The Best Ruined Spring Break Ever

It was almost Spring, but it didn't feel like almost Spring in New York. Winter had been cold and it hadn't relaxed its grip just yet. There was no snow on the ground, but the air was frigid and biting. The blue sky and bright sunshine were cruelly deceptive.

Carla Cabot and her seven friends, all students at Columbia, were counting the days to Spring Break. They were all ready to escape Winter. The parents of one of the seven friends had a 4-bedroom condo in Ft. Lauderdale. It was almost 80 degrees on the Florida coast with sunshine glistening on the white sand beaches and blue skies stretching to the horizon of the Atlantic.

Then, Wednesday before Spring Break week, Carla's phone began to ring. First one time, then another, then another, then three. By Thursday, six of her seven friends had the flu, a particularly nasty strain that had been making the rounds on the Columbia campus. The seventh changed plans. Carla's Spring Break was ruined. She was crushed.

She wasn't heartless. Two of her friends were in the hospital. She regretted that they were and hoped they got out soon. But, she couldn't help be upset. She and her friends had planned this trip for months. She left the Columbia campus on Thursday morning and went to her parents’ house on the Upper East Side. She wanted to be away from the epidemic on campus and she wanted someone to complain to. She was 19.

Her mom, Erica, was sympathetic, but there was little that she could do other than listen. There were almost no options for Carla. Oh, she could go someplace on her own, hang out with throngs of random students on some patch of sand, but it wouldn't be the same. It wouldn't be fun. It wouldn’t be Spring Break in Ft. Lauderdale with her friends.

Her father, William, heard her complaints. Being a guy, he suggested a temporary solution, little more than a distraction, but it was all he had. "Your mother and I are going to a dinner party on Saturday, at the Carson's. I happen to know there's at least one vacant seat at the table."

"Right dad. Me and the AARP crowd."

"You won't be the only one. Davison Cahill, the writer, is the guest of honor. He's not in his sixties."

"Fifties, then."

"Younger."

"OK, forties."

"Younger."

Carla was getting frustrated with her father. "Thirties, then. You're missing the point, dad. I've been waiting for this week for months. We all were. And now?" She used her hands to indicate an explosion and then to rub her temples. "I don't want to go to some dinner party with some no-name writer.  I want my freakin’ Spring Break back."

Carla's mom spoke up. "Carla, the party is for Davison Cahill. He’s not a no-name writer. He's won two Pulitzers, three National Book Awards, and has three books on the Times bestseller list right now. It's not often that you'll have a chance to talk personally with someone like that." She walked up beside her daughter, who had her arms crossed and was standing in the middle of the living room, pouting, and put a sympathetic arm around Carla. Carla tolerated the gesture and sighed. “And he’s from Texas,” Erica added, trying to make him seem…less cosmopolitan, more…interesting. 

When Carla didn’t say anything, Erica went on, "Bri, how about this? Go shopping tomorrow. Buy a new dress for the party. Just show up. If you don't like it, you can leave whenever you want and keep the dress."

Carla stood, unhappy in her options which she saw as next to none. She turned to look at her mother. "So, I can leave, no questions asked, whenever I want?"

"None."

“And I don’t have to talk to anyone if I don’t want to?”

“You can be a wallflower if you chose, but you don’t get to be rude, Carla.”

Carla resigned herself to going to the party. She decided if she was going to the party, she was going in style. "How dressy is the party?"

"Dressy."

"Big help, mom."

"Carla, you know what it means. Cocktail dress, something suitable for dinner, that sort of thing.”

Carla nodded. She was just being difficult.

Friday came. It was cold. It was another cruelly cold day. The sky was bright blue, the sun was shining, and the thermometer said 20. The cold made Carla more aware of what she was missing in Florida. There, the sky was bright blue, the sun was shining, and it was 60 degrees warmer.

She decided right then and there that she hated Winter and hated New York. She already hated college. Why stop there? She put on her heavy winter coat, hailed a taxi, and headed for one of her favorite stores, Bergdorf Goodman on 5^th Avenue. She spent two hours there, being waited on with lots of attention, and walked out with two dresses…two very expensive dresses. Any other time, they would have been the highlight of her day. But, today, they were reminders of where she wasn't going.

At home, she showed the two dresses to her mom. Money was really no object for Carla, actually for Carla's parents, but these two raised her mom's eyebrows. But, Erica thought, if it kept her daughter from sulking for the next week, they were a bargain.

Carla chose the one that she would wear, a Givenchy black cocktail dress with a ruffled hem. She called a salon for Saturday morning. She’d cancelled Friday's appointment. She’d intended to have her deep chocolate brown tresses cut summer-short ahead of Spring Break. She didn't want to deal with hair down to the small of her back on the beach. Just another reminder of what she didn't want to be reminded. Surprisingly, she was able to get in to her favorite place on Saturday morning. 'Why not?' she thought. 'No one's in town. They're all someplace warmer.' More depressing reminders.

