That Which We Call a Rose

Should she continue to wait for her blind date to arrive or should she bolt out of Garibaldi’s and head home? It was now thirty minutes past eight o’clock, and it did not seem likely that her blind date, Atticus, would be joining her after all - nor had he had the decency to let her know he wouldn’t be making it. Biting her lip with indecision, Waverly impulsively decided she did not require a man to define her or make the evening an enjoyable one, so yes, she would stay and order the delicious grouper she’d seen on the “Daily Special” menu when she’d entered the quaint Italian restaurant. Besides, she’d already ordered the bottle of Tuscan Merlot, and right about now, she could use a glass of it for more reasons than one, so this was one dilemma that was an easy fix as far as she was concerned. The devil with Atticus. He certainly had not lived up to his namesake.

Her friend, Phoebe, had arranged tonight’s blind date, and she was now sure she never should have agreed to it despite her friend’s assurances. The only reason she had agreed was because of his name: Atticus. Ever since she’d been a little girl, she had been in love with the character of Atticus Finch in the book, To Kill a Mockingbird. No, she did not secretly long for tall men in three-piece suits with horn-rimmed spectacles adorning their faces as they sweltered in the heat of the summer, but she did long for a strong-minded man who was not afraid to stand up for his ideals and beliefs, and she was not at all secretive about her desire for such.

And so she had headed to Market Street for her date with Atticus that evening. It had been crowded with throngs of tourists when Waverly arrived at Garibaldi’s much earlier, but she’d found a place close by in which to park. She’d chosen to arrive a little early – much unlike her blind date – to ensure she was not late. Now it looked as though a close parking spot or not being late had been the least of her concerns this evening since Atticus would not be coming. Still, it was a beautiful evening, so she was going to make the best of it despite being stood up by someone she did not know – even if she did have to sit at an intimate table for two on the small upstairs balcony. 

Fifteen minutes later and nearly a full glass of wine in, she was approached by the waiter. Was she ready to order?

Yes. Yes, she did wish to order. The grouper please with a small side salad and a baked potato. The waiter nodded and left to relay her order to the chef. She had been looking forward to this meal all afternoon.

Looking around, Waverly noticed that the small bar on the second floor had four patrons seated at high top stools, but otherwise, the place had not yet filled up despite the lateness of the hour. As she focused on the Italian music that could be heard drifting through the restaurant, she realized it was the smooth, crooning voice of Dean Martin she heard singing “Volare”. Her mother had listened to Martin’s music for years, and despite the fact that Waverly was only twenty-five, she adored it as much as her mother did. And “Volare” was one of her favorites. She was making every effort to concentrate on the things that made tonight a good night: the music, the food, the lovely ambience, and the delicious wine. The Merlot she’d ordered had a sweet, fruity aroma, and while rich, it was yet smooth and mildly spicy. The wine would pair beautifully with the grouper and its warmth helped to ease the bit of tension she felt at the moment.

Glancing at her watch, she learned that it was precisely forty-five minutes past eight o’clock. While having theoretically given up all hope of seeing Atticus, she pulled her phone from her purse and looked for messages, but there was nothing. In irritation, she placed the phone back in her purse, refusing to look at it again and choosing instead to enjoy her meal to the fullest extent. What seemed like mere moments passed before Waverly finished the first glass of Merlot.

As she ate her meal and enjoyed a second glass of wine, she felt self-assured and independent. While not the typical night out, needless to say, she was fully capable of eating and enjoying a meal all by herself in addition to being able to pay for it, too. She smiled to herself and mused that it was quite interesting that she’d been stood up by a man with such a dependable name as Atticus. Maybe it wasn’t all necessarily in the name.

A little while later, Waverly sat, still very much alone, a single glass of the Tuscan Merlot before her on the table. It was now nearly nine-thirty. If she stayed longer and finished the entire bottle of Merlot, she might have to call a taxi or walk around the city for a long while, but it very well might be worth it. The wine was soothing, delicious, and calming. Its essence filled her being and relaxed her to a point of self-assuredness combined with determination. Its fruitiness was nearly like a dessert, filling her and completing the night’s meal.

As Waverly glanced up from the glass of Merlot, a man approached and stopped at her table.

“Atticus?” she asked with disbelief clearly etched across her face.

“No,” he shook his head and ruefully smiled. “I’m Paul. Might I join you for a bit? I couldn’t help but notice from the bar that you, like me, may have been left with greater expectations tonight.”

Waverly returned the smile and quickly gestured for Paul to take a seat beside her. “You are quite observant,” she laughed despite the situation. “I must admit that it’s not the first time, but hopefully, it will be the last. Who would have possibly thought it from a man named Atticus?”

Paul’s smile grew in response to her question. “Atticus? Well, therein lies your problem,” he said. “Who’s named Atticus these days? He was likely eighty years old and walking with a cane anyway – far too old for you! Of course, I can’t really say much since my date’s name was Pippi.”

In response, Waverly laughed and smiled larger than before. “Pippi? As in Pippi Longstocking? My date may have been eighty years old with a walking cane, but it sounds as if you would have been babysitting yours and pulling bubble gum out of her braids before the night was over!”

The two laughed, true merriment easing the night’s disappointments and circumstances as well as the newness of their acquaintance.

“Would you like a glass of Merlot, Paul?” Waverly asked, giving him her biggest and most amused smile. “I have more than enough to share.”

“Please. I would love a glass.”

After the waiter poured the glass of Merlot for him, Paul remarked on the wine. He thought it enticing and elegant in color, while also embodying a velvety richness. He was quite sure that it had gone sublimely well with the dinner she’d ordered since it was a wine well-suited to most meals. She nodded and surmised that he had just summed up exactly why she preferred Merlot.

As the conversation ensued further, Waverly learned that Paul was a Pro Bono and Civil Rights’ lawyer, who had been practicing in the city of Charleston for four years. Waverly nearly choked on her wine at the bit of information.

“You cannot be serious?” she said in disbelief.

But Paul assured her that he was absolutely and utterly serious, and that she could call him ‘Atticus” if she liked. Waverly laughed again. Could one demonstrate pure, unadulterated irony in any stronger shape or fashion than this?

As the night went on, and while they were new acquaintances, it was very easy for Waverly to see that Paul was someone with whom she would easily strike up a conversation and would immediately share common interests. Maybe this night was not a lost cause after all, she mused, because this man had immediately piqued her interest and made her laugh.

An hour later, and after Waverly had insisted upon paying her own bill, the newly acquainted couple left to walk around the crowded streets, stopping by a local pub, The Battery’s Bawdy Bear, for another glass of Merlot. The conversation had not once lagged between them, and Waverly was amazed at how similar their shared interests were.

Much later while walking her to the small Volkswagen, Paul commented that despite the circumstances, what he considered to be tonight ‘s ‘first date’ had been fortuitous, and that he would love to see her again. Perhaps next time, their second date would be even more fun. Pleased and smiling, Waverly eagerly agreed, and the two shared contact information.

Driving across the long bridge over the Cooper River and back to her beachfront rental property, Waverly wore a huge smile upon her tanned face. In her wildest dreams, she would have never guessed that a blind date named Atticus would turn out to be such a flop, while a man with an average name like Paul would turn out to be so amazing. One could certainly say that such propensities had likely encouraged Shakespeare to pen one of his most famous quotes:

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

And right now, Paul smelled far sweeter than Atticus ever could!