Biting the Bride

by Clare Willis

  “Tea, please.”

  “Very good.” Sunni gestured at Carl. “In a pot, with milk and sugar,” she whispered as they passed Carl’s desk.

  The vase was in a private viewing room, positioned in an alcove lined with black velvet. Sunni flipped a switch that turned on a spotlight and handed Lazarus a pair of white cotton gloves.

  “I bought it last year from the Duc de Montparnasse, at his chateau in the Loire Valley, along with an ormolu desk and some fireplace inserts, but I had to let him keep it until his divorce was finalized. It just arrived.”

  “May I?” Lazarus asked. He was holding his gloved hands out in a way that felt to Sunni like he was asking to touch her, not the vase. But that was silly. She nodded, and he carefully lifted the vase, turning it to examine its base.

  The doorbell rang again. Sunni ignored it, knowing that Carl would deal with whoever was there. But in another moment she heard Dennis LaForge’s voice boom through the gallery.

  “Sunni, we’re here! Where’s that vase you bought for me?”

  Sunni cringed.

  Lazarus smiled. “You didn’t tell me I had competition.”

  “I’m so sorry, these are friends of mine. If you’ll excuse me for just a minute, I’ll go talk to them. Feel free to look at the vase for as long as you like.”

  Sunni raced into the gallery, where Isabel and Dennis LaForge were standing in front of Carl’s desk. Dennis was as big as Sunni was small—broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, with springy, untamable black hair turning to gray, hands the size of baseball mitts, and a nose like a squashed cupcake. The nose was earned during an unsuccessful career as a boxer in his twenties, before he discovered his true talent—buying, developing, and selling real estate.

  “Hi, Sunni, Isabel says you have a little something from France that I might like?” He smiled, his green eyes sparkling.

  “Well, I, um, there’s a slight problem, Dennis.”

  “You broke it?” Dennis laughed at his own joke.

  “No, that’s not it. I have another customer interested in it.”

  Richard Lazarus emerged from the back room and dropped the cotton gloves on Carl’s desk. He approached the group, his eyes fixed on Isabel.

  “This is Richard Lazarus,” Sunni said. “He’s just in from London, interested in baroque decorative art. This is Isabel LaForge, and her father, Dennis LaForge.”

  Isabel leaned her crutch against her hip and took Richard’s hand. As he gazed into her eyes for what seemed an unreasonably long time, Isabel’s face underwent a transformation. Her blue eyes grew wide and dreamy, and her mouth puckered, as if in expectation of a kiss. Sunni felt an unexpected stab of jealousy.

  I saw him first, she thought.

  “Nice, nice to meet you,” Isabel stammered.

  Richard released Isabel, but not before making sure she had a firm hold on her crutches. He reached a palm out to Dennis. “I believe I’ve heard the name before. Are you associated with LaForge Realty and Development, by any chance?”

  “That’s my company,” Dennis said, a little warily.

  “Your reputation precedes you, sir. ”

  Dennis looked at Richard with considerably more interest. “I’m afraid you catch me at a disadvantage. What did you say your name was?”

  Richard inclined his head. “Richard Lazarus, sir.”

  “Are you in the business, Richard?”

  “I’m a partner in the Harrington Capital Group in London. We invested in an office park in New-port, Connecticut, that your company developed. Very nice piece of work it was.”

  Dennis smiled broadly, now that Richard’s star was properly placed in the firmament. “Harrington Group, yes, indeed. Pleasure to meet you.”

  Richard turned to Isabel, who was blushing like a twelve-year-old meeting her favorite American Idol. “Are you in the business, Isabel?”

  “I help Daddy out when I can,” Isabel stammered.

  “Which I’m sure is very often,” Richard said. “I just took a look at the Qing vase, Mr. LaForge. I think it will make a fine addition to your collection.”

  “Oh, but if you’re interested I certainly don’t need …” Dennis demurred.

  Richard held up a hand. “I won’t hear of it. It’s yours, please enjoy it. But I wonder if you would do me the honor of joining me for supper tonight. I hear Gary Danko is one of the best restaurants in the city.”

  Dennis shook his head. “Sorry, Richard, I’m booked up for tonight.”

  “What about you ladies?”

