light from my right pulls my gaze…and hold the phone.