by L. A. Rose
“Miss Montgomery, this is my son, Claude,” says LeCrue reproachfully. “And his wife, Annabelle. Please do sit down.”
Stiffly, Cohen pulls out a chair for me next to Annabelle. I take my seat. Annabelle leans over, winks, and whispers, “Once they’re drunk, we’ll have a chance for some girl talk.”
All I can do for a moment is stare at her. She’s a real Georgette Montgomery. It’s like she’s full of light, and it leaks out wherever it can—through her eyes, her smile, the pearly polish on her fingernails, the silvery trim on her dress. Her rich dark hair is twisted up in a knot at the back of her head, held with a butterfly pin. Her eyes speak of secrets and promise. She’s never crept out of a stranger’s bedroom at three in the morning, hidden her bruises with makeup and sideswept bangs…I blink and remember to smile shyly.
She looks up at Cohen and nods in greeting. I don’t miss the way her eyes linger. Interesting.
“I’ve already ordered appetizers and drinks. I think you’ll find the vintage Domaine Pinot Noir here to be to your satisfaction indeed.” LeCrue smiles. Cohen still hasn’t said anything. It’s strange. Is he nervous? But judging by the way he spoke to that waiter, I guess, it’s definitely possible that silence is the closest he can come to being polite.
“Is it the 1984?” I inquire. Fancy wine people make more wine every year. Pull one out of a hat and you’ll sound like an expert.
“You’ve picked a young lady who knows her drink, Cohen! A girl after my own heart.” LeCrue chuckles like a department store Santa. “The 1979, in fact. But I think you’ll appreciate the notes of dark cherry.”
Annabelle is still grinning at me like we’re sharing our most private thoughts. What kind of face would she make if she knew what was really going on?
“How did you two even meet?” Claude demands. A fleck of spit flies from his upper lip and lands on the tablecloth.
“Oh, you don’t want to hear that silly story,” I laugh lightly.
“Trust me when I say that I do. It must have been a seriously miraculous circumstance for you not to have immediately run the other way!” He elbows Cohen, whose face goes from stony to Ice Age. Claude is one more bro-touch away from getting his lights punched out.
LeCrue is staring at me expectantly. So is Annabelle. I’m going to need to invent something even Nicholas Sparks couldn’t come up with to convince them that any sane girl would want to marry Cohen Ashworth.
But if there’s anything I’m good at, it’s making things up.
“I was running late the night we met,” I begin, sprinkling my words with demure sideways glances at Cohen. “I’m from America, you see, and I moved to Paris to take care of my ailing mother, who…” I sniff. No harm in adding an emotional element. “The doctor said that night could be her last.”
Annabelle rubs my hand. I soldier on. “I was in a rush to get to the hospital and say goodbye to her in time. We both called for the same cab. Cohen looked like the kind of important man who would keep a cab for himself, but he glanced at me and, without a word, let me have it.”
The most important thing when telling a story is to have consistent characters. If I fed them some soup about Cohen doing something incredible, they wouldn’t believe it for a second. Small things, that’s the key.
“I couldn’t get him out of my mind after that. He was so very…handsome.” That last part’s true, at least. Somewhere in Paris there’s a gay guy having dinner and daydreaming about his sexy rich boyfriend. “I never expected to see him again. But I did, three days after dear Mama Montgomery passed on. It was pouring rain and I had no umbrella. Suddenly this man walks out of the shop next to me, hands me his umbrella without a word, and walks off again, getting soaking wet.”
All three of them are leaning forward now, fascinated. Cohen is pretending not to listen, but I can tell he’s impressed.
“I wanted to return his umbrella, so…”
I weave them a tale of investigation and success, of small kindnesses, of learning to see the man behind the mask. It’s all crap, of course. The mask is always the man. If you go hunting for humanity under a garden of razors, you’ll cut yourself to shreds. But they love it. People always love that type of story. At the end, I kick Cohen under the table and he grudgingly covers my hand with his.
