16 iul. 2011

Povești nespuse(3)

O altă poveste nespusă la fel de captivantă ca și celelalte de la autoarea fenomenului Jurnalele Vampirilor,L.J.Smith.

3.Matt și Elena-Prima întâlnire

Matt nervously opened his wallet again and counted his cash. A
ten dollar bill and six cents left over from what the six neighbors on the culde-
sac had given him to rake all the autumn leaves from each yard into a
giant bonfire-pile. The rest had gone into buying this crisp new pair of
casual/formal dress pants. Seven dollars and twenty cents left over from
cleaning attics and mowing lawns—the rest of that money had been
carefully invested in the jacket he was wearing right now—a letterman's
jacket wouldn't do, not on this occasion, and he'd heard that Elena didn't
like them. A ten dollar bill from helping Mr. Muldoon carefully change all
the light bulbs in his house that the old gentleman couldn't reach any
Twenty-seven dollars and twenty-six cents . . . plus . . .
He turned the wallet around and pulled it out from its special place
of honor—a concealed compartment in the wallet's side. And there it was,
folded in half, as crisp and new-looking as when Uncle Joe had given it to

A hundred dollar bill.
He could remember Uncle Joe—Great-Uncle, really, but always
called Uncle, pressing the bill into his hand while the nurses were out of
the room. “Don't blow it on just anything,” Uncle Joe had whispered in his
grating voice. “Keep it till a special occasion comes. You'll know when
the time is right. An' fer God's sake”—a pause, while Uncle Joe had a
long and racking coughing fit and Matt held him up—“don'ty'dare spend it
on cigarettes, right? Don't you get the habit, boy, cause it's only going to
bring you grief.”
Then Matt had gently lowered Uncle Joe. The glass-shattering
coughing was beginning and Matt wanted a nurse to check on Uncle Joe's
oxygen saturation level. It was 85 when it should have been 100—maybe
Uncle Joe needed more oxygen.
That had been exactly two years and two days ago. Exactly two
years ago today, Uncle Joe had died.
Matt found that he was grinding one fist into his thigh, painfully. It
was hard, hard to remember how Uncle Joe had gone.
But now, looking at the hundred-dollar bill, all Matt could think about
was the old man's mischievous smile and his rasping words, “You'll know
when the time is right.” Yes, Uncle Joe had known, hadn't he? Matt
would have laughed himself sick if Uncle Joe had told him what he'd be
spending the precious money on. At just-sixteen young Matt's thoughts
about girls and cooties had not entirely separated. Okay, so he had been
a late bloomer, a slow learner. But now he'd caught up. And he was

going to wear his new pants and an ironed shirt, a real tie that his mother
had given him last Christmas, and his brand new sports jacket to the most
wonderful event he could imagine.
Blowing over one hundred dollars in one night with Elena Gilbert.
Elena . . . just thinking her name made him feel as if were bathed in
sunlight. She was sunlight. With that marvelous golden hair that floated
halfway down her back, with her skin, the color of apple blossoms, even
after tanning season, with her eyes like luminous, gold-flecked blue pools,
and her lips . . .
Those lips. Together with the eyes, they could turn a guy upside
down and inside out in no time. At school those lips were always in a
model's slight pout, as if to say “Well, really! I expected more than this!”
But Elena wouldn't be pouting tonight. Matt didn't know where he'd
gotten the courage—he'd as soon have dumped an ice bucket over
football Coach Simpson's head after they'd lost a game—but he had
managed to work his way up to asking her out. And now, with Uncle Joe's
hundred-dollar bill, he was going to take Elena Gilbert on a real date, to a
real French restaurant: a date that she'd never forget.
Matt glanced sharply at the clock. Time to go! He certainly couldn't
be late.
“Hey, Mom! It's quarter to seven! I'm out of here!”
“Wait, wait, Matt!” Mrs. Honeycutt, small and round and smelling of
cookies, came at almost a run down the hall. “Going without at least

letting me see you?” she scolded, her eyes beaming. “Who ironed that
shirt, may I ask? Who heard about the sale on jackets in the first place?”
Matt gave a mock-groan and then stood, genuinely blushing, as she
looked him over.
Finally, Mrs. Honeycutt sighed. “I have a very handsome son. You
look like your father when he was young.”
Matt could feel himself going an even deeper red.
“Now, you're going to get home on time—”
“Yeah, of course, Mom.”
“You sure you've got enough money?”
“Yes!” Matt said. Yes! he thought jubilantly.
“I mean, this Gilbert girl, you hear all sorts of things about her. She
goes out with college boys. She expects the moon on dates. She doesn't
have any parents to watch over her. She—”
“Mom, I don't care who she's been out with; I've got plenty of
money; and she lives with her aunt—as if it were her fault that her parents
got killed! And if I stand here another minute, I'll end up getting a
speeding ticket!”
“Well, if you'll just let me find my purse, I'll give you ten dollars, so
you're covered, just in case—”
“No time, Mom! G'night!”
And he was in the garage, smelling the familiar smells of grease
and oil and rust.

His car—well, he was sort of hoping Elena wouldn't look at his car.
He'd hustle her into it and out of it. It was just a junkyard collection of
miscellaneous parts that Matt had somehow managed to attach to the
skeleton of his dad's wreck and make use of as a vehicle. In his own mind,
he referred to it as “The Junk Heap.” But there was nothing he could do
about it, so he was just hoped Elena wouldn't see too much of it in the
darkness. He had the way to Chez Amaury memorized, so he wouldn't
have to turn on the map light.
Oh my God!
This was her street. He was here already! With a sort of gasping
gulp he couldn't help, Matt loosened his collar a little as he turned. He felt
as if he were drowning.
Okay. Gulp. Outside her house. Off with the ignition. Pull out the
Okay. Gulp. Keys in his pocket. Outside the front door.
Okay—gasp—finger on the doorbell. Matt spent about a minute
getting his nerve up and then he forced himself to press the little round
Distant chimes . . .
And then he was looking at a thin, rather plain woman, who gave
him a bright smile and said, “You must be Elena's new date. Come in,
come in. She's still upstairs, you know these young girls. . .”