  Sunni turned so that she could look at Isabel without Richard seeing her face. She gesticulated with her eyebrows, trying to silently ask her friend what they should do. She quickly realized they were going to need to talk.

  “I’ve got an engagement,” Sunni said, “but I’ll see if I can break it. I’ll get back to you later this afternoon.”

  “Yes, me too,” Isabel said, more reluctantly.

  “Could you leave your number with Carl?”

  “Certainly,” Richard said. He turned to Dennis. “Do you have any ongoing projects here in the city? I’d love to take a look.”

  “As a matter of fact we’re doing a renovation just down on Market Street. It’s interesting, because it’s a historic landmark, but I got a variance to build a fifteen-story building behind the façade …” Dennis paused. “What are you doing right now? Would you like to see it?”

  “I’d be delighted.” Richard turned to Sunni and Isabel. “Would you like to accompany us?”

  “Of course,” Isabel answered, but Sunni shook her head. “I’ve got work to do here. Izzy, let’s meet at the Golden Dragon later. Say one thirty? ”

  The borderline between downtown and Chinatown was delineated by the Dragon Gate: three arches, two for pedestrians and one for cars, topped by jade-tiled roofs. Like almost anything in Chinatown, the observant eye was rewarded with views of small dragons and gilded fish tails on the roofs, which eluded those without an eye for detail. Sunni knew the animals were there, as she knew the underside of the roofs were hung with red paper lanterns, but she didn’t look up to see any of these things as she passed through.

  If Union Square was crowded, Chinatown was overflowing, packed to almost immovability with people and merchandise that spilled out of the shops and onto the sidewalks. Many of the stores sold tourist schlock, but mixed among them were the butchers, fishmongers, tea shops, apothecaries, variety stores, and bakeries that catered to the inhabitants of the district.

  Sunni worked her way through two blocks of teeming urban commerce to arrive at a green-tiled entryway guarded by a ceramic dragon. A sign on the building read GOLDEN DRAGON RESTAURANT, ESTABLISHED 1927. She opened the door into a cavernous banquet hall, brightly lit with numerous crystal chandeliers. The walls were covered with flocked red velvet wallpaper. Dozens of tables surrounded a burbling stone fountain. The patrons were a mix of tourists and local Asian families. A hostess in a floor-length red brocade cheongsam dress hurried up to her. She was pretty, with high cheekbones, shiny black hair pulled into a neat bun and red lipstick on her shapely mouth.

  “Sunni!”

  “Hi, Delia.” Sunni embraced her friend. “You’re busy today. ”

  Sunni had met Delia about five years earlier when she was looking for a restaurant to cater a reception for a young artist from Beijing. She sat down for a meal with Delia and her father, Sherman Wong, and felt as if she’d found some long lost relatives. Delia was about ten years older than Sunni, and Sherman was far, far older than that. They seemed unlikely companions for Sunni, but the bond they formed that day had lasted and deepened. It turned out they had many things in common, from Sherman’s love of post-Impressionist painting to Delia’s penchant for shoe shopping. She loved watching them together—their easy camaraderie, their competence at running the restaurant. Even when they fought, which was often, they quickly made up and never seemed to hold a grudge. Delia had a boyfriend, but he was an attorney whose work hours were almost as long as D
elia’s, so her primary relationships seemed to be with Sherman and the restaurant.

  “Oh, always busy on a Sunday,” Delia replied. “Just one, or are you meeting someone?”

  “Isabel’s coming in a minute.”

  “Okay. I’ll find you a good table.”

  “Let me see them,” Sunni said, pointing at her friend’s feet.

  Delia smiled and lifted her skirt.

  “Jimmy Choo. Nice,” Sunni nodded in approval at Delia’s gold gladiator sandals.

  Delia showed her to a table near the fountain. A dozen waiters and waitresses wove through the restaurant pushing portable steam tables stacked with bamboo steamers. At each table they whipped the lids off the steamers and offered various dim sum. The diners pointed to the ones they wanted, and their tables were soon filled with the delicious snack-sized morsels.

  “Daddy’s in the kitchen,” Delia said. “I’ll tell him you’re here.” She waved and went back to work.