“Incredible.” There are actually tears in LeCrue’s eyes. “I am so delighted for you, Cohen. Truly. I always knew you would find happiness, despite everything…I always told your father that the choices a man makes in his youth do not define him.”
“So you’re really engaged, then.” Claude stares at me and shakes his head. “When I heard the rumor, I kept asking Annabelle if it was April Fools. Didn’t I?”
“You did,” says Annabelle with the tolerant amusement of a woman used to the idiocy of her husband.
“I look forward to spending more time with you, Georgette—may I call you that? I’ll need to get to know you if I’m going to be selling my company to your future husband.”
Silence falls over the table, as hard as the clang of a bell. Just as it does, the waiter returns, passing out glasses of wine as red as Annabelle’s earrings and plates of food I’ve never seen before. Tiny, rubbery-looking black-brown things swimming in garlic and butter. Delicate rings of squid in a sauce as black as ink. Slices of fresh mozzarella and tomato with artful splashes of balsamic vinegar. My mouth fills with enough saliva to keep Niagara Falls running for a week.
Nobody touches the food. Cohen’s expression is tense, like there’s something he’s not daring to let himself believe. “Do you mean that?” he says quietly.
Another long moment where nobody touches the food. I clear my throat. “Anyone mind if I…”
“Father.” Claude’s dopey boyish face suddenly has a lot more edges. “You know I dislike it when you joke like that.”
I extend a hand gingerly toward the squid before catching sight of Annabelle. Her face is sour and twisted, miles from the elegant, sisterly lady she was a minute ago. Suddenly I’m not hungry.
Nah, that’s a lie. I’m still hungry.
“This isn’t an offer,” LeCrue clarifies. There’s something clear-eyed and capable behind all the old-man harmlessness. “I’ll need to be sure, Cohen. You know I’ve always thought of you as one of my own. But you can’t deny you’ve been down dark paths before. This is a promising sign that you’re getting your life on the right track.”
“I’m already on the right track.” There’s hunger in Cohen’s eyes, but not for the food. “There’s no point in waiting.”
“While I do think you’re more than your choices, one can’t discount the fact that you were the one who made them. I need time. Time to make sure this young woman has changed you in the ways I hope she has.”
The young woman in question is currently groping surreptitiously for the plate of squid.
There’s a crash. Cohen has slammed his fist down on the table. I yank my hand back.
“Don’t play games with me,” he says darkly. “I’m the best man for this. You know I am.”
“That’s debatable,” Claude mutters.
LeCrue sighs, his wine untouched. For whatever reason, he’s trying to take a chance on Cohen…and Cohen’s disappointing him.
“I look forward to getting to know you better,” I say firmly. “I hope that we won’t let you down.”
Cohen is silent. LeCrue glances between the two of us. Apparently he’s willing to pretend that my response is from Cohen as well, because he nods, his face relaxing.
It’s the most socially awkward meal I’ve had since my cafeteria clique in middle school decided to stop speaking to me after I supposedly hit on Sally Beckham’s boyfriend. Annabelle’s good-natured friendliness has evaporated, along with Claude’s determined attempts to be Cohen’s best pal. They both sit silently, glaring at the two of us like we raided their fridge and stole all their favorite foods. LeCrue, who seems to be a man of few words as a rule, calmly sips his wine and asks me polite questions about my f
amily. I feed him lie after lie and feed myself delicious bite after bite of filet mignon, taking advantage of everyone’s distracted expressions to order two entrees and a side dish of mussels.
Cohen’s face is dark. Something about tonight has ticked him the wrong way. A table over, a little girl peers at him and asks her mom something in French. Probably along the lines of Mommy, is that man a serial killer?
At least I get the chance to make friends with LeCrue. By the end of the night he’s complimented me so many times that I get the feeling he’s trying to make a point to Cohen about how lucky he is. Either way, I’m not complaining.
“Would anyone like me to bring them anything else?” the poor waiter asks.
