Part 7 (1/2)

”The piano player,” he said. ”He's playing 'Misty.' ”

And so he was, a very lovely rendition of it.

”That was Miss Marple's favorite song,” Skip said, blinking back tears.

(In case you're interested, Miss Marple's favorite movie was Three Coins in the Fountain, and her favorite TV show was Green Acres. All fun facts I'd gleaned during dinner.) ”Let's go listen,” Skip pleaded.

I was about to say no, but then I saw something that made me change my mind-large bowls of mixed nuts on the tables.

After the anemic plate of steamed veggies I'd choked down for dinner, those nuts looked mighty tempting.

”Okay,” I said. ”But just for a few minutes.”

Skip led me to a table right up front near the pianist, who was still belting out ”Misty.”

The minute we sat down, I reached for the bowl of nuts and held on to them with a viselike grip.

Take these away, I felt like warning Skip, and you're a dead man.

But Skip wasn't interested in the nuts. His eyes were closed, lost no doubt in memories of Miss Marple.

We gave our orders to a c.o.c.ktail waitress: celery tonic for Skip and organic chardonnay for moi.

The minute she was gone, I wasted no time diving into those nuts, picking out the cashews first, then chomping down on some Brazil nuts. I offered some to Skip, but thank heavens, he waved them away.

I'd just finished fis.h.i.+ng out a particularly tasty Brazil nut when I looked up and saw the piano player staring at me and smiling in a most seductive manner.

Good heavens. Was he actually flirting with me?

Skip seemed to think so.

”I don't like the way that man is looking at you,” he said, glaring at the piano player and taking a stiff shot of his celery tonic.

”Don't be silly,” I whispered. ”I'm sure he smiles at all the patrons.”

But I was wrong. The handsome, dark-haired pianist kept his eyes on me, and me only, all the while beaming me his seductive smile.

Hmm. Maybe this date wasn't turning out so bad, after all. Maybe the pianist would turn out to be the man of my dreams, and maybe someday we'd be telling our grandchildren how we fell in love at first sight over a bowl of mixed nuts.

”No, I don't like it,” Skip was saying, shooting daggers at the piano player. ”Not one bit. He's got a nerve staring at you like that.”

”I'm sure it means nothing, Skip,” I said, praying I was wrong.

We sat through a few more tunes, Skip growing angrier with each slug of his celery tonic. Finally when the pianist had not taken his eyes off me for twelve consecutive minutes, Skip banged down his gla.s.s.

”That does it!” he cried, getting up.

”Please, Skip. People are staring.”

And indeed everyone in the joint was looking at him.

But Skip didn't care.

Shoving back his chair, he stomped over to the piano player.

”My good man,” he sputtered, ”I resent the way you have been leering at my fiancee all night.”

His fiancee???

I almost choked on a filbert.

Since when had we gotten engaged? Was it possible he'd proposed during dinner and I'd missed it? Had I dozed off some time during the cauliflower course?

”I may be of advanced years,” Skip was saying, ”but I am a master in the art of fisticuffs. Shall we take this out into the alley?”

”Okay, dude,” said the handsome pianist, smiling serenely, ”but first I'm going to have to get Lucy.”

Lucy? We hadn't even gone on our first date, and already there was another woman.

”C'mere, Lucy, honey!”

And then out from behind a curtain came a dog with a harness. The pianist got up and reached for a cane I'd failed to notice on top of his piano.

Yikes. Lucy was a Seeing Eye dog, and the guy who'd fallen in love with me at first sight was blind.

Cancel that honeymoon.