After the salon, she went home, to her parents’ house. The last place she wanted to be was at her Columbia apartment. Both her mom and dad were out. She was alone. She almost decided to not go to the party. No matter how much she dressed up, she felt like she had no good place to go and didn’t feel like being anywhere.

She sat in silence, practically reveling in her misery. Her parents came home. She decided she preferred company to loneliness. Her parents refused to engage her in conversation. She was surly and they were in no mood, so, an hour before the start of the party, she put on her new dress, an overcoat, and left without saying anything. She was going to be unfashionably early, intentionally.

She arrived at the condo building of Darrell and Brenda Carson at 6pm. The invitation had expressly said drinks at 6:30pm, dinner at 8:00pm, and more drinks to follow. The expectation was that guests would hold to the schedule, more or less. She rang their apartment. Darrell answered and was irritated to discover that a guest was so early. Carla apologized She said she had mistaken the starting time, and offered to wait in the lobby for 30 minutes. She knew one thing worse than being unfashionably early was to have a guest wait in the lobby. So, Darrell, not disguising his annoyance at the early arrival of a last-minute guest, invited her to come up to the 30th floor condo.

The Carsons had invited Davison Cahill after having met him at a speech at one of Brenda's women's groups. He had impressed them, especially Brenda, at the way he handled a particularly challenging audience, mostly women and mostly liberal. By the end of his speech, he had won, and earned, their grudging respect. Brenda thought that was quite an accomplishment.

A staff member welcomed Carla, took her coat, and led her to the library where Darrell was sitting with Davison. Both men stood up when she entered the room. Darrell introduced Carla to Davison. He smiled and extended his hand. She shook it and sat in a chair. Davison sat. Darrell excused himself.

Davison immediately engaged Carla in casual conversation.

"What keeps you busy most days?" He asked, focusing the attention on her. 

"Columbia."

"College. Nice. What’s your major?"

"Literature." She lied. "I'm a senior." She lied again. She rationalized the first lie. She wanted to fit in, so literature seemed reasonable. But, to say that she was a senior surprised even her. But she thought that telling a little white lie was better than being a 19-year-old.

"Almost finished, then. Congratulations."

"Thanks."

"What plans do you have after graduation?"

Plans for college and after college were two things that she had never thought about. "I don't know. Nothing specific. I guess I'll just see what happens." That was the truth.

"Do you have a favorite author?"

"You mean other than you?" She asked sort of playfully.

Davison laughed. "That would be self-serving of me, wouldn't it? Sure, other than me."

"Stephen King, I guess." Stephen King was her father's favorite author. She didn’t know anything about him other than that. She had never read a single word of one of his novels. She hated her answer as soon as she said it.

Cahill laughed again. "Wow. They teach Stephen at Columbia? What about me?” He asked playfully. In that moment, he knew that she wasn’t a lit major. He was all but certain that she didn’t read Stephen King. No offense to Stephen, Davison thought, but horror and Carla didn’t go together.

Carla laughed, following Davison's lead. "You'd be surprised what they teach at Columbia. And, I don't remember seeing a class on your books." That was true.

Davison smiled. Carla couldn't help herself she smiled back and decided that Davison Cahill wasn't so bad after all.

Being the only guests at the Carson's apartment, they chatted about random things.

"How many books have you written?"

"I've had forty-three published so far."

"And how many have landed on the Times list?"

"Forty."

"What happened to the other three?"

"Those were early works, two in high school and one in college. I got better," he said with a grin.

"You wrote two books in high school?" She said without trying to hide her surprise. She thought of authors as old people and books as being for old people. The idea of a high school student writing a book was shocking.

"Yep."

Carla shook her head in amazement. "I think I wrote two book reports in high school."

Davison laughed. Carla liked it. It was genuine.

Drawing Carla into a playful conspiracy, Cahill moved close to her, like a confidant, and asked, "Do you think there'll be anybody else younger than fifty here tonight, besides us?"

She played along. "Not a chance," she said as she shook her head. “Definitely an AARP crowd.” That made Davison laugh.

Davison didn’t ask the obvious question, why Carla was at this party. It didn’t matter. She was as close to a peer as he was going to find that evening. The party hadn’t even started and he was already enjoying her company. 

The first guests arrived precisely at 6:30pm. Davison and Carla remained standing together. Drinks began to be served. Cahill's preference was a top-shelf Jimmy Buffet margarita, two extra shots of Don Julio tequila, on the rocks with salt. The drink waiter asked Carla what she was having. She asked for iced tea, unsweetened. He looked expectantly at Cahill, having been told what to expect. Cahill thought for a moment and said, "I'll have the same. Iced tea. Unsweetened."

The waiter was surprised but didn't show it and moved to fill the order.

"You don't have to do that on my account." Carla said.

"That's OK. I don't mind. Besides, the under-40 crowd, if you can call two a crowd, has to stick together. Plus, I’m from Texas and we’re big on iced tea in Texas. You’d fit right in.” 