The woman seemed as hospitable and kind as his own mom, and
she did everything she could to make him comfortable. But eventually
there was a pause in the conversation that couldn't be ignored.
“Y-you're Elena's Aunt Judith, aren't you?” Matt managed.
“Yes! Oh, don't tell me I forgot to introduce myself again! Yes, you
can just go ahead and call me Aunt Judith like everyone else. Here, I'll get
you some chips or something while you're waiting. These young girls, you
know. EH-LAY-NAAA!” She hurried out as Matt cringed and resolutely
refrained from covering his ears.
“Here you go; some Fritos,” Aunt Judith was bustling in with a bowl.
But Matt's eyes weren't on her. They were on the vision in blue
descending the stairs.
Matt had heard of something so stunning it knocked your eyes out,
but he'd never imagined that he'd actually see something like that
metaphor in the flesh. And yet here it was, in front of him, walking down
the staircase.
Elena was an angel.
That was what this dress somehow hinted at. It was . . . well, Matt
didn't know the right names for such things, but it was strapless and sort
of followed her curves at the top. The color was a pale silvery-blue that
made him think of moonlight on snow. The top was embroidered with
some kind of clear beadwork, and there was a silvery flower low at one
shoulder. The bottom of the dress was layers and layers of some see-
through material—chiffon?—and the layers foamed and bubbled almost

down to Elena's knees. Her long gorgeous legs looked even longer and
more gorgeous than usual, and she was wearing adorable silver high
heeled shoes with flowers on them that matched her dress.
Elena smiled at him as she came down the stairs and for just a
moment Matt thought about all the other guys she had smiled at that way.
Coming down those stairs all dressed up was a regular occasion for her,
smiling down at a guy was a everyday thing. But then Matt put the
thought out of his mind. He and Elena were going to have a wonderful
evening together. Tonight that smile was just for him.
“Listen, I want you to make sure you keep warm—” Aunt Judith was
beginning, when Elena, never taking her eyes off his, said, “Hello, Matt.”
Her voice was sweet, with just a trace of a southern accent that
lingered in your ears. It made everything she said sound like a secret she
was only telling you.
Something stuck in Matt's throat. He couldn't get a word out, not
while he was so close to her, so close that he could smell her perfume.
She smelled like roses in summer, and lavender from an old dowry chest.
And also like. . . another scent that must just be her natural fragrance, eau
de Elena. Matt was glad he'd scraped the dirt and grease out of his
fingernails with a toothbrush and scrubbed the rest of himself lobster red in
an effort to get rid of the smells of old car and musty attic.
But he still hadn't spoken. And then somehow, old Uncle Joe, who
seemed to live in Matt's back pocket, gave him a wallop and the words,
“You look great, Elena,” came out in a rush.

She did look great. Her skin was like magnolia petals, but always
with that faint tone of rose over her cheekbones. She wasn't wearing any
makeup that Matt could see—but how could you know these days with
girls? Her eyelashes were long and thick and dark and they looked almost
too heavy for her eyelids—as if, Matt admitted to himself, she was slightly
bored with what she saw. But the eyes that they framed were alive with
an eager flame. They really were blue with little splashes of pure gold
here and there in them. Her lips, though—yeah, she was wearing lipstick.
He didn't know what name it went by but it should have been called
Invitation to Criminal Attack.
Suddenly Matt froze. There was a sound of giggling nearby—
multiple sounds of giggling—and they weren't coming from Elena. He
turned slightly and saw, yes, the rest of the Top Four, Robert E. Lee
Highs's most sought-after girls. Elena's best friends. They looked like a
Dark-haired Meredith Sulez, wearing something comfy-looking in
lavender, glanced over at him and smiled. Caroline Forbes, more formally
dressed in turquoise—maybe she was going on a date too?—smirked and
tossed her bronze-colored head. And dainty, diminutive Bonnie
McCullough, the cute redhead in pale green, hid her mouth with her
fingers, still giggling.
Their job, obviously, was to put him through the gauntlet.
“Hey, girls,”—that was Caroline, “he looks like a jumpy one to me.”
Meredith: “Then he can't take her out. Nobody jumps Elena—”

Caroline: “I think I'll go with him instead. He and I go way back!”
Meredith: “Why should you have him? He's cute! And a
quarterback, too. Although he hasn't filled out yet.”
Bonnie: “He has blond hair and blue eyes. Just like a fairy tale.”
Caroline: “I say we kidnap him and keep him for ourselves.”
Meredith: “It all depends on how well he pleads for it.”
Pleads? Matt thought. What are they going to make me do, get on
my knees?
Elena, who had calmly been putting on a silvery-blue bolero jacket
and checking her face in a small compact mirror, now snapped the mirror
“They're a nuisance,” she said to Matt, nodding at the three girls
hanging over the stairs. “But it's easiest if you just ask their permission to
take me out. That's what they want, but if we don't hurry we'll be late. Try
to make it flowery, too; they like that.”
Flowery? Make a flowery speech in front of three of the harshest
critics on guys that humankind had ever produced? While Elena was
listening in?
Matt cleared his throat, choked, and felt a sharp slap from behind.
Uncle Joe was helping him again. He opened his mouth with no idea of
what was going to say. What came out was:
“O fairest blossoms of the night . . . help me in my desperate plight!
Please let me steal this flower rare—to watch her with
devoted care,
I need to beg your kind approval
Before I risk her quick removal.”

There was a profound silence. At last Caroline shook back her
bronze hair and said, “I suppose you had it all made up before. That
halfback Terry Watson told you. Or that other guy on the football team—
“No, they didn't,” Matt said, getting his courage from two places: his
back pocket, and his long association with Caroline Forbes. “Nobody told
me and I don't plan to tell anybody else. But if we don't get out of here,
now, we're going to be late. So can I take her or not?”
To his surprise all the girls began laughing and clapping. “We say:
yes!” Meredith cried, and then they were all yelling it, and Bonnie threw
him a kiss.
“Just one thing,” Aunt Judith said. “Please tell me where you're
going tonight, in case—well, you know.”
“Of course,” Matt said, without a glance up at the girls. “It's Chez
There was a rustle above him, murmurings in all different cadences,
the gist of which was, “Wow!”
Elena said softly, “That's one of my favorites.”
One of her favorites. Matt felt himself shrink—then, with a kick in
the butt from Uncle Joe, straightened up and felt better. At least he'd
picked a good restaurant.
And then, before Matt knew what was happening, he was being
hustled out the door. And then he was alone on the porch . . . with Elena.

“I'm sorry about that circus,” she said in her smooth, gentle voice,
looking up at him like a little girl. “But they insist on doing it to all new boys.
It's really juvenile, but we started it back in junior high. Yours was the best
poem I've ever heard.”
Who could be mad at her? Matt escorted her to the car and
opened the passenger door for her as quickly as he could and got her
settled in. Then he ran around to his side of The Junk Heap and got in
“Oh,” Elena said after he'd made a turn away from town, “are we
going somewhere before the restaurant?” She spoke without even
seeming to see—or smell—anything unusual about the vehicle.
“Yeah, our first stop—that's a secret. I think we may just make it by
seven-thirty. I hope you like it.”
For the first time, Elena laughed out loud, glancing at him sideways.
And the laughter was warm and genuine and like a soothing balm to all
Matt's senses. The glance was quick, intelligent and merry. “You're just
full of surprises,” Elena said, and to his surprise, she slipped a slender,
cool hand in his.
Matt couldn't explain the sensation then. It was simply like lightning
flowing up from her cool fingers into his palm and up his arm and then on
upward until it fried his brain with a million volts.
It was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
It was also lucky that his car knew the way to the flower shop all by
itself, because his brain definitely wasn't there to direct it. Elena talked