“The check will be fine, thank you,” says LeCrue.
“Are you sure? We have a delicious crème brule—”
“He said he wanted the check. Are you deaf or just an idiot?” snaps Cohen.
Anger lashes at the back of my neck. Enough is enough. “Don’t speak to other people like that,” I flare at him. “Apologize. Now.”
The shock around the table is palpable. People probably don’t often tell Cohen to play nice. Maybe that’s why he never does. There’s a few seconds in which my anger melts away, leaving room for the sane part of me to berate myself for losing my temper, again, to this man who I’m at the mercy of…but then he turns to the waiter.
“My apologies,” he says shortly.
You could land a commercial jet in Claude’s open mouth.
It seems a good enough note to end on as any. “I’ve had a lovely night,” I announce, standing and dropping my napkin on the table. “Thank you so much. I hope to see you all again as soon as possible.”
“I share that wish.” LeCrue kisses my hand. “Miracles don’t come along every day.”
Cohen says nothing, all the way outside into the freezing night. The car’s already waiting for us at the curb.
The doors close after us and we’re shut in again into our tiny room. Cohen lets out a breath, closes his eyes, and massages his forehead with his fingertips.
“I’m good, right?” I bounce in my seat, chipper from the wine. “If I run into LeCrue after this month is over, he’ll probably propose to me. That’d be an interesting how-we-met story, wouldn’t it?”
“He’s three times your age,” Cohen growls.
“Oh, that’s nothing. Once I had a client who was so old, the address he gave me was in a nursing home.”
That usually gets a laugh from the girls back home, but Cohen just closes his eyes briefly again.
“Right. That probably grossed you out. Sorry,” I say lightly.
“The idea disgusts me.”
“I’m a pretty disgusting girl.”
“No.” His tone is sharp. “You’re not the disgusting one.”
I’m the one who took the money afterwards, but I don’t say that. Instead I say, “So that old man and his dweeby son are the reason your dad hired me, huh? Seems like a real nice family-values kind of guy. Don’t like his son, though. I was waiting for him to chuck his wine glass at your head the whole night.”
“Could you quiet your yammering for a moment, please? I need to think.”
“Nope,” I say immediately. “You said you wanted me to be myself around you. Well, this is myself. I yammer more than a farmer who grows yams. So get used to it.”
Faint surprise—and, could it be, amusement?—flickers in his eyes. “Fair enough,” he says, with almost no vitriol. “Claude is an absolute moron. The company would burn in his hands. LeCrue knows it. He wants to sell it to me before he dies and has to leave it to Claude.”
“And Claude’s not too happy about that,” I surmise.
“I don’t understand why LeCrue is wasting time.” Cohen’s hand closes in his lap. “I could have his company off the ground in an instant. I’m intelligent. Innovative. I’m—”
“A jerk,” I finish.
He stares at me coldly. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, sorry. You’re right. Excuse me.” I nod. “I meant to say a complete, utter, unapologetic rude jerk.”
“You’re very opinionated for someone who’s being paid six figures.”
“Your dad’s paying me, not you,” I correct. “Besides, you kind of seem like someone who could use a legitimate opinion.”
I’ve figured out what Cohen’s problem is. People are, understandably, scared of him. I’m betting people have been scared of him for a long time. And when someone is rich and powerful and also terrifying, you don’t tend to tell them they’re being a giant ass blister. And when nobody tells you you’re being a giant ass blister, you tend to go on being one until someone does.
“I’m done with this conversation.” He turns toward the window.
“But I’m not.” I wedge in close to him and stick my head in his way, so that it’s more uncomfortable for him to ignore me than not. This also has the unwelcome side effect of setting off a million tiny sexy-man-in-very-close-proximity alarm bells all over my body, but I ignore them.
“You say you don’t know why Mr. LeCrue is waiting. You act like he’s insulting you. But you know what I think? I think he doesn’t want to sell his company to a huge jerk. He’s a nice guy. He’s giving you a chance to change.” The same chance I’m going to get when this month is over. “And you’re wasting it.”