Davison Cahill became the center of attention. As more guests arrived, Carla was pushed farther and farther out until she eventually was like a castaway. She found an out-of-the-way chair and sat down, holding her glass of iced tea, barely touched.

After all kinds of introductions and plaudits that he was someone's favorite author and his last book was currently on their night stand, and questions about when he’d let a movie be made from one of his books, Davison spied Carla sitting alone and clearly lonely. He hated that. He hated seeing anyone shoved out to the fringe at a gathering. He especially hated seeing her there. He’d already concluded that she was the most beautiful woman at the party, elegantly dressed and engaging. Since she was clearly not going to come to the center of attention, he decided to move the center to her. He deftly began to drift toward her. The circle of people followed.

When he finally arrived, she recognized, too late to do anything, that she was engulfed. Several of the guests were having a heated discussion about some literary controversy. They tried to pull Davison into it. Cahill shook his head...academics. At best, Davison tolerated academics. At worst, he had no use for them. They almost always struck him as pretenders judging things they had no understanding of, critiquing things they couldn’t create. So, he decided to pull his newfound friend completely in.

"On the contrary," he said, "I think that's not rational and I'll bet Carla agrees."

Carla's attention had drifted, but snapped back at the mention of her name. "Uh, yes…" she stumbled and stuttered. Davison came to her rescue.

"It's like we talked about earlier isn't it Carla?" He tossed her a lifeline and she grabbed it.

"Yes it is," she said, trying to sound convincing while saying next to nothing.

"Oh you can't be serious," said one of the scholars, clearly frustrated. He looked directly at Carla.

She responded. "I am serious. It's what I think. It's what we," she motioned to Davison, "think." At that, the scholar shook his head, rolled his eyes, and dragged the argument away from Davison and Carla.

They had a moment to themselves.

"Sorry about that," Davison said apologetically with a bit of a boyish grin on his face. “I couldn’t resist poking them. Academics. Thanks for playing along.”

Carla smiled back. "That's OK. Maybe sometime you can tell me what that was all about."  Davison laughed. "I guess you can tell that I'm not a literature major."

Davison smiled. "Yeah. I kind of figured that. And no offense, but you don’t strike me as a Stephen King fan.”

“I’m not. My dad is. It was the only name I could think of. I do go to Columbia. But, I'm not graduating this semester. " She paused, the smile faded from her face and she said, "To be truthful, I'm not…" A booming voice projected from the other end of the room, "Darrell Carson, you old pile of shit! How the hell are you?"

Every conversation in the room stopped, including the one between Carla and Davison. All eyes turned to the owner of the voice, Arsen Tolbert. Tolbert was a man as large as his voice. He was unfashionably late and unfashionably loud. Darrell Carson had invited Tolbert to the dinner for one purpose, to draw Davison Cahill into a debate that he hoped would devolve into an argument and eventually into great theater. Arsen Tolbert was an avowed and unapologetic atheist and liberal. Cahill was the conservative Christian counterpart. Darrell Carson wanted a show.

On the other hand, Brenda Carson was not happy. She wasn’t happy about Arsen Tolbert's appearance or about her husband’s reason for inviting him. She didn’t know much about Davison Cahill’s religious beliefs or political leanings and didn’t especially care to. What she did know was that he was arguably the finest American writer of his day and probably one of the best in the world. She thought that inviting Tolbert was crude and tasteless which surprised her because her husband wasn’t that sort of man. Darrell had won the first round of this duel, Tolbert had arrived and made his presence known. But, Brenda had her own ideas.

Tolbert slowly worked his way through the crowd, like a whale plowing through water. Carla had never met the man, had never seen the man until now. But, she immediately disliked him and as he approached, she retreated, wandering into the dining room.

The table in the dining room was massive and immaculate. Seating for thirty-two was perfectly set. Carla took a moment to appreciate it. However, the room itself was small for a table of that size, making for a cozy feeling if that was possible for thirty-two guests.

"Getting away from Tolbert?" Came a question from behind. Carla turned to see Brenda Carson and nodded.

Then Carla complemented Brenda on the table. "This is impressive. It seems like yours always are, Mrs. Carson. You seem to have a gift when it comes to this."

"Thank you, Carla. It's as much art as anything. It's not hard, not nearly as hard as you might think. It just takes a little imagination. Except for one thing. What do you think is the most important part of the table?"

Carla stumbled to answer and eventually shook her head, "I…I have no idea." Brenda walked to one seating and picked up the place card and held it up.

"This. This is the most important thing on the table. It's how I manage the dinner." Carla raised an eyebrow at that statement. “Putting these on the table takes conviction. Somebody’s going to be unhappy however you arrange them. What part of that surprises you?"

"I don't know. I guess that...I guess I thought that this was Mr. Carson's party. I didn’t think of you being in charge of it. Sorry.”

"I can see that. Don’t be sorry. No. It's my party and it's my house."

Carla said nothing and, after a moment, dropped her gaze.