without chattering, and without leaving any awkward pauses when he had
to gulp in air. She talked about decorating for the Fall Fling, told an
amusing story about how, while trying to disentangle the colored spotlights
for the Fling, she'd ended up caught in the rafters, and finished up with a
genuinely funny joke that wasn't dirty or a putdown of any culture, race or
Matt Honeycutt fell in love.
He hadn't realized he hadn't been in love before: only infatuated.
Of course anybody could become infatuated with Elena, the way that bees
were drawn to flowers. She sent out pheromones; she conformed with the
perfect image of the perfect girl that was somehow woven into every
Caucasian boy's genes, or else that was propagandized into them by the
time they were three years old. Elena's beauty was perfect, absolutely
without flaw. But if that was as far as you went, you weren't talking about
Love was when you got to know the girl behind the mask—as he
was sure he was getting to do now. Love was when you saw that under
the mask was an innocent, merry, amusing young girl, all of which he saw
clearly when she spoke. Maybe, just maybe she was a little bit stuck on
herself, but how could she not be, the way everyone treated her? Matt
didn't think that was such a bad thing. Matt wanted to pamper her.
“Okay,” he said, “We're coming up to the first stop. Shut your

Elena laughed. The very sound of her voice was like birdsong.
Matt got out of the car.
And then his heart started pounding—and not in a good way. The
door to The Flowery was closed and its windows were dark. He'd planned
everything out beforehand, had even paid beforehand for a single, white
rose. He was going to give it to Elena, with one single piece of feathery
fern behind it and a spray of baby's breath in front of it—and he'd even
asked for it to be tied with a blue bow!
And now—the door wouldn't open under his wrenching hand. He'd
wasted too much time. He'd blown it. The florists had gone, and they
hadn't even left his rose in a box by the door.
Matt didn't know how he got the courage to get into the car again.
But Elena was smiling at him, her eyes open.
“Elena, I'm sorry—I—just—”
“It's not your fault—it's mine for making you late. Oh, Matt, I'm so
sorry! But this isn't a dance. You didn't need to get me flowers.”
Matt opened his mouth to tell the story of the white rose, then shut it
again. It was agony, how badly he wanted to tell her, but wouldn't that
make him seem even more pathetic? In the end he gritted his teeth and
said in a voice he tried to make light,
“Oh, it was just something I was going to get for you. Never mind.
Maybe I'll have another chance tonight.”
“Are we at least going to get there on time now?”

Matt looked at the clock. “Yeah, just barely. Make sure you're
strapped in.”
And then Matt had a once-in-a-lifetime experience: seeing Elena do
her comfort act. At first, she said nothing, did nothing, just sat a little
forward, smiling to show she liked the song that was playing. And then,
when he managed to gulp the ball of disappointment down his throat and
swallow it, he realized that she was looking at him and smiling. And he
couldn't help smiling back.
“Hey, we are going to be on time,” he said, and he realized that he
was saying it happily. The night had just begun. There might be one of
those strolling flower sellers at Chez Amaury. He'd get Elena a whole
sweetheart bouquet. How could he be unhappy when the incomparable
Elena Gilbert was with him?
They wheeled into the parking lot at 7:59 p.m., seatbelts already
unfastened as they cruised up to the valet stand. Matt hurriedly handed
his key to a valet driver, and tried to turn away before he could see the
man's reaction to Matt's car.
He didn't turn fast enough. But he saw no revulsion, no sneer of
disgust on the valet's face. Instead he saw fascination. Following the
valet driver's gaze, he saw a slim, swaying figure in blue waiting for him.
That was when Matt knew that his luck had changed. Elena had
chosen to wear just the bolero jacket that matched her stunning little dress.
She must be freezing but she looked gorgeous. He slipped around her

and held the door open for her and they both entered the dim, plush
interior of Chez Amaury.
The employee who led them to their booth was snooty. He smiled
graciously and a little wonderingly upon Elena, but when his gaze swung
around to Matt he merely sniffed and looked sarcastic.
It didn't matter. They were in a bubble of their own little world
together, Matt and Elena, and everything was right. Matt had never been
any good at talking to girls. He got by by being a champion listener. But
somehow Elena drew words right out of him without seeming to try to. He
liked to talk to her. She was fun. Her words . . . sparkled.
And she had a will of steel behind those lapis eyes and that
magnolia blossom skin. When the waiter rather deliberately gave them
their large menus, and one small one, murmuring something about alcohol
and I.D.s, Elena let loose a volley of French which had the effect of
sending the man creeping—almost slinking—away.
“I'm studying French for this next summer,” Elena told him,
cheerfully watching the waiter depart. “I can already insult people in it
pretty well. I asked him why they'd kicked him out of France where
everyone our age drinks wine.”
“What's happening this summer?” Matt asked.
“I'm going to France. It's not an exchange thing; it's just something
I want to do. To stave off boredom, I guess.” She gave him a smile that
seemed to turn the whole world into dazzle. “I hate to be bored.”

Don't be boring. Don't be boring. The command thudded through
Matt's brain as Elena began to tell a story, while his higher thought
processes were in a whirl of confusion.
She's so beautiful. . . delicate, like fine china. . . her hair like old
gold in the darkened restaurant . . . and by candlelight her eyes are almost
violet—with gold splattered across them. Jeez, I can even smell her
perfume in this tiny booth—I guess they gave us the worst that they
had . . . but it's still pretty impressive to me.
Elena finished the story and began laughing. He laughed with her,
unable to help it. Her laugh wasn't shrill; it wasn't sharp; it was as
melodious as a brook winding its way in and out of a forest glade. Wow,
check it out, that was almost poetry, Matt thought. Should he tell her he'd
written a whole long real poem about her at home? Nah, he'd bet dozens
of other guys had said that to her.
“But I've been doing all the talking,” Elena said, with a little side
glance as if to say, And you've been doing all the staring. “Tell me about
“M-me? Well—I'm just an average guy.”
“Average guy! Quarterback and MVP for the football team. Tell me
how it feels when you win a game out there, with everyone screaming and
“Um. . . ” In all his years of playing football, nobody had ever asked
him this.

