The Restaurateur

by Aubrey Parker

  “Look,” Blake says. “Don’t worry about him. Or about the funding for the school. We’ll figure out a way to get it. Have you ever seen what it looks like when all your pet geniuses stare at the same problem, intent on finding a solution? It’s going to be like the X-Men and shit, like superpowers unleashed. You’ve got quite a group of friends, honey.”

  “I’m not worried about that.”

  “So why the hell are you so preoccupied by this thing with Mateo Saint?”

  “I’m not preoccupied.”

  “You can keep denying it and pretend that I’m stupid enough not to know when you’re lying to me, or you can save us both some time and tell me now. It’s not about the mountain; we both know Damon won’t sell if you’re not cool with it. It can’t be because he was rude to you, considering how feisty I’ve seen you get when people mess with you. Rude is nothing to you. You eat that shit for breakfast.”

  “It’s not that he was rude. It’s that he was so …” But I can’t articulate the feeling, so I utter a loud, frustrated groan.

  “What? Tell me.”

  “I can’t explain it.”

  “He said you were a monster.”

  “Well, not in those words. But yes.”

  “And that’s what’s bothering you? Okay, look. You’re stone cold. Like a killer. You’re a bratty little rich girl. That’s what I love about you. But you love your dad, and you volunteer with those autistic kids, and I swear your bitchy tirades and schemes have saved half the sheltered animals in this state. So some bag of dicks thinks it’s uncool that you snapped at a waitress. If that’s seriously what’s bothering you, call him up and tell him the size of the tip you went back and left her. But Liz, come on, that’s not what it is. You have two choices. You can either tell me why this guy is stuck in your head — for real this time — or you can let it go. But chop-chop. My time is valuable. I hate working with clients who ask for advice, and then get all stubborn about meeting me halfway.”

  “I’m not your client, Blake. I’m your friend.”

  “Would be, anyway, if you weren’t so damn spoiled.”

  I finally smile. It comes hard, but at least it’s honest. The truth is, Blake’s assessment is spot on. I’ve felt like shit ever since leaving the restaurant. Not yelled at, per se — more like beaten up.

  Something he said got to me in a way I’m not used to being gotten to. Or maybe it was something he did, or a way he looked at me, or something in the air. I wish I could pin it down, but I can’t.

  I keep re-experiencing that moment after he laid into me when we matched eyes, when my armor crumbled, and I was standing there naked.

  There was something unusual at that moment. Things seemed to turn upside down. I was a little dizzy. A lot gobsmacked. And whatever happened then, it’s stayed beneath my skin like a splinter since.

  I keep seeing his gaze. The way it bore into me like he could see everything.

  “Time’s up,” Blake says. “Tell me. Are you going to keep wasting my time whining, or are we going to get to work sending invites and booking this mastermind?”

  I close my eyes. Behind my eyelids, I see Mateo Saint hating me.

  I open them, and he’s gone.

  “I guess we can start planning.”

  “Good,” Blake says. “Whatever the hell is bothering you, it’s over.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MATEO

  “THIS ISN’T OVER,” I SAY.

  Taylor gives me a look that’s either pitying or patronizing.

  “Sure sounds over to me,” he says.

  “I want that mountain. You know as well as I do that everything is for sale at the right price.”

  “You sound so Machiavellian. Not everything is for sale, and you damn well know it. Or at least, not everything is for sale at a reasonable price of time and effort. Next time you’re out that way, do me a favor and turn in a circle. I hear there are a bunch of peaks out there. Not just the one you have your eye on.”

  “You don’t understand, Taylor. This one is perfect.”

  “It’s a mountain, Mateo. So fucking what? The way you talk, you’re looking to have some tough guy contest. That can happen anywhere.”

  “I want it to happen on a mountain.”

  “There are mountains everywhere,” Taylor says without a beat. “If they don’t want to sell you that one, you move on. Buy a different mountain.”

  I shake my head. I’ve already given Taylor all the reasons the other peaks aren’t right. He either doesn’t hear me, doesn’t agree, or simply doesn’t know enough about the terrain to care.