“So you want me to change.” His jaw is taut.
“You need to change, or you’re not going to get what you want.” He needs to hear it. “And you’re going to be miserable your whole life—”
“I don’t know how to change!” he says loudly.
I stop, half-expecting the divider separating us from the driver to roll down, but it doesn’t. We’re still alone in the backseat. I should be afraid, I should be recoiling the way I do whenever a man raises his voice to me. But when I reach for the fear, I don’t find it.
He doesn’t scare me.
“I know what I am. What I’m like.” His voice cracks, just slightly, but he masters it. “If I could be different, I would. Do you understand that? I’m not like you. I can’t slip on someone else’s persona like changing my clothes.”
A needle of pity wedges in my heart. I’m very familiar with that shadow in his voice, because it’s been in my heart for years. Self-loathing. At least I can escape myself by being other people. He doesn’t even have that luxury.
Stop it, Rae. Don’t you dare feel sorry for him. He has everything you’ve ever wanted, remember?
“That’s bullshit,” I say bluntly. “You can change. Anyone can change. No matter how long they’ve been…bad. No matter what their past is like.”
I have to believe that.
“Show me.”
“What?”
He turns his full gaze directly on me, and I lose myself for a brief second in those ice eyes. “Show me how to be someone else. You do it so easily. You’re getting paid enough, I might as well get some use out of you.”
“You mean like…give you niceness lessons?”
He grimaces. “I’d rather we didn’t call it that.”
“Well…” I hesitate.
“Please,” he says emotionlessly. And if I had to bet on it, I’d say it was damn near the first time that word had passed through those perfect lips.
“You’ll have to do what I say. That’s probably not something you’re used to.”
“Fine.”
“And that won’t be enough. You have to really hate your old self, want to change more than anything else in the world—”
“I want it,” he says. I can’t argue with the fire in the way he says it.
“Okay. It’s a deal.” I stick out my hand. After a second, he shakes it. Warm skin. Human skin. He’s a real person, after all. Not a monster. Not a block of ice.
“When I’m done with you, Mother Theresa’ll be jealous,” I announce. “Your boyfriend’ll thank me.”
He blinks slowly. “My what?”
Uh-oh.
“I won’t tel
l anyone, I promise. I just kind of accidentally figured it out. But I’d never judge you for it, I’m not that type of person—” I say in a rush.
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Ah. Well, your hookups, then. Whatever your style is.”
I never expected to see utter shock on that face. “You…think I’m gay?”
Horror dawns. “You’re…not?”
And then he laughs. He breaks wide open and laughs, laughs, laughs. It comes straight from the core of him, it’s honey and warmth and deep sweetness and I could sink into it like the world’s most comfortable bed, wrap myself up in it like a quilt.
I love the sound of his laugh.
When he finally finishes, there are tears in the corners of his eyes. He catches his breath gasp by gasp. “No, I’m definitely not gay…why are you staring at me?”
“I just realized you really are human, that’s all.”
He wipes his eyes. “What did you think I was? Besides gay?”
“A robot, maybe. Or a vampire. Or a vampire robot from space.”
“I am unfortunately one hundred percent human.”
“Why unfortunately?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Do I really have to answer that?”
No. No, he doesn’t. Being human kind of sucks. I know that better than anyone.
And, as the car moves on, I’m struck by one question—
If he’s not gay, what the hell was Baldy getting so worked up about?
~5~
RG: So I have a question.
Sam: Ode to joy.
RG: If someone were to teach you how to be a nice person, how would you want them to go about it?
Sam: Is this about that guy again?
RG: Maaaaybe.
Sam: One wrong number text and suddenly I’m your personal authority on some guy I’ve never met.
RG: You probably know him as well as anyone else does.
Sam: I reiterate. Never met him.
RG: Exactly.