"I'll let you in on something, Carla. I’m the mistress of the house; this house." Carla's eyes grew big at that statement. "No, no.” Brenda laughed lightly and gently put a hand on Carla’s bare arm. “ I'm guessing you think mistress means a woman that someone is having an affair with. Actually, mistress is the origin of Mrs. Darrell owns this house, but I run it. Most times, all our guests are pleasant. Most times, we don’t have nearly so many people. I like things more intimate, but this one was destined to be big. But, big or small, this is my house and I defend it.” The last statement made Carla frown.

She began to pick up some of the place cards. Carla was fascinated. "Sometimes I have to defend it from Darrell, like tonight. But, that's OK. He'll get over it. He always does. At the end of the day, we still love each other. The mistress of the house is responsible for it. It's not Darrell's job to make sure everything is taken care of. It's mine. It's a big responsibility, whether it's a 1,000 square foot loft in SoHo or 10,000 square feet in the Upper East Side, like this. Remember that, Carla. You're not a show piece. You're not a trophy. When you get married, you're the mistress of the house. Make it yours. But, don’t settle for anybody who doesn’t care. Be with somebody who trusts you to make his house your house.”

Carla sort of blushed at the mention of marriage. Brenda either didn’t notice or chose to ignore it.

"I control the dinner by choosing where everyone sits. It's the most important part of the dinner as far as I’m concerned. The food. The drinks. The settings. Those are all...by the book. How to host a dinner 101. Keep in mind that this is dinner hosting according to Brenda Carson. There’s no right or wrong way to do it. Just make it your way. For me, the place cards are where the real power is.”

"I don't understand," Carla said, both confused and intrigued.

Brenda put an arm around Carla's shoulders and drew her attention to the length of the table. “For example, that seat in the middle," Brenda pointed, "that's for Davison Cahill, the guest of honor. At that end, Darrell. I'm here, on this end. This table is so big that people on the ends can't really talk to each other. It's like having three separate dinner parties at one table. Where do you think is the second most important dinner guest after the guest of honor?"

"I guess the center on the other side?" Carla said unsurely.

"You'd think, but not here. It's the person to the right of the guest of honor. Why? Because the guest of honor talks across the person to his right to speak to the head of the table, Darrell. That person is in the direct line of that conversation. They also get included in talking across the table. Like I said, my house, my rules."

"What about you? Does that make this end the foot?" Carla was trying to figure it out. She’d never given any thought about the effort that went into seating. She’d always been stuck at the kids’ table both literally and figuratively. 

"Sort of. But I choose to look at it as the place to observe, kind of like a control tower at an airport. I watch and listen to everything and keep everything going the way I want it to go. Then, there's this spot," Brenda pointed to the chair to the right of hers. "This is the lowliest seat at the table. Why do you think that is?"

Carla looked and thought for a moment. "Because that seat can't see the guest of honor and is farthest from the head."

"Right. And there's one more reason." Brenda said with a mischievous grin.

"Because it's closest to you?" Carla asked.

Brenda nodded. "Precisely. Normally, this is an ordinary seat. Someone has to sit here and they’re part of my little dinner party and I make sure that they have a really good time. But, when someone of particular status sits here, it's like being in time out, and that lasts the entire dinner." Brenda held up a place card so that Carla could see the name, Arsen Tolbert, and placed it at that seat.

Carla couldn't help but laugh. "Mrs. Carson, do you really want him next to you?"

"No, but at least here, I can keep him on a short leash. And that's the power of the place cards. I can use them to reward and I can use them to punish. And no one complains."

"Really? No one?"

"Not here. Not in public. Not if they ever want to be invited to a party again. It's a cardinal sin to complain to the hostess about the seating during the party. You only do it once."

Brenda moved around the table, picked up the place card to the right of Davison Cahill's and replaced it with another. She walked all the way around the table and placed the remaining card in her hand at the remaining seat. Then, she came around to Carla, put her arm around her shoulders again and said, "You can thank me later." Then Brenda walked back into the main room where Arsen Tolbert's boisterous voice was still booming.

Carla walked around the table and stood behind the chair for the guest of honor, Davison Cahill. She looked at the name on the place card to the right and was shocked. It read "Carla Cabot." Carla smiled. Davison Cahill, without even knowing it, had put her in a prime seat at the table. 

Carla walked back into the main room. There were layers of guests in the room and in the center were Davison Cahill and Arsen Tolbert.

Tolbert was baiting Cahill. "Here I am. I'm ready to listen. Convince me that there is a God. I'm willing to be quiet until you're done."

Cahill didn't rise to the bait, but responded. "When you're ready to listen, you call me. We'll meet privately, just the two of us, as long as you want. No audience."

"You're afraid of the audience, aren't you?"

"No, but you're afraid to not have the audience. If you're not afraid, then call me." Davison pulled out a card and held it out to the large man. Tolbert didn’t reach for the card. 

There was a silent moment and Brenda Carson seized the opportunity to say, "Ladies, gentlemen. Dinner will be served in the dining room. “And gesturing to the dining room, "This way, please."

