My firm had just been awarded a penthouse build out on Lido Beach at Saint Armand in Sarasota. These jobs are considered cake, with big money pay outs by owners who spare no expense to have them designed to their own specifications and built out accordingly. The only real downside to these projects is that they take forever to get because there's only around sixteen such units and the work's few and far between due to the horrendously slow turnover rate.
After the final on site meeting with the design architect and project owner (who informed us he had already attained authorization for us to begin the required demolition prior to starting the rebuild) we shook hands. I looked at my watch and told them that I would be at City Hall the following Monday with their sealed drawings to apply for the approved building permitting.
During the elevator ride to the lobby, I reminded the owner to petition the building Board of Directors to have a cargo elevator dedicated to this project, blanketed, coded and programmed as nonstop and we parted ways when we arrived at the lobby.
I remember being hungry, that evening was pleasantly warm and as I drove by all of the restaurants on Saint Armands Circle, I noticed that they were pounded full of Snowbirds. I really wanted to stop in at the Columbian, I was really in the mood for Mexican but after seeing their over full outdoor waiting area, I headed for my old haunt 'The Ale House' out off of Bee Ridge Road.
Not three feet inside the door to the bar area, I saw the back of my old friend Don my Pharmacist, sitting at the bar talking to Scotty the bartender: "Don, man good to see you, what brings you out this way?" I asked.
"Hey Peter! How are you doing?" He answered: "I'm here to interview a young lady assistant that I'm planning on hiring. Peter, business has been good and with the Snowbirds piling in, I really need the help." he replied.
"You always did have a lot of class, interviewing perspective lady new hires in a bar!" I goaded him.
"Hey Peter, you're stuck in the eighties, she picked the location." He said: "Thanks Scotty, I'm going to grab that booth over there while it's still available." He motioned: "Peter, would you care to join me?"
"For the interview?" I asked with surprise.
"Sure." Don answered: "This is one tough little chic and you will definitely get a kick out of her and it shouldn't take long." He said: "I've already decided to hire her anyway, have a seat and I'll buy you a beer. Mr. Scott, two Eleven Point IPA's."
Scott was pulling the handle filling the second of the two glasses, when Don said: "There she is now, that's her!" And when glanced over at the door, I couldn't believe what I saw.
There was absolutely no way she measured over four feet eleven. She was wearing crisp pressed bright blue medical scrubs and the closer she got, the cuter she looked. Jet black hair just shorter than shoulder length, all clean and shiny like a Pantene Shampoo commercial, and those eyes ... Deep blue, dark eyebrows with jet black liner that looked as if it were painted on by and artist and they came to a perfect point, just past the outside portion of each eye and she had the face of an Angel.
In a word: "Beautiful!" but in a young, cute, haunting and forbidden thirty something sort of way.
When Don said: "Stay put." He stood to greet her and to my total surprise, he extended his left hand towards me and she slid in the booth between us, practically up against me and I remember that she smelled fantastic.
"Savannah, this is Peterswiftt, Peter this is Savannah Jordon." Don introduced.
And all I could think to say was: "Nice meeting you, I'll grab my barstool over there and let you two get down to business."
As I attempted to side to my left in order to make my getaway, Don said: "Nonsense Peter, join us for dinner. Let me buy so I can take the deduction will you?"
"Please don't leave on my account." Savanna added and after hearing her soft voice for the first time, anyone would instantly know that the sound of it fit her beautiful little shape and frame to a 'T'. And then I couldn't leave.
The next thing that I remember was Scott sitting coasters and our beers in front of us with Stacey the cocktail server directly to his left, asking Savannah what she would like to drink.
"Long Island Tea please.'" Savannah answered, and Stacey looked over at me, raised her right brow and smirked as she handed each of us a menu.
"What's good here?" Savannah asked, as she glanced over at Don.
"You might want to ask Pater that, her practically owns this place," Don mocked.
When Savannah questioned: "Really?"
I answered: "No, Don's just pulling your leg, but I do drink my share here to keep them in business." And Don actually laughed out loud.
"Well, it seems to be working, I'm glad I got here when I did." She responded and I looked over and saw the receptionist taking names of the waiting customers that were lining up while servers began herding some of the overflow into the now standing room only bar area to order drinks.
"New York Strip steak. I always get the New York Strip and baked potato, sometimes with a side salad. They seem to do a good job with that." I informed her, and then Stacey sat her tall Long Island Tea in front of her giving me a wink and I kind of gave her a stern look back, not being exactly sure on what she was attempting to convey to me.
"You ready to order?" Stacey asked.
"Your 'Big Salads'. How are your big salads?" Savannah inquired.
