Waltz of Her Life

He looked back at the sexy car with the sharp, wedge shaped lines. "It's my new car, babe! You like it?"

Once she sunk down inside of it, she was amazed at how much legroom the car had. It felt like she'd lowered herself down into some kind of a rabbit hole. Seth flicked on the stereo, and the screeching notes from the Eagle's song "Victim of Love" pounded her ears from four overpowering speakers. "You like it?" he asked. "It's a Nissan 300ZX special edition. Just picked it up a couple of days ago." With that, he jumped on the clutch, shifted into first and made the tires chirp when he kicked down the gas pedal and rocketed them away from the curb.

Luckily, they didn't have too far to go. Seth parked at the four level garage across from Restaurant Row, a street containing four and five star eateries that ranked among the most scrumptious in the nation. After they rode the elevator down to street level, Seth stepped out onto the sidewalk and with a grand flourish indicated the city block of high-end restaurants. "Which one do you want to go to, babe?"

Linda looked at the faux cobblestone street, the old-fashioned gas lamp lighting and the tasteful signs hanging above the doors. "Seth, you need a reservation for places like this."

"Well duh!" he said, showing a glimpse of the party animal she'd met seven years earlier. Tonight he was wearing a light charcoal suit with a shimmering tie that made him look like a blond Mafioso. Business had been good at the motorcycle shop where he worked, but not that good. She wondered what was going on. "We're going to La Maison Jardin," he said. He offered his arm to her the way gentlemen did in old movies. She took it, wrapping both hands around it as was the proper way and together they crossed the street.

At the heavy oak and stained glass door for the restaurant, he made a big show of opening it for her and then ushering her through. As she expected, the moment they stepped through the threshold, an impeccably groomed maitre d' in a tuxedo and a pencil thin mustache greeted them. "Bonjour monsieur," he said.

Linda had heard of La Maison Jardin and the army of wait staff they had watching over each table, the ultra luxurious appointments, and how they'd managed to make the inside look like a cross between a French bistro and the Versailles gardens. The only thing Linda had ever seen to compare to this were the restored rooms of French villas from the 1700's, which she'd seen at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the year her mother took her and Bobby to New York for a fun-filled outing when she was thirteen. Some of the tables had been set up on risers, and partitioned off with pillars. It was in such an intimate table where it seemed like four white-shirted and black tied waiters helped her into her seat. Candlelight cast a warm, romantic glow in the dimness.