Brenda led the procession into the dining room. She took her place and watched intently as everyone looked for their names. It was always an exciting time for the guests and for her. She was the gift-giver and watched the reactions. Two people who didn't draw her attention were Carla and Arsen Tolbert. She already knew how each would react. It was all she could do to not laugh at Tolbert's expression.

When everyone was seated and Darrell Carson assessed the assignments; he was not happy. Brenda knew there were three truly happy people at the table, herself, Carla Cabot, and Davison Cahill.

Davison was surprised, pleasantly so, at his dinner companion. He understood the etiquette of the table, turned to Brenda Carson, flashed a smile and subtly nodded his head. He knew what she had done. He was happy and not simply because he didn't have to deal with Arsen Tolbert. She smiled and nodded back. She liked that he’d noticed and appreciated his acknowledgement. She liked Davison Cahill. That simple fact had doomed Arsen Tolbert the moment he walked into the condo.

Carla's gaze was drawn to her parents who were seated across the table and toward Brenda Carson. They both had surprised looks on their faces at where their daughter was seated. All Carla could do was smile and give a slight shrug of her shoulders. She was sure that the cab ride home with them would be interesting.

With Arsen Tolbert essentially muzzled, the dinner conversation was light and the mood significantly brightened. Davison Cahill answered questions from all across the table, except from Tolbert who was visibly pouting in the "time out" seat. He would be leaving as soon as was socially acceptable to console his embarrassment in a row of scotch-and-tonic's at home.

The questions were the usual social softballs.

"What are you working on?"

"Nothing at the moment. I have quite a few books finished that I'm waiting to publish."

"How many hours do you write a day?"

"It varies. Some days, I write 12, 18 hours. Sometimes the words just flow and it's like I see them in my mind and I just have to type what I see."

"How do you come up with your ideas?"

"All kinds of ways. I'll hear a song, maybe just one line will spark an idea. Sometimes I'll read something in the newspaper. I let my imagination run when I work out."

"Which authors do you like to read?"

"I like a lot of non-fiction. I like historical stories that are narrow. For example, I don't like to read sweeping saga's of World War II, but I like to read about isolated events in the war that most people don't know about. Small things."

"Are they going to make movies from any of your books?"

"I get asked, but I'm not anxious to do that."

"Why not?"

"Well, once you sell the rights to your book, you lose control of how it's treated. I care a lot about my books."

"What's Texas like?"

"Big. Sprawling. I guess I could sum up the difference between Texas and New York like this. In Texas we think a million people is a lot and in New York, you think a hundred miles is a long distance."

"Where did you grow up?"

"A little town in west Texas. About 10,000 people on top of the ground. And a couple of billion barrels of oil under the ground."

"Wouldn't it be better if you lived in New York City?"

"Not for me. I like to visit the city, but I eventually reach my fill."

"How many books have you written?"

"67"

"Which of your books is your favorite?"

"That's like asking a parent which child they like the best. I like them all. When I write a book, it's the best thing I can do with my time. Sometimes, it's a little sad when I finish a book. It's like the characters and the story are frozen in time."

Darrell Carson was fairly quiet. The "show" that he had hoped would erupt between Davison and Arsen was a bust. The three academics were seated to Davison's left. When they were unable to draw Cahill into their intellectual arguments, they kept to themselves. That left Davison and Carla with time to talk in semi-privacy.

"Sorry about saying I was a lit major," Carla said. "I…I guess I wanted to fit in with the one person close to my age."

Davison didn't hold it against her. "That's OK. Lit majors are overrated." He rolled his eyes and nodded his head toward the trio of academics next to him. Carla laughed. Carla discovered that she liked Davison. Beyond making her laugh, he didn’t embarrass her, even in private, by pointing out that she’d lied about being a lit major. Even in catching her in a lie, he made her feel welcome.

Then he asked a direct question, "Carla, why are you here? I know why I’m here, at least I think I do. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you are. I'm having a great time. It's just that this doesn't seem like your kind of party, nobody here is in your league."

Carla smiled and thought, ‘Is he flirting with me?’

She answered his question directly, "The flu."

"I don't understand,” he replied with a puzzled expression.

"Spring Break is next week. I was supposed to be in Ft. Lauderdale with seven of my friends. Unfortunately, six of them got the flu. I had nothing better to do, so I went shopping and came here." She pointed to her dress.

“You certainly picked a stunning dress,” Cahill said. “No, that’s…that’s not true. You picked a dress that you make look stunning.”

‘Oh, my gosh,” Carla thought. ‘He is flirting with me.’

Then Carla noticed that Davison wasn't simply turning his head to talk to her, but he had actually shifted his chair so that he was, more or less, facing her. She noticed that he had hardly eaten anything. He didn't strike her as a light eater. Did such a person exist in Texas she wondered?

“You asked me, so, I’ll ask you. Why are you here?”