”Well—” There was something wrong with him; he was going to be honest.
“Uh, well . . . Actually, really it feels a lot like this!”
“Like eating French bread in a restaurant?”
“Oh. . . ” Matt hadn't even realized that there was any bread. He'd
completely missed seeing it put down. Now he broke off a hunk and
spread it lavishly with butter, suddenly remembering that he hadn't eaten
any lunch.
Elena watched him in amusement over a glass of sparkling water.
“I would have thought you football guys weren't allowed to eat
butter,” she said, twinkling her eyes at him. Yeah, that was it. She could
make them twinkle when she wanted! What a skill!
“It's one of the four food groups,” he informed her earnestly, hoping
she wouldn't think he was crazy.. “Sugar, salt, fat and chocolate.”
“—and chocolate!” her voice chimed in with his as he finished.
They both laughed again together.
This was so easy. It was like being with your favorite relative, only
better. You could say anything, no matter how dumb, and it wouldn't
matter. She'd turn it into something witty. He'd never felt like this with any
The waiter came back, but Elena waved him off with a languid hand.
She wasn't intimidated by the guy in the slightest. Matt added “courage”
to the list of her virtues.
Suddenly he got goosebumps. This year he'd had to take a drama
class to fill out his schedule, and they were performing “Two Gentlemen of

Verona.” Matt just couldn't get his mind into the play. Maybe it was
because the actress for Sylvia was Caroline Forbes, who in fourth grade
had done things like giving herself Indian burns and then running to tell the
teacher Matt had done it. But right now, looking at Elena, words from the
play—word- perfect—came into his mind:
Who is Sylvia? what is she,
That all our swains commend her?
Holy, fair, and wise is she;
The heaven such grace did lend her. . .
Who's Elena? he thought. What is she? That everyone commends
her? Holy, fair, and wise is she, the heavens such grace did lend her . . .
Oh crap, now I'm getting really sentimental, Matt thought. That was
awful. And from what he'd heard, Elena wasn't too holy, either, but she
sure looked like an angel.
 “Matt, can you tell me something?” Elena asked, her finger tracing
a tiny flaw in the tablecloth.
Matt's heart jumped. He'd missed the last few minutes of
conversation. “Sure, what?” he said.
“What is it about boys and cars? Why are they so into them?”
For a moment Matt flushed. Just thinking of his ancient, battered,
skeleton of a car made him wonder if she was making fun of him.
But she wasn't. Her face was perfectly serious. She seemed to
have forgotten what kind of car he had and was asking a general question
about all guys.
“Well”—he had an impulse to rub the back of his neck but didn't.
“Cars are. . . the ideal car. . . um . . .”

“I wondered if it might somehow go back to the days of horses,”
Elena said, tilting her head.
Suddenly neurons lit up in Matt's brain. “Hey—that's—well, that
could be it—for me, at least. I spent a couple of years on a farm when I
was a kid—you know, just a rinky-dink, little farm, but it had horses. And
behind the stable where its horses were kept, was a stable of
thoroughbred horses, racing horse, right?”
She nodded and he sighed.
“I just loved to watch those thoroughbreds moving. They were the
most beautiful things you could imagine—for animals, I mean,” he added
“How were they beautiful?”
“Well—just—I don't know. They were just incredible. They had
these delicate long legs, and these heads that were always up in the air,
with these manes always tossing and flowing. They moved in a way I just
can't describe—sort of always lazily, but you could just tell they had a lot
of pent-up energy inside them, too. As if they wanted to be running as fast
as they could, forever.” Matt reached for his Coke, suddenly realizing that
he'd been talking for a long time. “Sorry, got a little carried away there.
What I meant is that horses are speed, and so are cars. And I guess
that's one reason I like to think about them.”
“Don't apologize. I thought that was really fascinating,” Elena said,
and he realized that she was telling the truth, that she was interested.
She'd been holding a bite of bread in her hand, forgotten.

“Thanks for listening,” Matt said. “They . . . sure were pretty.” His
voice got stuck somewhere in his throat as he gazed at the beautiful girl
just in front of him.
“So speed is a part of it,” Elena said, smiling at him, her cheeks
glowing pink in the candlelight.
“Speed, yeah. Like when I get to drive a better car than The Junk
Heap out there—like a convertible, and I put down the roof, and I drive
really fast on a straightaway or around little sudden hilltop curves.
Sometimes, somehow, you feel as if you're part of the car and its part of
you. It's like flying.”
Matt stopped, suddenly, overcome with confusion. Somehow in his
excitement he had picked up Elena's hand and was squeezing it. bread
and all. He felt himself flushing and he was just going to put it back where
he'd got it, when Elena squeezed his fingers warmly and then took it back
herself. Thank God the bread hadn't been buttered.
“So there anything more about .really good cars'?” she asked,
almost teasing, but never breaking eye-contact with him.
“Well, there's—there's something”—he had to break eye contact
with her to say this—“there's something sort of physical about driving a car
that lets you feel every bump in the road. When you're part of it—and it's
just you out there feeling the air and the ground—it's sort of—physical, you
know? Sort of—sexy.”
He was almost afraid to look at her, then. But rippling laughter
made him flush and then two warm hands took hold of his. “Why, Matthew

Honeycutt, you're blushing! But”—in a suddenly serious voice—“I think I
know what you mean. You mean something I've felt with cars—but I've
never been able to describe.”
She went on talking, but Matt wasn't even in the room anymore. He
was circling the solar system somewhere around the planet Neptune and
comets and asteroids were sailing around with him, bonking him on the
head every so often.
When he came back she was laughing about a parasailing
experience she'd had once when the sailors had accidentally landed her
on the sand and not in the water. “But before that,” she said. “It was
perfect. Just the rushing wind, with the inlet big and blue underneath me,
and the feeling of traveling—fast—through the air. Almost like being a bird.
I wish I had wings.”
“Me too!” Matt blurted. If his heart could have been pounding any
harder, it would have started pounding. But it was at its maximum limit
already. “I'd love to go parasailing. That must have been incredible.” He
looked at his plate. “Tell the truth, I think the most incredible thing that's
happened to me is . . . tonight.”
Immediately, Elena's mocking laughter cut him down to size—but
that wasn't happening. Elena wasn't laughing. She was looking down at
her round white plate and blushing. Then she raised her head and Matt
could have sworn that there was a sheen of unshed tears in her eyes.
But she wagged her finger at him in a scholarly way. “Don't be silly,
Matt. What about that game against the Bullfinches, when you threw a 50

yard touchdown pass? Now was that incredible or was that incredible?”
Matt goggled at her. “You like football?”
“Well, you've got me there. I don't like all the injuries, and I don't
like most jocks. But my dad—he was a tight end with Clemson, and he
helped them win the Orange Bowl. So I just had to learn about it. Dad
has a lot of records, you know, most passes caught in a game, most
passes caught in a season, most touchdowns caught in a season, most
touchdowns caught in a career—”
Matt found himself staring. “Why didn't he go pro? Or did he?”
“No, he started a business instead. But he left me his football
Matt made himself laugh. He didn't know how he was feeling. His
heart was soaring in twelve different directions at once. But somehow he
made himself look mock-stern and waved a finger back at her. “Well, I bet
you don't know about my real moment of glory,” he said. “We were
playing the Ridgemont Cougers and the score was tied and I was
desperate. The clock was running down and suddenly I had this crazy,
grandiose idea, and I—”
“Ran to the right to fake giving the ball to Greg Fleisch, the
halfback,” Elena interrupted smoothly. “But you kept the ball yourself and
ran it—and ran it—and ran it for an amazing touchdown just before four
Cougers tackled you at once.”
“Yeah; they broke my collarbone, too,” Matt said, grinning. “But I
didn't even feel it. I was soaring somewhere over the clouds.”

