It Had to Be You Georgia Clark (bookstand for reading txt) 📖

Savannah mimed smiling, tapping both cheeks with her forefingers. “Bye!” She waved both arms above her head, as if Liv was leaving for life on a new continent. “Have fun!”

Liv stared back, feeling out of her depth. Savannah had approached the date like she approached everything: with fervor. Like she wanted to live vicariously. Had she met someone, too? Hopefully not. The business could only handle one love-distracted person, and right now that person was Liv. Savannah Shipley would do well to focus her drive and smarts on hitting another wedding out of the park. She was turning out to be quite a valuable asset.

Ten minutes later, Liv walked into a farm-to-table restaurant Sam had suggested. It was lively without being unbearably noisy, which was good: like neck tattoos and nail art, shouting to be heard in restaurants was something best left to Generation Z. A hefty wooden bar ran against one wall, while a few dozen tables were scattered over creaking floorboards. This place was new: Liv hadn’t even heard about it. The persistent evolution of the city regardless of her personal tragedy recalled the old Robert Frost quote: “In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.”

“I’m meeting a friend,” she told the maître d’, just as she spotted Sam sitting at the bar, chatting to the bartender. He was dressed in dark jeans and a denim shirt rolled at the sleeves. Even dressed up for a date, he looked like the kind of man who could chop down a tree and build a table with it. Her pulse, at a steady trot while she got ready, began cantering freely, showing off with jumps and little kicks. She hadn’t felt this nervous in years. It recalled her early days of auditioning, hoping desperately to be picked from a sea of faces and invited to be someone else. But tonight she was auditioning as herself.

Liv placed her purse on the bar next to him.

Sensing movement, Sam flicked his gaze at her. And then turned back to his beer.

Was this what the kids meant by ghosting? “We did say Wednesday, didn’t we?”

Sam glanced back up. “Liv! Holy…” Disbelieving eyes raced from collarbone to calf. “I didn’t recognize you.”

And suddenly, the two-and-a-half hours of preparing and plucking and painting of color onto skin and nails were entirely worth it. Liv had been worried that putting herself into the hands of Savannah Shipley would result in a look more suited to a tequila-soaked bachelorette. But the dress Savannah pulled from the back of the closet was her Elan Behzadi: black silk with capped sleeves, V-neck, falling just below the knee.

“Oh, this dress.” Liv’s eyes had lit up. It’d been her go-to for art openings and the theater, things she and Eliot did every other week before Ben was born. Back when she was always on. “It can’t still fit me.” But it did.

Savannah had swept Liv’s hair back off her face, a bold look she’d never tried. But when paired with darkened eyebrows, a pinky-red lip, and just a hint of cream blush, she looked quite… chic. The only thing left was shoes. Liv was angling for black flats, even as she knew they weren’t entirely right. Savannah held up a tote bag. “I brought a pair of mine to try: we’re the same size. Just keep an open mind, okay?”

“All right.” Liv wanted to giggle, so she did.

With the panache of a game show host, Savannah presented a pair of patent leather, sunshine-yellow stilettos.

Liv had gasped. “They’re so pretty.”

“I know! Aren’t they fun?”

“Oh, I can’t wear these.” She slipped them on. Savannah was right: they were the exact same size.

“Whoa.” She wobbled toward the mirror. “Don’t know if I can walk in heels anymore.”

“You already are.”

Liv examined her reflection. It was like looking at an actress chosen to play the movie version of Olive Goldenhorn: someone thinner, younger, and a lot better-looking. She was certainly in need of a workout or twenty, but she definitely did not look shlubby. The black dress and sleek hairstyle was classy, but the heels made the whole look… fun. Even sexy. Not bad for almost fifty. “Are yellow heels age appropriate?”

“Liv,” Savannah had said seriously, “there’s no such thing as age appropriate. Wear whatever you want.”

Liv flicked her a suspicious look. “When did you get so wise?”

Savannah shrugged, brushing a bit of fluff off the dress. “Maybe when I started working for you.”

“With me,” Liv had corrected, adding a bangle. “We work together.” She busied herself with selecting a purse. But Liv did not miss the slow, thrilled smile that crept onto Savannah’s face. It wasn’t a smile she saw often, and it made Liv think, again, of Savannah’s courtship with her husband. The idea didn’t hurt her. Curiously, she felt aligned with Savannah, and the sense of mystery that came along with an exciting first.

Eliot was a question mark again: something to be turned over and reconsidered.

Now, Sam’s eyes lingered on Liv’s feet as they sat at a table by the window. “And I really like the shoes,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Liv permitted herself a grin. “Foot fetish?”

Sam spread the napkin over his lap. “Never too old to cultivate a new interest,” he said, and Liv laughed.

Two glasses of pale champagne appeared on the table, set by a woman with a buzz cut, who bowed elaborately. “On the house.”

Sam introduced her as Nico, one of the owners. Nico had two sleeves of tattoos and black-rimmed glasses: the look of those new Brooklyn chefs photographed laughing on cool cookbook covers. Generous, with a slightly wicked streak.

“I sous-chef here,” Sam explained, looking a little embarrassed. “But I told them not to make a fuss.”

“No fuss will be made,” Nico said, evidently enjoying making Sam squirm. “Just wanted to say hello.” She grinned and addressed Liv. “And tell you that this is a rare breed of man.”

Sam put his head into his hands.

“We all love Sam.”