  Isabel appeared, looking flushed, glassy-eyed, and happier than Sunni had seen her in years. Not that Isabel had seemed miserable in the past. She was just quiet and self-contained and didn’t express a great deal of emotion about anything. This suited Sunni, who had experienced enough drama in her early childhood to last a lifetime, but she realized now that perhaps it had been selfish of her to wish for nothing more for Isabel than tranquility.

  A waiter came by and Sunni ordered jasmine tea for both of them. Then they selected pork bao, shu mai, and several other dim sum from the carts. Within minutes their plates were piled high and they had to wave the waiters away.

  Isabel sipped her tea and then dabbed her lip. “Ouch, that’s hot.”

  “So, what did Dennis think of Richard Lazarus?” Sunni asked, ferrying a shrimp dumpling to her mouth with chopsticks.

  “He said he seemed like a savvy businessman.” Isabel added a little ice water to her teacup, splashing a bit on the tablecloth.

  “No, I mean what did he say about our going out to dinner with him?”

  “He said that was none of his business.”

  “Did he say that, or did you?”

  Isabel winked. “I’m not sure.”

  Sunni swirled her tea in the cup, wondering what the leaves in the bottom had to say about her fortune.

  “What was he thinking, asking us both out? Are we supposed to think this is romantic?” Isabel used a fork to spear a dumpling. Her hands were too shaky for chopsticks.

  “Maybe it’s like The Bachelor, and he’s going to give one of us a rose at the end of the dinner.”

  “I didn’t think you watched that show. You don’t have a romantic bone in your body.”

  “I don’t watch the show, I was just trying to make an analogy.”

  Isabel put down her fork, looking uncomfortable. “Listen, Sunni, you met him first, and I saw the way you were looking at him. I think you should go to dinner with him.”

  Sunni laughed. “I was going to say the same thing, Izzy. And I must say, I think you were looking at him a little more intensely than I was.”

  “Was not.”

  “Were too.”

  The glazed, happy expression returned as Isabel played absently with a strand of her blond hair. “But, he’s such an interesting man. He plays polo, has a co-op in New York, a town house in London, a country estate in Chichester, or was it Coventry?”

  “Okay, okay, he’s a catch. So what shall we do?” Sunni asked.

  Isabel smiled mischievously. “I think we should both go out to dinner tonight and see who gets the rose!”

  A man in a white cook’s jacket appeared at their table, a wide smile on his face. Sherman Wong was obviously old: his back was hunched and his long hair and beard were as white as Santa’s, but his face was remarkably unwrinkled. With his round face and button eyes he looked like a baby wearing a wig and false beard. Sherman had once casually mentioned being in the 1906 earthquake. Sunni knew he had to be joking or confused, but his actual age was a mystery even Delia couldn’t solve.

  She stood up and hugged him. Sherman was exactly the same height as Sunni, perhaps the only man she’d ever met who was. She heard him sniff loudly. He leaned back and peered at her, looking perplexed.

  “Where have you been, Sunni?” he asked.

  “At work, like usual,” she answered.

  “Did you meet someone?”

  Sunni caught Isabel’s eyes. Isabel raised her eyebrows. Sunni just shrugged.

  “I meet people all the time, Sherman.”

  Sherman stroked his long beard, narrowing his eyes at her. “No, I think maybe you’ve met someone special. You have that look.”

  “What look?” Sunni asked.

  “Flushed?” Isabel suggested, with a sly glance at Sunni. “Overheated?”

  “If I do it’s just because it’s hot in here.” Sunni crooked a finger into the collar of her blouse. “You should get air-conditioning, Sherman.”

  “This is San Francisco. We have natural air-conditioning, it’s called fog.” Sherman smiled, but he hadn’t stopped staring at Sunni. “So what’s his name?”

  Sunni waved a dismissive hand at the old man. “I told you I didn’t meet anyone.” She sat back down and redeployed her chopsticks.

  Sherman shook his finger at Sunni. “I’ve told you and Delia before, it’s better for you if you stay single.”

  “Why’s that, Sherman?” Isabel asked as Sunni shook her head in frustration.