“People were screaming and kissing and throwing things,” Elena
said. “Even the Cougers' fans went crazy. One of them grabbed me and
tried to French kiss me.”
And I bet his mind wasn't on the game, Matt thought, and surprised
himself by saying, “Tell me his name and I'll break his jaw for him.”
“Oh, I already kicked him in the shin,” Elena said calmly. “Backward,
so I could scrape all the way down the shinbone with my heel.” She
added the last with a sweet little smile that a Spanish Inquisitor—
Torquemada himself, maybe—would have envied.
“Well, I can see I'd better keep you from getting mad at me,” Matt
said, and Elena laughed again, showing the even white pearls of her teeth.
“I don't think,” she said, “that anybody could stay mad at you for
Matt didn't know what to say. All those idiots, he was thinking. All
those losers who only want to go on dates with her because of her looks,
are just missing the whole damn ballgame. Sure, she's a knock-out, but
more important, she's like . . . the world's perfect person: smart, and witty,
and fun, and . . . well, just perfect. The way she makes everything easy,
and how she makes you feel so good about yourself, and . . .
Matt had a crazy impulse to go down on one knee and ask her to
marry him right then and there.
Then he burst into laughter at the absurdness of it all. He was just
going to say something when someone behind him coughed with malice

“Were Monsieur et Mademoiselle zinking of ordering at zis point?”
the waiter ground out, obviously irritated.
“I guess it's about time to look at our menus,” Elena said, putting
her hand over her mouth to not-quite hide a giggle.
“We'll be ready in a few minutes,” Matt said, in his most princely
dismissive tones.
The waiter almost stomped off.
Matt looked at Elena. She looked at him over her curled-up hand
and then they were both laughing hysterically, fighting for air.
“Poor guy,” Matt said.
“Oh, well,” Elena raised her eyebrows indifferently. “He is just a
waiter, after all. Waiting is what he's paid to do.”
This was the first time Matt had seen the .Ice princess” side of
Elena Gilbert, and he didn't know what he thought about it. But, he figured,
if Elena were really perfect, she wouldn't be human. And if anybody at
Robert E. Lee had a right to have an attitude like that, Elena Gilbert was
that person.
“Shall we?” he said and handed her a menu.
“By all means,” Elena said in a mock-19th century gracious manner,
and they opened the menus.
Despite all his preparation, the prices still took Matt's breath away.
A New York steak was $39. But if Elena ordered a steak, he could have
the chicken, which was only $23. That would be $62. The entrees came
with vegetables, but there was also the appetizer to consider. He could

suggest they share the spinach salad, which was only $10. That made
$72. Then even if she wanted a desert, he'd have plenty to indulge her—
but wait, there were the drinks. He'd had two; she'd had one. That
sparkling water was $7 a bottle—each Coke was $2. And the tax. And
the tip. And the valet's tip.
Well, he'd just have to drink regular water from now on, and hope
that maybe Elena didn't want both an appetizer and a dessert.
“What do you want to start with?” Elena whispered. “I usually like
half a Caesar's salad. They make it at your table here. It's really good.”
Matt nodded vigorously so he wouldn't have to look her in the eye.
At least it was only one Caesar's, at fifteen dollars. Hey, wait! He knew.
There was some kind of smoked salmon on the appetizers list. He could
have it for his entrée—Matt knew you could do that—and it would only be
six dollars. He'd just make himself a sandwich when he got home.
Everything was going to be all right.
The waiter was back, looking snootier than ever.
Matt spoke up, “I—I mean we—we—we'd each like half—”
“We'd like to split a Caesar's,” Elena said calmly, barely glancing at
the waiter. She smiled into Matt's eyes. “Right?”
“That's right,” Matt said heartily.
When the waiter had stalked off, Elena's smile changed, became a
mischievous grin. “He's not going to forget us in a hurry,” she said. The
light from a chandelier shone over her left shoulder, framing her in rainbow

Matt wished he had some way to capture the image forever. There
was something about Elena—as if she were sparkling at the edges—that
he'd never seen in a girl before. It was as if light constantly danced
around her, as if sometime she might just disappear into the light. Hell, he
thought, I can just “get a stomach-ache” and not be able to order any
entrée, he thought. Then I'll recover in time for dessert or something. But
she can have the lobster for all I care!
Now he was getting embarrassed, though. No one was saying
“Do you have a pet?” Elena asked suddenly.
“Um.” Matt's first impulse was to check if there were dog hairs on
his jacket or something. Then he looked up to find her smiling into his
eyes again.
“Well, I had an old Labrador Retriever,” he said, slowly, “but she got
cancer and—well that was about six months ago.”
“Oh, Matt! What was her name?”
“Britches,” he admitted, feeling himself flush. “I named her when I
was four. I have absolutely no idea what I was trying to say.”
“I think Britches is a perfectly respectable name.” Elena said. She
touched his hand lightly, with one finger. A feeling like slow, sweet
molasses, crept out from her touch and into his veins, sustaining him. He
wished she wouldn't take her finger away.

She didn't. She said, “We keep losing cats. Margaret brings them
home half-starved, Aunt Judith slaves over them and then they run around
the neighborhood—” She made a slight, meaningful gesture.
Matt winced. He had a low tolerance for furry animals getting
squashed, but he had to be macho about this. “Cat au vin?” he suggested,
miming pouring a glass of wine.
Elena's eyes wept but her mouth gurgled. “As in—a cat's that been
run over by a . . . yeah, that's about the size of it.”
Matt couldn't help but laugh, and then he told the story about how
one year Britches had put her paws on the counter and picked up a half-
eaten Thanksgiving turkey in her mouth and wandered into the family
room holding it up like a trophy. Elena laughed and laughed at that. She
laughed as the waiter made up a Caesar's salad beside their table too,
and told a story about Snowball, who loved to sleep in boxes or in open
drawers, and who had been accidentally shut inside one when she was a
“The noises she made!” Elena exclaimed. Matt laughed with her.
He would have thought you had to sit at attention and watch the salad
being tossed, but no—Elena clearly had seen enough of such sideshows.
She accepted her plate with a cheerful “This looks great!” and a waving
away of the Fresh Ground Pepper Shaker, as if she'd done this all her life.
Maybe she had. Maybe, going out with so many other boys . . . but
what difference did that make? Tonight she was his.