Davison blew out a deep breath. “Because I said I’d be here. I didn’t want to be here. I…I…I don’t know why I even agreed to begin with. No offense to the Carsons, they’ve been great hosts. Ultimately, I guess I’m here because my editor shamed me into keeping my commitment. But, I have to say, the destination has really made the trip worth it.”

“I don’t understand,” Carla said with a confused expression.

Davison smiled, “One of my philosophies is that you wait until you’ve reached your destination to decide if the trip was worth it. And this trip was definitely worth it.”

Carla asked, genuinely not understanding, “And what’s the destination that makes this trip worth it?”

“You. I'm sorry about the flu and the busted Spring Break, but I'm glad you went shopping and came to dinner. You're definitely the destination."

‘Oh my gosh," she thought again. ‘He really is flirting with me.’

She drew attention to his plate. "You're not eating much. Do you not like it?"

Davison looked at his plate for a moment, "Oh, it's OK. It's food. Looks like you're not eating much either." Carla looked at her plate and was surprised to see that it was in about the same state as Davison's.

"No. There's always brunch tomorrow," she said. Then she wondered where that came from as soon as she said it; had no idea why she said it. Am I flirting with him, she thought?

"I like brunch. Actually, I like breakfast for dinner sometimes."

"Really? Like what?"

"Homemade biscuits. Not the fake kind in a can. French toast. I have a killer recipe for Mexican chocolate French toast. I got it from Bobby Flay.”

“Yeah, my mom gets recipes from some of his cookbooks, too.”

“I got this one straight from Bobby at his house.”

“You’ve been to Bobby Flay’s house?” Davison nodded. "Mexican chocolate French toast. That sounds really good." She had noticed that he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. She took a risk and added, “I’ll bet your girlfriend likes that.”

“I’ll bet she would, if I had one,” Davison answered. Carla noticed a change in his demeanor. He seemed kind of sad when he said that. His expression in that moment was so unlike everything else she’d seen from him. It sounded almost like regret to her. On the other hand, she thought, he was unattached. Her question to herself was what she was going to do with that. An idea began to form in her mind. 

Eventually, the dinner ended. Brenda surveyed the diners and, when she concluded that they were done, or at least mostly done, she stood up and announced that drinks and coffee were in the main room. Everyone got up from the table. Arsen Tolbert was quick for a big man, spoke briefly to Darrell Carson, and left. No one missed him, not even Darrell.

Cognac, brandy, and dessert wines flowed along with coffee and hot tea. The tone of the invitees definitely mellowed. Even the three academics, with full tummies and enough alcohol to make them tipsy, were agreeable.

Davison had ceased to be the only center of attention. People broke into various small groups. One of them was made up of the hosts, the Carsons, and Carla's parents. Davison wandered over to them. Carla really didn't want to be with that group, but given the choice of that or not be with Davison, she chose to join in, trying to be on the periphery.

Brenda introduced Davison to Carla's parents. "Davison, this is William and Erica Cabot. Carla Cabot is their daughter" Davison shook hands with both. Carla was very nervous. She didn't know what Davison was going to say about their conversations during the party and at dinner.

"I just want to tell you how much I've enjoyed talking with your daughter," he said, drawing attention to Carla. "She made the evening a lot of fun." Then, turning to Brenda, "No offense to the hostess." he said with a smile.

Brenda smiled back. "None taken. I'm sure the younger generation felt the need to hang together," she said in a good-natured tone. She knew who knew about the name plate change. 

“See, now you’re going to get me in trouble. I mean, nobody here is that old to me. In fact, I’m willing to bet that most everyone is about my brother’s age and that my parents are a generation older than just about everyone. I was a surprise.”

"How much of a surprise," Brenda asked, intrigued by Davison’s revelation.

"My brother was in college when I was born. He's almost twenty years older than me."

“So, you’re a surprise and the baby,” Brenda added. Carla cringed at the word ‘baby’.

"Wow." Carla surprised herself with her comment. You’re like me, she thought. She didn’t dare say that out loud. She was the ‘baby’ too.  Only she didn’t consider it something to be proud of. She’d been fighting that fight all her life, literally since before she was born. Carla was also a surprise and the baby. Erica wasn’t supposed to be able to get pregnant after her second child, Nathaniel, was born. To say that Carla was unexpected was an understatement. She was more miracle than surprise. She’d always reveled in that. It had made her feel unique.

But now, Carla was afraid that Erica would say something about her being the baby of their family and how old she was. In desperation, she tried to redirect the conversation to a safer topic.

"So, Mrs. Carson, I'm curious. How did you know Davison so that you setup this dinner party?"

"Interesting story," she replied. Carla was immediately relieved. "Darrell and I were at a speech that he gave to a group a couple of years ago. It was all about the relationship between husbands and wives."

"Really," Erica interjected. "Not what I would have expected from an unmarried writer...author...what do you prefer?"

Davison smiled. "Either and probably a lot of others. Yes, I remember that speech. As I recall, there was a difference of opinion about it...and no middle ground."