  Delia sped by, leading a couple of diners to a table. Sunni could tell they were tourists from their outfits: shorts, cameras around the neck, and newly purchased fleece jackets emblazoned with the Golden Gate Bridge. Tourists came to San Francisco in June expecting the weather to be balmy. They were always sorely disappointed.

  Sherman watched Delia’s retreating back with a smile that was tinged with concern. “Because you’re career women, that’s why. It’s not possible for a woman to do both, that’s what I tell my daughter. You have to concentrate on the restaurant, I tell her, or it will fail. The same for your gallery, Sunni.” He turned to Isabel. “But you, my dear, you should get married. Did you like the man you two met this morning? ”

  “Hold on, hold on, time out!” Sunni stabbed the air in front of the old chef with her chopsticks. “So now Isabel can get married but I can’t?”

  “You don’t want to get married, Sunni,” Isabel said gently. “You always say that. ”

  She turned her chopsticks on her friend. “No, I don’t, but that’s not the point.”

  A waitress passed by, pushing a steam table. Sherman stopped her and pulled a bamboo basket off her cart. He deposited it on the women’s table, removing the lid with a flourish.

  “You like the food today? You must try the …” He said an unintelligible word in Chinese and pointed at the dish he’d chosen, a mass of something that resembled boiled cartilage. “We only have it on Sundays.”

  “You’re changing the subject, Sherman,” Sunni snapped.

  Sherman laughed as he backed away from their table. “I’ve lived with women for a very long time, Sunni. I know when to bow out.”

  Chapter 6

  Jacob watched a small boy, about five years of age, squeal with delight as he entered the revolving door at the entrance to the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. His indulgent parents stood by as he followed it around and around. After waiting for several revolutions Jacob finally stepped in with the boy. In a few seconds he was in the quiet, orchid-filled lobby, with its soaring ceiling and thick Oriental carpets. He sat down on one of the plush sofas. He was prepared to wait for as long as it took, but it was only half an hour before Richard Lazarus appeared. Of course he hadn’t changed at all since Jacob had seen him last. He was still just as handsome, just as dapper, every bit of him as sharp and hard as a diamond.

  Richard paused just as he reached the bottom of the stairs. His head lifted as if he was sniffing the air. Jacob knew he was aware of the presence of another vampire in the room. It took Richard another second to loc
ate Jacob and when he recognized him he visibly relaxed, strolling over with an insouciant smile. Jacob stood up before Richard reached him.

  “Why, Jacob Eddington, what a surprise to see you here.” Richard held out a hand, which Jacob ignored.

  “Leave now, Richard, and I’ll let you live.” He smiled just enough to show his fangs.

  Richard sat down, lifting the fabric of each trouser leg at the knee so that it wouldn’t wrinkle. He had always been fastidious. “How long has it been, Jacob? Twenty-three, twenty-four years? What have you been doing with your time?”

  “If you’re not gone by tomorrow morning it will go ill for you.” Jacob had said what he came to say and he started to walk away.

  Richard grabbed him by the wrist and stood up in a fluid motion. “You dare to threaten me?”

  Jacob pulled out of Richard’s grasp. The air sparked with the tension of their anger. The human occupants of the room intuitively sensed danger, and Jacob noted that several people were watching them with growing alarm. He forcibly calmed himself and let his fangs retract inside his gums. Nothing was going to happen, not in this place.

  Richard took a step back and straightened his already perfectly knotted tie. “Jacob, my friend, you didn’t think this out very carefully, did you?”

  Jacob said nothing. The other vampire was correct, but what was there to think out?

  “You’re looking very well, by the way,” Richard said, a devil’s grin plastered to his face.

  “Fuck you,” Jacob replied. He didn’t care for the vulgarity of modern language, but he had to admit that sometimes it was the only way to truly express one’s emotions.

  “We have fought before, and we are equally matched. You know this,” Richard said calmly. “If you choose to confront me one of us will die, probably you, since I’ll wager you haven’t been honing your skills in the last two decades as I have been.” Richard reached out and flicked an imaginary speck of dust from Jacob’s shoulder. “And when that happens, who will take care of Sunni?”

  Desperation seized Jacob’s body like an iron vise as he absorbed the import of Richard’s words. His fangs descended and his fists clenched. His entire body was seized with an overwhelming desire to kill Richard Lazarus.