A girl was walking around the room selling little sweetheart
bouquets and single roses. Elena talked to Matt without once giving the
girl a glance. There was no reason to do it—it was a stupid impulse—but
something inside Matt burst as he saw the girl, who was dressed like a
gypsy, turn away.
“Wait,” he said. “I'd like to get that.” He gently touched one rose
that was in almost full bloom. It was mostly white but the inner petals were
touched with pink and the outer petals with a color that was almost golden.
It reminded him of Elena: her skin, her cheeks, her hair.
“Very nice; perfect choice,” the gypsy girl said. “A genuine
Florentine rose such as Botticelli painted. And only fourteen dollars.” She
must have seen Matt's look of shock—the single rose he'd bought at the
florist's had been only five dollars. The gypsy added quickly, “And of
course it comes with a love fortune—for each of you.”
Elena was opening her mouth, and Matt could tell that she was
going to send the flower seller away. But he instantly said, “That's great!”
and she shut her mouth, and looked a little sober for a moment before
“Thank you so much,” she said taking the rose, while Matt
wondered suddenly if he should have bought her a whole bouquet—he
could see the sign on the basket now, and they were only a dollar more
because the rose in them was a miniature—or maybe an all white rose to
go with her outfit. God, he was dumb. Why not just buy her a red rose
and make the colors clash completely?

“One fresh, long-stemmed Florentine rose,” the gypsy girl said “and
a double love fortune. Show me your palms, both of you.
Flushing, Matt did as she asked. Then he was caught with a case
of the snickers. He knew he couldn't laugh, either roaring or giggling—but
he almost couldn't hold it in. Oh, God, he thought, don't let me fart! Not
now, while the gypsy lady was poring over their out-thrust palms, going,
“Hmm,” and “I zee,” and “But yez, of course,” in a fake French accent.
Finally, he sneaked a peek at Elena and from her hand over her
mouth and her crinkled up eyes he saw that she was having the same
problem, and that immediately made it twice as bad.
Finally, the gypsy lady stopped muttering and spoke to Elena. “You
will have nearly a year of sunshine. Then I see a darkening—there will be
danger. And in the end, you will prevail over the darkness and shine anew.
Beware of dark young men and of old bridges.”
Elena bowed gravely in her seat. “Thank you.”
“And you,” the woman said to Matt, still looking at his palm, “you
have found your lady love, half-child and half-woman. Now that you have
fallen under her spell, nothing will tear you apart from her. But I see a time
of darkness of the heart for you, too, before you move on. You will always
be ready to put your love's interest ahead of your own.”
“Um, thanks,” Matt said, wondering if she expected him to tip her,
but she said, “For potions, love or hex, visit me in Heron, at my shop .Love
and Roses.'”
She handed Matt a card and went ambling on with her bouquets.

And then Elena and Matt could laugh as hysterically as they wanted,
which was quite a bit. Matt only calmed down when he remembered he
probably should have gotten the white rose, to go with Elena's outfit. He
felt dumb. But Elena was still laughing,
“Meredith would have taken her to pieces,” Elena gasped finally.
“.A time of darkness before you move on . . . ' But the rose. . . it's the
prettiest I've ever seen.”
“Really?” Matt felt a rush of passionate relief that came out as
rather silly laughter. “Um, better than a white one?”
“Of course.” Elena stroked her cheek with the bloom. “I've never
seen another one like it.”
“I'm so glad. It, well, it reminds me of you.”
“Why, Matt Honeycutt! You flatterer!” Elena tapped him gently with
the rose, and then began caressing her lips with it.
Matt could feel another flush beginning, but this one was for two
reasons. Normally, there would have been a third, an embarrassment
about how to word what he needed to say, but his need to figure things out
was so urgent that he simply said, “Would you excuse me a minute,
please?” and scarcely waiting for her gracious nod, he hurried off in the
direction of the bar to find a restroom.
The men's room was right down a little corridor. Matt went in and
took a stall, pulled his wallet out and began to calculate frantically.

Hey, relax, he told himself before he started. You've got plenty.
Just don't do any more impulsive things like the rose, and don't plan on
giving big tips.
Now, if she had, say the chicken and wild mushroom piccatta—he
felt he had the menu memorized by now—that would be $25. And then he
could have the salmon cakes appetizer, which was only $12. And then
they could even have desert and coffee, too, if he cut the tips to the bare
“Get back out there and entertain yer girl,” he swore he could hear
Uncle Joe saying, while at the same time the feeling of a boot to the
backside seemed to come from his back pocket. And it was good advice.
The only problem was that it made him need to take a look at the hundred-
dollar bill, to touch it for good luck, and to gaze at it for comfort.
Shaking his head at himself, he twisted the wallet sideways so as to
expose the secret compartment and felt in it.
And felt in it.
And felt frantically in it and around it, managing to almost turn the
wallet inside out.
At last he had to let the words surface in his brain.
The hundred-dollar bill wasn't there.
It was gone.
It was gone.

Where? When? He'd last seen it when he was playing with his
wallet at home, day-dreaming about the date. He knew he'd seen it then.
What could have happened to it?
Desperately, he searched the rest of his wallet. Nothing, His other
money was there; he hadn't been robbed, but . . . no hundred-dollar bill.
Matt spent the next ten minutes in the most frantic and most
intimate skin search of his life . . . on himself. He looked everywhere.
Could he have slipped it into a sock? Could it have somehow got taken in
with his laundry? No. Other compartments, anywhere? No.
Finally he had to admit that nothing else but the bare fact mattered.
The hundred was gone.
And the terrible thing was that it hadn't had to happen this way.
There was a rumor that Elena Gilbert never went out if she didn't pay half.
She'd actually confirmed that to him when he'd gotten up the courage to
stammer out the words, “Will you go out with me next Saturday?” He
remembered exactly how her blue eyes had lit up and how she'd said,
“Yes, but I always go Dutch.” And he, idiot of idiots, had puffed out his
chest and said, “Not this time, you won't.”
Hoist on his own petard. Whatever that meant.
Now, what to do about it? God, what could he do? Most of his
buddies were practically broke in autumn—besides it was a half hour drive
for them. His mom—he glanced at his watch and winced. It was after
9:00—no wonder that waiter was so mad—and his mom would be asleep
by now. Her shift at the bakery started early.

