What the Heart Knows

Zack Calvin stood close enough to Miranda to inhale the scent of her perfume—something floral and spicy. He put his hand in the small of her back to guide her to their table. Already the Lighthouse Tavern was humming with activity, half the tables filled and a short line at the matre d’s podium. As he walked them to their corner, Zack glanced around the room with its flickering candles and smiling faces. Is there anyone here I know? Inexplicably, the thought gave him a twinge of nerves.

“Your waiter will be right with you,” the matre d’ said as he glided Miranda’s chair into place. Aromas of sauces and seasonings wafted past their table as servers delivered fragrant, steaming dishes.

Zack helped Miranda off with her sweater, before she settled in her chair. En route to the restaurant, she’d reclined in the bucket seat of his car as though it’d been sculpted for her, but for some reason, she’d seemed uncomfortable. I’m a little nervous. Maybe she is too.

The dress she wore was just right—sleek and elegant without being formal. She’d look great in emeralds, Zack thought, if she ever wears serious jewelry. She smiled at him and looked down shyly, fidgeted with something in her lap, then looked out the window at the view.

Following her gaze, he noticed how different the Central Coast view appeared in comparison with Santa Barbara. The lights were few—just enough to mark the coastline, unrelieved by offshore rigs or tankers. The beacon’s rhythmic flash from the real lighthouse darted across gleaming dark water. It seemed a cozy and deliciously remote setting.

Zack’s musings were interrupted by a visit to their table. “Well, you didn’t tell me your date was a heart-stopper.” Michael Owen seemed perfectly in his element, playing the gracious host. “I see now why you gave me the third degree about tonight’s menu.”

Zack had removed his napkin from his lap and begun to stand. But before he could push his chair back, Michael placed a hand on his shoulder. “No, no please don’t get up. Just introduce me to your beautiful friend.”

Miranda blushed, and her eyes darted to Zack. She’s obviously chafing under all this attention. Her eyes pleaded with him to make it all go away. Despite Michael’s invitation to remain seated, Zack stood, and kept the introduction simple. “Michael Owen, chef, Miranda Jones, artist.”

The chef bent over Miranda’s hand as he kissed it. As soon as he released her, she withdrew her hand. Zack said, “Well, we’re looking forward to the meal, Michael.”

Despite the slight edge in Zack’s voice, Michael didn’t pick up the signal. The guy must be transfixed. But she looks like she’s about to flee. “Uh, thanks for stopping by the table.”

As though a hypnotist had snapped his fingers, the spell that’d fallen over Michael was broken. His gaze came up to meet Zack’s with a nod of understanding. “Hope you have a wonderful evening.” He moved onto the next table, returning to his role as gregarious host.

Zack stood for a moment longer, looking down at Miranda who’d resumed staring out the window. She’s a puzzle, this woman. Sure of herself, yet suddenly shy—painfully so. He re-seated himself, pulled his chair in and leaned across the table. “Are you all right?”

His remark seemed to startle her. “Oh. Sorry. Yes. Of course. Fine.” She attempted a smile.

Zack searched for a way to ask, without asking, what might be behind so much discomfort. “I was hoping you’d like this restaurant. We can go somewhere else, if you’d prefer.”

“Oh, no! Not at all. I’ve never eaten here. Never been here at night. The lights . . . and the beacon . . . they’re lovely.”

“I’m surprised.”

“Surprised?”

“That you’ve never been here.”

“I didn’t say that.” She fidgeted in her chair, turning again toward the window.

“Well, Michael had never met you—”

She turned to face him. “Michael and I have met. It’s a small town, you know.”

Zack couldn’t read her expression. “Miranda I just meant that you obviously made quite an impression on him. He doesn’t seem so easily impressed.” He reached across the table, covering her hand with his. “You’re a beautiful woman. Why shouldn’t he be impressed?”

Miranda brought her gaze up to his, the candle bouncing light from her silky green and igniting tiny emeralds in her eyes. The tension seemed to vanish, the touch of their hands sparking a connection.

They were interrupted again, this time by the arrival of the salads and entres. Miranda raised an eyebrow as she said, “I can’t decide whether to be flattered or offended.”

“Because I ordered for you? Well, why don’t you decide after you taste the food?”

“That’s a neat way off the hook.”