"What do you mean?" Carla asked.

"Some people loved it. Some hated it. And that was pretty much it."

"So, what did you say?" Carla asked, genuinely interested. After all, she liked Davison and wanted to learn all she could about him.

"In general, I said that the wife has a critical role in the lives of her husband and family, and managing the house. She's not a figurehead. She's not a trophy. She's not a servant. She is intended to be a treasure to her husband, her family, and her house. She is to be respected by her husband and her family."

"Why would anyone object to that," Carla asked as she snuck a look at Brenda Carson. The wife that Davison described sounded just like the one Brenda had talked about when she and Carla were in the dining room, when Brenda changed the name plates.

Brenda spoke up. "As I recall, the word 'submit' set off the fireworks."

Davison nodded, “It always does.” By now, a few other guests had joined to listen.

"Not to be rude, and I apologize if it comes across this way, but you're not married, so how do you talk about this?" Erica asked.

Davison genuinely smiled. "It’s not rude at all and a legitimate question. I'm not about to lecture husbands and wives on how to behave toward each other, even if I was married. After all, I don’t even have a girlfriend. But, the Bible is very clear on how they 'should' behave. Wives should 'submit' to their husbands in a way that keeps the marriage stable and vibrant…unified. If husbands and wives don’t think the same way, don’t pull in the same direction, marriages fall into fighting or simply fall apart. The problem with saying that is that too many people stop there. Women hear the word submit and erupt in protest. Men hear the word submit and use it like a club.

“So, they’re both to blame then. Is that what you’re saying?” Carla asked.

“Actually no. Husbands carry the blame.”

“You lost me,” Carla said in surprise.

“They’re given the more demanding command. They should love their wives, but not just in a romantic way. They’re supposed to love their wives the same way that Christ loves the church.”

“Which is?” Erica asked.

“It’s a sacrificial love that’s relentless. The point is this. When husbands love their wives that way, wives feel safe in submitting…yielding, giving in, pick your word…knowing that their husbands will always have their backs, will always support and defend them, will always be there for them. Husbands had better be very careful. They’re are held to a higher standard and a very high standard. Unfortunately, too many people seem to hear what they want to hear.” Then Davison looked around at his small audience and said, “So…I made a change. I…I didn’t want everything to fall apart because of one single word, so I changed my point of reference for wives to Proverbs 31.”

“I don’t know that one,” Brenda said.

“The Wife of Noble Character. It talks about how a wife should act and how she should be treasured by her husband and her family. In it, she’s confident, she’s capable, she’s active, and she’s respected by her children and her husband.”

Erica was impressed. So was Carla.

“Needless to say…” Davison paused and laughed, “…well, that doesn’t make sense. Anyway, let’s just say the subsequent speeches were a lot more…enthusiastic.”

“Did you change the husbands,” Carla asked, genuinely interested in what Davison had said.

“No. I’m a lot more confident and competent in pointing out what’s expected from husbands.”

Brenda Carson filled in the rest of the story on how she came to host a party in Davison’s honor, “So, I know a woman named Barbara Fischer who is the wife of the publisher that Davison writes for. I asked months ago if there was an opportunity to have a dinner with him and this happened to be that opportunity.”

"Right. That's how I ended up here tonight and I have thoroughly enjoyed it." Davison looked directly at Carla and smiled. Carla smiled back outwardly and breathed a sigh of relief inwardly.

The party began to wind down. Couples began to leave. Once the first pair left, a wave of departures began. There were "thanks" and "good nights" said. Davison chatted with a few people as they made ready to leave. Carla drifted between standing alone and standing with her parents while they talked with other couples.

Finally, Davison and Carla found themselves standing alone, chatting, but about nothing in particular. Carla had been forming an idea since his mention of Mexican chocolate French toast and the fact that he didn’t have a girlfriend. She was going to do something daring. She was going to ask Davison Cahill, maybe the best writer of his generation, to Sunday brunch. She’d lied about her age, lied about graduating, and lied about her major, but none of that mattered. All that mattered was asking the question.

Suddenly, though, she had a problem. She heard her mother and father thank Brenda and Darrell for the evening and for inviting Carla. Then her parents began to walk toward her. She knew that she would be expected to leave with them. She had run out of time and she began to panic. The moment she had been building to was about to slip away from her...forever.

She looked in desperation across the room to Brenda Carson. They locked gazes. Brenda saw Carla's expression and understood in ways that only a woman’s intuition could. She gave Carla an ‘are you kidding me’ look, then quickly recovered and said, "William, Erica, one last thing. Do you have a minute?"

Brenda had thrown Carla a lifeline and they both knew it. It was now or never for Carla. She looked directly at Davison in their private moment. "This has been a lot of fun" she said. “I’ll be honest, I wasn’t excited about coming here, but I’m so glad I did, so glad I met you.” Then she took a deep breath and before Davison could speak, said "Davison, would you like to have brunch with me tomorrow? 10:30? Balthazar? They have a great French toast." She took in a deep breath without looking or sounding like she took in a deep breath. She was almost desperate to look away. She was proud that she’d asked but afraid of what his answer might be. But, she didn’t look away. She held Davison's gaze with hers.