Damn! He could almost cry. This was—how was he going to walk
up to Elena and tell her that he didn't have the money to buy her dinner
when they were already there eating it? Oh, God, she wouldn't speak to
him for the rest of his life. And he'd be arrested, locked up as a con
man . . . or whatever you called it . . .
He couldn't do it.
But he had to.
It just had to be done.
And telling himself that, the way a soldier on the night of his very
first battle might, he made himself march back to the table. There he
made himself sit down facing Elena.
She was bubbling with good cheer. “Monsieur Gar.on came by but
I sent him away. He's going to be back in—” She suddenly stopped, her
whole manner changing. “Matt, what happened?”
Matt opened his mouth but nothing came out, not even the dry
brown moth he imagined being inside. What could he do? Did they even
let you wash dishes to make up for it if you couldn't pay for a meal? Or
was that just an urban legend? He couldn't imagine Elena, in her
sparkling moonlight-blue dress, washing dishes.
 What if he just let the meal progress to its conclusion, and then
tried to have a word with the manager in private? Things were tight
around the Honeycutt household right now, but when weren't they? Surely,
his mom would lend him the money in the morning? But one thought of

how the waiter's face would look and that plan bit the dust. Besides,
Elena would be humiliated. Elena! His perfect precious angel would be—
“Matt, you're sick. You're freezing. We need to call a doctor.”
Matt blinked, the world slowly coming into focus. He could just
imagine how he must look: blue-white in the face, with icy hands and a
constant tremor going through him. Hell, maybe that would work. Maybe
if he acted really sick—
“I lost the money,” he heard himself telling Elena.
“Matt, you're delirious.”
“No, it's the truth.” He found himself pouring out the story of his
Uncle Joe to her, of the way he'd worked to make this date perfect, and of
the horror it had become. He watched as Elena's face took on a different
look—he couldn't tell if it was a good look or a bad look. It was a look of
quiet, lonely, suffering.
Finally, he finished the story.
He stared at the spotless white tablecloth.
And then he heard the most incredible sound. He had to turn his
head to make sure he had heard it.
Elena was laughing.
Laughing at him? No, laughing with him, her head tilted to the side
and tears of sympathy in her eyes.
“Oh, Matt, what you've been through. What you've done just to
make all this happen! But you can stop worrying now. I should have
plenty to tide us over.” She scooted and picked up a little purse that

matched her blue outfit. “Here, let me see—oh!” Suddenly she was biting
her lip in chagrin. “I forgot; I blew it all on this purse and some new
makeup. Oh, I'm sorry.”
That “I'm sorry” was enough to rip a hole in Matt's side and hull him.
But then again, he heard melodious, mischievous laughter. He looked up
dully, not really caring what happened to him anymore.
“Matt, it's okay.” Under the table a warm hand found one of his and
gave it a quick squeeze. “It's all going to be fine. Now listen to me,
because I've got a plan—“
Years later he learned to be wary of that phrase “I've got a plan.”
But this was the first time he'd heard it. So he listened. And his mouth
dropped open. And then kept opening and shutting, like a goldfish's.
“You really think we can do that?”
“I know we can, because of this blank space here.” She pointed at
the menu. He stared.
Then, slowly, he looked up at her and smiled.
“Okay, now wipe your face off, because you look as if you've just
run a marathon. You lost your napkin? Here take mine.”
It had to be his imagination, but Matt actually thought he could
smell her fragrance on the napkin. He wiped himself down just in time for
the waiter to return. Elena immediately entwined her fingers with Matt's on
the tablecloth.
“Have Monsieur et Mademoiselle vinally decided to eat here
tonight?” the waiter asked, heavily, looking at Elena, who nodded,

si'l vous plait,” Elena said sweetly. “And I'd like a
chocolate soufflé, with two spoons, merci.”
“Mademoiselle—” The waiter looked about to explode.
“ .Madame' “ Elena reminded him.
“Madame, you cannot—cannot—” The waiter's face was brick-red.
“But we can,” Elena answered in her sweetest voice. She pointed
to the menu. “There's nothing that says there's a minimum charge per
“That,” the waiter said as if he were trying to keep his haughty
attitude, but was blowing up like a balloon ready to hit the ceiling “is
because—is because—because ze clientele we serve knows better
without being told!”
Elena put her free fingers to her lips. “Monsieur, people are starting
to stare.”
The waiter controlled himself, obviously gathering all the dignity at
his command.
“And monsieur?” he said in a voice like ice, turning to Matt.
“Oh, um. me? I'd like, um, two scoops of vanilla ice cream. And
two spoons,” Matt found himself saying, and curbing equal urges to flee
and to burst into hysterical guffawing. “Oh—and two cups of coffee.”
“You want—”
“Two scoops of vanilla ice cream.” Matt was afraid he the waiter
would burst.

“C'est impossible . . .” murmured the waiter, but he wrote something
on his pad. The crisis seemed to be over now. The man had gone from
red to pale, and he managed to turn away from them without detonating.
“It weel take .alf an hour for ze soufflé to cook,” he said, with his back to
him. “Meanwhile . . . Bon appétit!”
Once he was gone, Matt and Elena collapsed into out-of-control
“Oh, God, did you see his face?” Elena gasped. “The poor man—
we'll have to give him all we have left for a tip . . .”
“Tip, nothing. He was rude to you. As far as I'm concerned he gets
no tip, and I'm gonna ask him to .step outside' if it happens again.”
“Oh, Matt. You really are a knight in shining armor. But can I tell
you something? My favorite restaurant is Hot Doggles—yes, the hotdog
place back in Fell's Church. And my favorite thing to do on a date—now, I
don't want to sound spooky—but I like to walk around the graveyard or the
Old Woods in the moonlight. I—I don't really care about fancy stuff. If I
like a guy”—and here her eyes seemed to be saying something Matt could
hardly let himself believe—“I'd rather just go to his place and listen to
music, or bring him over to eat dinner with the family. The rest is just—”
She made a dismissive motion with her hand. “Just for the idiots I have to
put up with sometimes. The jocks who need jockstraps for their brains.”
She tossed her head, so that her beautiful, waving. golden hair flew from
side to side.

Matt opened his mouth and again nothing came out. There was no
Uncle Joe to kick him in the behind.
But somehow there was. In spite of the missing bill he felt a kick,
and words just dropped out of his mouth, “If I'd known you were that kind
of girl, I'd have asked you out a long time ago,” he blurted. “I thought you
were—some kind of pampered princess.”
The next minute he could have bitten his tongue off. But Elena
wasn't mad. Instead she was saying sadly, “Lots of guys think that. I
guess I am, really. I know what I like when I see it. And I want what I
want when I want it.” And once again her eyes said something to him.
And this time he couldn't help but believe it. And he knew that his eyes
were saying something back to hers, too.
“So that's why you never asked me out. I guess it's up to me to set
the record straight.” She sat up and smiled again, this time brilliantly, “And
when I take you out on our next three dates—”
“Three dates!”
She nodded solemnly. “They'll be dates at places like Hot Doggles
or something like that—have you ever tried Midge's, right at Main Street
and Hodge? It's great—and we'll talk and just have fun. When spring
comes we'll go on picnics. Have you ever flown a kite? I know it's for kids,
but it's really exciting to run and run and suddenly feel the wind bite. Then
you let go.” Her expression went dreamy. “Sometimes I don't want to let
go. I want to go up with the kite.”

