That Which We Call a Rose

Waverly stood and stretched. It had been a long, productive day of painting, and she was more than ready for a break. Before retreating from her studio, however, she took one last glance at the most recent piece of work. Pleased overall with the progression of her painting of the enormous, blue hydrangeas that sat upon the table, she cleaned her brushes and put away the multi-colored paint palette.

Heading to the bedroom, she took a long, very hot shower before she began to dress for the evening. Phoebe, had arranged tonight’s blind date, and she was still unsure as to the wisdom in accepting the invitation despite her friend’s assurances to the contrary. The only reason she’d agreed to go on the date 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. Indeed, her closest friends had often remarked on how particular she could be when it came to dating.

Standing now before the vanity, she applied a few touches of makeup to enhance her sun-kissed complexion. Living on the beach this summer had been a superb idea, and it had provided relaxation and inspiration for her paintings. She was fortunate that she was an established artist and able to reap the benefits of past work, allowing her to indulge in the long, hot summer on the coast of the Atlantic Ocean that Charleston’s climate provided. There were few who would not long for such an indulgence.

Waverly pulled her long, red hair into a loose ponytail. Highlights of blonde, encouraged solely by time spent in the sun, ran like rivulets through it. It was far too hot and humid to consider another hairstyle this evening, especially if she and her date would be eating outside. Donning a sleeveless, periwinkle blue dress and heeled sandals, she gave herself one last glance in the long mirror before she grabbed her purse and headed out the door. Climbing into her little Volkswagen, she began the trip across the lengthy bridge crossing the Cooper River. Smooth waves barely moved beneath the expanse of the bridge. The night was decidedly calm and humid, and she was thankful she had worn her hair pulled up. This evening, she was looking forward to an excellent meal at Garibaldi’s, a lovely little Italian restaurant on Market Street, while also hoping for some genuinely interesting company.

It was not the weekend, but Market Street was still crowded with throngs of tourists, so it took a short while to find a parking spot. It was fortunate that she’d chosen to arrive a little early, suspecting that such would be the case. Eventually, she was able to pull into a small space in a lot just off the Market. It was a beautiful evening, so she didn’t mind the short walk to the restaurant.

Arriving at Garibaldi’s, Waverly entered, amazed that the restaurant was not more crowded, but she reminded herself that it was a weeknight, after all, and not the weekend. As the hostess approached, she indicated that she was meeting someone, or a man named Atticus. Frowning slightly, the hostess advised her that no one by that name had arrived as of yet. Waverly smiled and informed the woman that she would go ahead and be seated, so that when he arrived, the hostess could refer him to her table.

“Splendid,” the hostess said as she picked up two menus and headed to the small, outdoor balcony on the second floor of the establishment.

Shortly thereafter, she was approached at the intimate table for two by the waiter.

“Buonasera, signorina. What will you be drinking tonight?” he asked.

After a moment of reviewing the wine list, Waverly decided upon a bottle of Tuscan Merlot. As the waiter left, she checked her watch and noted she was a wee bit early. Looking around, she 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 hour. She focused on the Italian music that she could hear drifting through the restaurant. Was that 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.

Returning moments later, the waiter opened the bottle of wine and poured a small portion into a glass. Inhaling first of its sweet, fruity aroma, Waverly then swirled the wine a bit in the lovely, long stemmed glass before taking a small sip of the rich, yet mildly spicy, burgundy Merlot. It was soft and warm as it rested in her mouth for mere seconds before it traveled down the length of her throat. It was decidedly delicious, and she eagerly gestured for the waiter to fill her glass.

Checking her watch again, she learned that it was precisely five minutes past eight o’clock. Pulling her phone from her purse, she looked for messages, but there was nothing to indicate Atticus might be running a bit late. Nervously glancing toward the doorway, Waverly decided to concentrate on the menu instead. One of tonight’s specials was the fresh grouper. Growing up in the coastal city, she loved seafood, so she was already fairly certain that the fish would be her first choice for dinner.

What seemed like mere moments passed before Waverly finished the first glass of Merlot. Glancing at her watch again, she realized that it was now drawing closer to the half past eight mark. She smiled to herself and mused that it would be quite interesting if she was being stood up by a man with such a dependable name as Atticus. Maybe it wasn’t all necessarily in the name.

Did she wish to order? The waiter had approached her at long last. Yes. Yes, she did wish to order. The grouper please with a small side salad and a baked potato.

Now that she’d finished a glass and a half of the wonderfully smooth Merlot, she needed some food on her stomach, and she was not about to let an inconsiderate louse of a man like Atticus keep it from her. So, instead she decided to stay and eat the grouper alone. Not her typical night out, needless to say, but she did not need a man – or any companion for that matter – to define her in any capacity. She was an independent and self-assured woman, who was fully capable of eating and enjoying a meal all by herself in addition to being able to pay for it, too.

Waverly sat, still very much alone, a single glass of the Tuscan Merlot before her on the table much later. 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 Pippy.”

In response, Waverly laughed and smiled larger than before. “Pippy? As in Pippy 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!