“So, your mother lives in L.A.?” she asked.
“Oh, no. Mama moved to Jackson Hole with me.”
Reva slowly nodded. “I see. Uh…any other family? I mean, is it just you and your mother?”
Over the course of the next few minutes, she learned Bert was an only child. He’d lost his father as a child to an accident. His mother’s name was Leotha and she loved to cook, but only health-conscious items. Preservatives were of the devil. She also suffered from gout.”
“Sounds like the two of you are…close?”
Bert beamed. “That would be affirmative. She’s the most wonderful woman I’ve ever known. I’m a lucky boy.”
Reva tried hard not to roll her eyes. The main course had not yet arrived, and this date was already shaping up to be unviable. Especially when Bert launched into detailing all the many gifts his mother had given him over the years, presents that included his most prized possession.
Reva listened, half-amused and half-bewildered, as Bert excitedly rambled about the metal detector his mother had gifted him last Christmas. He delved into the mundane specifics with an enthusiasm that she found perplexing, describing the length of its telescopic shaft, the diameter of the search coil, and the various beeping tones it emitted depending on the type of metal detected.
His eyes sparkled as he recounted the settings for differentiating between ferrous and non-ferrous metals, a detail that Reva noted with a nod, though she hardly understood why it mattered.
Then, Bert’s monologue took a bizarre turn as he began to list the peculiar treasures he had unearthed—a collection of vintage bottle caps from the 1970s, a surprisingly well-preserved rubber duck with a metal collar, and, most baffling of all, a rusted keychain with a half dozen keys, each leading to an unknown lock.
Reva couldn’t help but smile at the sheer oddity of his finds, wondering if the metal detector was a tool for unearthing treasures or a gateway into Bert’s uniquely quirky world.
A world she couldn’t wait to exit.
When the waiter appeared to take their orders, Reva ordered a bowl of soup—butternut squash topped with coconut and nutmeg foam. She could eat that fast and end this, maybe beg off with a headache if need be. Sitting on the sofa in her slippers with a good book sounded good right now.
Unfortunately, Bert was not in a hurry.
He slowly scanned the menu, asking dozens of questions. “How are your steaks cooked? On a grill or over an open flame?” He looked at Reva. “Grills are never cleaned properly. Mama says the metal leaches and attaches to the proteins in the meat. She read that inYour Wellness Todaymagazine.”
He returned to grilling the waiter (no pun intended, she thought) before finally settling on bison ravioli—a dish described as served with white wine garlic sauce with cherry tomatoes and goat cheese. “But hold the cherry tomatoes,” Bert said as he handed his menu off to the waiter. “And the goat cheese. I’d like a side of whipped sweet potato puree, but could you simply cut that into little square chunks and give me butter on the side? Unsalted butter if you have it. Bring a little extra.”
The waiter nodded. Before he could finish lifting the menu from Bert’s hand, her date suddenly changed his mind and held on to the printed board. Confused, the waiter raised his chin. “Is there something else you’d like, sir?”
“Dessert. Bring three servings of that bourbon pudding right there.” He pointed to an item on the menu. “Make one of them to-go.” He looked to Reva. “Mama loves bread pudding.”
She held up an open hand. “None for me.”
“Oh, c’mon. Those calories aren’t going to put any more meat on your bones. Live a little.”
Her jaw stiffened. “I don’t do bourbon.”
“Well, this isn’t a drink. It’s pudding.”
“I don’t drink,” she clarified, her tone one that invited no more argument.
“What? You’re an alcoholic?” He turned to the waiter and lifted his empty cocktail glass. “Speaking of, I’ll have another, please.”
When he turned back, Reva couldn’t help but scowl. This man was proving to be rude, boring,andobnoxious.
He examined her expression. “Oh, hey—I’m sorry. So you’re an alcoholic.” He waved off the situation. “No problem. My mama’s brother was a drunk. Cool guy. He died of liver cirrhosis.”
Bert turned to the waiter. “Just box hers up, and I’ll take it home with me.”
Reva knotted her hands underneath the table. This date couldn’t end fast enough. She fully intended to throttle those well-meaning friends of hers if they ever meddled in her romantic life again.
She suffered through the remainder of the meal, happy when the waiter finally brought the bill to the table.
Bert opened the black leather check holder, took a quick look inside, and handed it back to the waiter. “Could you split the check, please?”