“Like skydiving,” Matt said, watching her face eagerly. He loved to
look at her when her cheeks flamed and her blue eyes took fire.
“Oh, yes, like skydiving. Wouldn't that be fun to do together? Or a
balloon ride. . . I hear they have those over in Heron. We'd have to save
up, though—in winter we can make snow people!”
“Snow .people'?”
“Oh, that's Meredith. She says we always say .men' when we
mean .men and women' so we're all used to using .people' for everything
by now. I want you to meet them all: Meredith, and Bonnie, and Caroline.”
She held up a finger sternly. “No dating them though. Bonnie's got a
crush on you. But I have first dibs.”
Matt didn't know where he was going. He didn't care, either,
because it felt as if he were headed straight for Heaven.
“I've known Caroline for years and years,” he heard himself say. “I
thought you were like her, only, like, multiplied by ten.” Then he saw her
glance at him and wanted to clap his hand over his mouth.
“Well, sometimes I am,” Elena said. “You'll just have to find out in
what ways, won't you?”
Just then the dessert arrived. Matt watched as the waiter solemnly
placed a chocolate something-or-other in front of Elena—and two spoons,
and two round balls of vanilla ice cream by his place—and two spoons.
Then he poured them coffee, put down a little folder with the bill inside it,
and turned on his heel as if he never wanted to see them again. He didn't
even say .Bon appétit.'”

“Did we make it?” Elena whispered as Matt frantically calculated the
tips for waiter and valet.
“With a dollar to spare!” he whispered back, and again they broke
out into laughter together.
They each wanted to let the other one have the first bite of
chocolate soufflé. Finally to save the ice cream that was melting, Matt
took a heaping dessert spoonful, dabbed it in one of the melting ice cream
balls and smiled at Elena. Then, while Elena opened her mouth to ask if it
was good he swiftly brought the loaded spoon to her mouth and pushed.
Elena had only a fraction of a second to decide. Either eat the dessert or
get soufflé all over her silvery-blue dress. She made the right decision,
almost too late and by the time large drops of brownish white were falling
off the spoon it was safely over a napkin that Matt was holding with his
other hand.
“I can be stubborn, too,” Matt said. And then, hoping she wasn't
mad, “Is it good?”
“Delithious,” she said a little indistinctly, finishing up with a sip of
water and a last dab. The, before Matt knew what was happening an
object loomed out of nowhere at him and cold steel touched his teeth.
“Open wide,” a sweet voice chimed in his ears and he quickly opened as
wide as he could to take in a huge sticky bite of delicious hot chocolatey-
goo mixed with sweet cool vanilla ice cream.
He was sure that he looked like an idiot as he sat there chewing on
the giant mouthful, but it was so good, and Elena looked so pleased with

herself, leaning forward as she did to scoop dollops of gloop off his chin as
carefully as a barber.
“S'wonderful,” he managed, swabbing his face with the only napkin
in sight.
“It is, isn't it?” Elena twinkled back. Then her face looked serious.
“No, it's not.”
“It's not?” Matt's heart almost stopped.
“It's . . . perfect!” And she laughed, showing white and shining teeth
despite the chocolate. Matt could only hope that his own relieved grin was
as free of goo.
“You know what?” Elena said, then, looking him deeply in the eyes.
“What?” Matt barely breathed.
“We'd better eat all this quick before it melts.”
And so they did, laughing and feeding each other an occasional bite.
The dessert was wonderful, but more wonderful was the look in Elena's
eyes every time Matt looked up. Of course, he had a hard time believing
the look, so he had to look up frequently. This resulted in a number of
small spills of chocolate—fortunately none on the silver-blue dress.
They were just drinking the last of their coffee when a shadow
loomed over Matt's left shoulder. What do you want now? I paid the bill,
Matt thought, but it wasn't the waiter.
It was an elderly couple, perhaps in their sixties. Oh, no, God! Matt
thought. They're going to ruin everything by complaining about the noise,

by complaining about how long Matt and Elena had stayed, or by
complaining about . . . something.
“We've been watching you two young lovebirds,” the man said, in a
slightly quavering voice that made Matt readjust his age by maybe ten
years up. “And I have to say—“
“—it brought us both right back to our first date again,” the old
woman said in a fluty voice that made Matt readjust again up to maybe
late seventies or even eighties. Normally he liked old people, loved to
listen to their stories, loved to see their old attics full of memoirs. But now
he was gut-sure that this couple would say something that would take all
the shimmer off the date, like rubbing a butterfly's wings with dirty fingers.
“You two obviously have something very special,” the woman fluted,
smiling at Elena. “You're a very lovely young woman.”
Elena blushed charmingly and said nothing.
“And you, young man,” said the gentleman, “obviously have money
to burn.”
Matt could feel his face turn red. He'd known they'd spoil it. They
were making fun of him.
“Or at least to step on, anyway.” The old man nodded toward
Matt's shoe. “Do you realize you've got a bill stuck there?”
Everything went very sluggish and hazy. Slowly, with a dark mist
obscuring most of his vision, Matt pulled up one foot and then the other,
looking at the soles.

And there, on the bottom of his right foot, was the hundred-dollar
It was almost like a message—a joke—from old Uncle Joe. You
think I'd really leave ya in the lurch, kid? Nah. But the way to this girl's
heart isn't through showerin' her with fripperies—yes, Uncle Joe actually
said that: “showerin' her with fripperies.” It's through showin' her yer own
heart. What, now are you gonna pout? Just look at her!
Matt looked through the dimness at Elena's shining face.
“I—I'm so sorry,” he managed. “It must have fallen out when I first
opened the wallet and then I stepped on it and then I couldn't see it—
but—everything that I put you through—”
“Matt, isn't it wonderful!” Elena was saying. There were tears in her
eyes. “And thank you, sir, for noticing it before we got outside and it got all
“To tell you the truth, I'd have mentioned it before,” the old
gentleman whispered. “But you were managing so well yourselves—we
were in the booth right here”—he indicated a booth behind him—”that I
couldn't bring myself to spoil the dream.”
To spoil the dream.
And that was what this had been in reality—a dream date.
Matt looked at Elena and Elena looked back and then she laughed
and hugged the old man. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for not
spoiling it. I've been here to this restaurant”—Elena shrugged—“twenty
times or so, but tonight was the best.”

“And I say that any boy who can wow a girl while feeding her only
bread, lettuce and chocolate must have something special.” The old man
chuckled, looking at Elena appreciatively. “Hang on to this one, my dear.”
“Thank you,” Elena said again, and she added, “I think I will.”
And she took Matt's hand and held on to it all the time it took to ask
the valet driver if he had change for one hundred dollars—and only let go
to hug the driver when he said soberly after looking at The Junk Heap,
“This time's on me.”
© L. J. Smith
® L. J. Smith
Free From http://www.ljanesmith.netcontact/ L. J. Smith at info@ljanesmith.net


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