(#00012)
Much had changed. Mort was still shocked at most of it. All of it could be traced back to Sara. Sara, no longer plain but still tall. She’d grown two inches by slow degrees and every last atom from top to toe was pure delight. He had a name for every colour of every aqua-to-lapis scale/chromatophore on her delightful skin.
He had changed, too. He no longer hunkered in shadows. He spoke up when he felt wronged. He bathed regularly, thanks to Sara’s miracle concoction of a soapless soap. He dressed better, thanks to Sara’s tailoring skills and part-time hobby in design.
Thanks to Sara, he no longer had absolute faith in his own stupidity. He’d learned enough to overcome his fears of failure. He was a teacher. Working on a college degree.
And about to go on a date. One he paid for. With wages he earned. At his job.
All things that were not possible without her.
He adjusted the bow tie for the fiftieth time in his reflection in the foyer mirror. Making sure he was suitably dapper for the occasion. Opera Populaire and fine dining at Chez Ritzi.
His name for it. It still took half an hour of coaching to get him to pronounce the place, but it offered the best of all possible worlds. Food as art. Plenty enough for both their metabolisms. No alcohol. Something new for Sara to experience. And, most important to Mortimer, something she truly deserved.
Time was ticking closer. He’d already peed and almost thrown up more times than he could count. His heart was hammering in his chest from old fears and PTSD inspired horror-shows in the back of his mind.
He adjusted the tilt of his top hat for the empty-billionth time.
“Stop it, you’re perfect.”
Mortimer turned and gaped. Sara.
Only his inner eye supplied a halo. She wore basic black. Culottes and a fitted top halfway between Victorian chic and hippie chick. When she moved, gracefully descending like a supermodel, it contained a galaxy. The cloak and muff, currently dangling like a clutch purse in one aqua hand, only accentuated her style. Both a deep vermillion velvet. The white faux-fur trim on the cloak only made everything else pop.
“…hglblf'x…” he burbled happily. Inside, his secret self was imitating Fred Estaire and singing like Michael Bublé. She came, she loves me, she’s spending time with me! I’m worthy of her tiiiiiiime! And so on.
“Thank you,” Sara blushed. “You’re looking suitably asd'f'k'k'jargle, yourself.”
Her hair, pretty much uncut since her exile from her home, two years and a hundred better experiences ago, was done up in something technically complicated and deceptively simple. The hair still loose from such elegant restraint fell in artful curls.
The only jewellery she wore was a pair of art-neuvaux earrings and the engagement ring he’d given her. It just made her sparkle more.
He offered his elbow. “Milady, our carriage awaits.”
It was an Eco-Limo. Just the right balance of style and responsibility. Just what she’d appreciate.
*
The maitre d’ had evidently not been briefed about “Chez Ritzi’s” two most generous supporters. Mortimer shared a Look with Sara.
It said, Let’s leave the money ‘till last, eh?
“We respectfully submit that madame and m'seur would be… more comfortable in a private booth,” repeated the maitre d’.
Sara pitched her voice to reach the cheap seats. Or comparatively-cheap-seats. “Are you telling me you’re refusing full service to people of colour?”
Mortimer sprained something trying not to grin like the cheshire cat after finding the canary in the cream. He knew everyone was staring and put on his best Posh British Tones.
“We paid for full service and we expect to receive what we paid for. Old chap.”
Sara hid her face. Her shoulders were shaking. To the judging, watching clientele, it looked like she was crying. Only Mortimer would be able to tell she was stifling giggles.
Honestly, this sort of thing happened nine times out of ten, every time they went here.
Mortimer decided the maitre d’ had shrunk half a foot. “Are you going to admit you’re overcharging based on the colour of our skin, serve us properly… or are we going to have a discussion with your manager?”
A few high-pitched noises escaped her throat. Thankfully, none of them sounded gigglish.
“Nothatwon'tbenecessary,” rushed the maitre d’. “Follow me madame et m'seur. I shall take you to your booked table.”
“Calmly, now, my love,” said Mortimer, taking her elbow. “It’s all been sorted.”
Sara spent the trip to their table desperately wiping the grin off her face.
Bubba-Jo was probably going to visit, which generally caused a stir because his fashion sense and grooming made him look like some unearthly combination of rastafarian beach bum and homeless hobo. His appearance in the public space of his own restaurant caused an inevitable fluster of hushed conversation because he looked like the exact opposite of someone who owned a place called Huattifoq.
Sara had told him that forgoing the new-hire breifing was a bad idea. Bubba-Jo did have to learn his lessons thoroughly and well.
“Do you think he’s salvageable, dear?” Sara asked after she’d been seated.
“I b'lieve he can learn. Bubba’s gonna have t’ get back on new hire duty.”
*
“…because I looove you sincerely…. Mommy dearest…” Sara sang.
“Nellie Brighton you ain’t.” Mortimer laughed. It was snowing and the limo was taking the long way home. Their arms were entwined and they both leaned on each other on a satisfied way.
“It’s taken me this long to learn how to sing in my own voice.”
“An’ I love the Sara version to pieces,” he said honestly. He sighed. “Marry me?”
“I believe I already said 'yes’ to that. And I also believe we’re finally doing something about it. Tomorrow afternoon.”
Tomorrow afternoon, when the light turned the grounds of Xavier academy into a winter wonderland. And when Kurt was free between classes to officiate a ceremony that managed to satisfy an atheist and a man who only worshiped his bride.
The only problem was stopping Bobby from going nuts with the decorations. And preventing Jacqui from becoming a bridezilla-by-proxy.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow!
“Happy birthday for tomorrow, Babe.”
“See you at our little chapel.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
They kissed all the way back home.