Then, Davison flashed a boyish smile and asked, “Are you asking me out on a date?”

Carla was surprised by the response but before she could think of an answer, her mind reacted and playfully replied, “I guess that depends.”

“On what?” Davison asked, still smiling.

“Your answer. If you say ‘yes,’ then it’s a date.”

“And if I say ‘no?’” He responded.

Carla’s mind was desperately trying to catch up, but her words came out faster, “Then it was just brunch.”

Her invitation hung in the air for what seemed like minutes, but was, in reality, only seconds. "Then let’s call it a date. I had a great evening, too. I didn’t want to be here, either. But I’m glad I was. Brunch. Tomorrow. 10:30. Balthazar. I'll be there." They smiled at each other. Then the next-to-last couple interrupted to say goodbye to the guest of honor. Carla hadn’t heard anything Davison had said after ‘Let’s call it a date.’ She had a…a date and that’s what it was…with Davison Cahill. Carla managed to look past the couple to Brenda Carson who cast a questioning glance at her while still chatting with William and Erica. Carla smiled broadly and silently mouthed "thank you". Brenda smiled in reply, nodded, and sent Carla's parents on their way toward their daughter.

Carla moved from the panic of missing the chance to invite Davison to brunch to the fear that he’d say something to her parents about their breakfast date. She silently pleaded for him to not say anything. She didn’t know him well enough to know what he’d do. When her parents reached the pair, Davison extended his hand to Erica first and then William, “Mrs. Cabot, Mr. Cabot, it’s been a pleasure meeting you and your daughter.”

Carla cringed and waited for Davison to say something about Balthazar. He didn’t. The Cabots said their goodbyes to Davison and left with Carla.

Carla heard her parents talking, not sure if it was to her or to each other, as they walked to and then out the door of the Carson’s condo. She didn't care. She was going to have brunch with Davison Cahill tomorrow at 10:30 at Balthazar. Nothing else mattered.

The trio took the elevator to the lobby and walked out into the cold night air, taking a taxi home. As soon as they were in the cab, William talked across Erica, who was in the middle, to Carla. "Carla Brianna, did you move those place cards?"

Carla was defensive at the sudden question. "Dad, no. I didn't. I promise. It was all Brenda Carson. I didn't touch one card."

"Who did she move, Carla?" Erica asked.

"I know she moved Arsen Tolbert. She said she put him in the 'time out' seat." Carla answered.

"And she moved you, didn't she?" Erica asked, not bothering to ask what the ‘time out’ seat was.

"I…I guess, mom. I didn't see the cards before she started moving things. All I know is that she put me next to Davison." Carla didn't tell her parents that Brenda had said that Carla could thank her later, that her decision was deliberate, or that Brenda had intervened as they walked out.

"So, Carla, are you glad that you came?" her dad asked as the taxi moved along the always-busy New York streets.

Carla smiled, knowing far more than she said, "Yeah, dad. I am. I had a good time. Who knew old people could have fun.”

“Ah,” Erica said in mock offense, “old people?”

“I love you Mom,” Carla said in disarming jest and kissed her mother on the cheek.

Brenda Carson, Darrell Carson, and Davison Cahill were the last people in the Carson’s condo. Darrell apologized for Arsen Tolbert. Davison politely accepted it. He hadn’t been offended. It wasn’t the first time for something like that to happen. Then Darrell surprised Davison by excusing himself, leaving Brenda and the bestselling author alone in the quiet living room.

“He’s OK,” Brenda volunteered. “A little disappointed but not too much. Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t take care of.”

“What can you tell me about Carla Cabot?” Davison asked his hostess.

“Oh, no. I’m done. You two are on your own.”

“Wait. Done? Oh, I get it. The whole dinner seating arrangement…thing.” Davison smiled. Brenda did, too. Then Davison’s expression changed, became serious. “I didn’t want to be here. A lot of reasons, none of them very good. Turned out to be the best dinner party I’ve ever been to. Thank you. I hope you got as much out of it as I did. I owe you.”

Brenda laughed lightly, “If I got as much out of it as I hope you do, you don’t owe me anything. Thank you for coming, Davison.” They shook hands and Davison left the condo for his hotel suite at the Ritz-Carlton.

When he walked into the third-floor Central Park Suite and closed the door behind him, he asked, “What did you do?” out loud to himself. He didn’t get much sleep that night.

Carla and her parents arrived at home after 11pm. In the dark, in bed, Carla looked at her clock. 1:53AM in blue was on the display. She was wired. She knew that she needed to sleep because tomorrow...actually today...was going to be a big day. ‘Oh my God,’ she thought. I’ve got a date with Davison Cahill. She forced herself to stop thinking. She turned on the radio and found a soft jazz station and slowly drifted to sleep.