  Most of the other peaks don’t have mixed enough ground, or there’s too much distance between climbable faces and runnable paths. I don’t want contestants going from the peak to a secondary base camp at the top of an adjacent one; I want something where the only choice is going all the way to the ground. Something isolated enough from neighboring peaks to stand alone.

  But there’s more; I’m looking at rock composition, faults in the best climbing areas, and a dozen other geographic factors. Ideally, I want somewhere with pre-existing domiciles at the top. Damon’s peak has the lodge and a spray of sturdy cabins and luxury homes.

  I need land that isn’t owned, wholly or in part, by the state or a park system. I’ve found some that meet all of those criteria and might be safe, but those best spots are already staked out by mountain men and their families — dozens of privately-owned parcels smack in the middle of the peak I want to own in full. It’d take forever to negotiate the buyout of all those individuals. Damon’s mountain, by contrast, is perfect.

  “Look,” Taylor says as he watches my facial expression, “if you want the Syndicate’s approval …”

  “This isn’t about the Syndicate. There’s nothing there for them, and frankly, I don’t want people like Nathan and Caspian in my way. No offense, Taylor, but half the reason I want to buy a mountain in the middle of nowhere is to get the hell away from billionaires and business for a while.”

  Taylor raises a hand, nods under it. “No offense taken.”

  I shake my head. “It is as simple as I said. No matter how many questions you ask, there’s nothing more to learn. I respect your reputation as a problem-solver. Shit, that’s why I’m here. But there’s not much in the way of machinations. One guy owns the whole damn parcel. He’s willing to work with me. Damon isn’t the problem. It’s his cunt of a daughter, Elizabitch.”

  Taylor half laughs, half rolls his eyes. Puns are a waste of everyone’s time, and mine right now are particularly juvenile. I might as well have said she was icky, or a gigantic booger.

  “So, work on Elizabeth,” he says.

  “I did. I told you how that went.”

  “Work on her more. What do you want me to tell you, Mateo?”

  “I don’t know what else I can do. She’s a self-absorbed, airheaded asshole. No respect for others. Probably gave her father heart attacks as a teenager, running all over, going to clubs, I don’t know. I can’t relate to someone like that. I was studying restaurant systems then, buying my first shops before I knew what to do with them. It’s not like we can relate.”

  “Offer her more money?”

  “I don’t think it’s about money with her.”

  “Why does she want to keep the mountain so badly, then?”

  “Because she sucks?”

  “Joking isn’t going to solve your problem. You have no idea?”

  “She said it’s been in her family for generations. ‘My grandfather’s father,’ shit like that. I don’t get the impression that she needs the money. I think she wants it for spite.”

  “Speaking of spite, is there a chance you made it worse by meeting her?”

  I exhale before replying. Yes, I’ve thought of that. Elizabitch Frasier has been on my mind a lot since we met for lunch two days ago, and I swear I’ve replayed our public fight a hundred times.

  I keep remembering that one moment when we stared each other down. Something
happened in those seconds, and I’m not sure what. I saw her as someone new, and it seemed like she was seeing the same thing.

  “Maybe,” I say.

  “She doesn’t like you.”

  “I hope she dies in a fire, and I’m sure the feeling is mutual.”

  “So there’s no chance of …” Taylor shrugs.

  “Of what?”

  “You know.”

  “I don’t know. What are you talking about?”

  “If you can’t buy her off, I’m just thinking …” I get a frown and raised eyebrows.

  “No,” I say, seeing what he means. “Absolutely not.”

  “Because she hates you. Because she’d Bobbit your dick.”

  “And I hate her. Forget it. I’m not going to try and fuck her over to my side.”

  “You act like this is such a repugnant thing. Come on, Mateo. Sex is the oldest currency. Don’t act like you haven’t done it before. Shit, she’d do it to you.”

  I make a face.

  “You look disgusted.”

  “I am disgusted.”

  “Is she ugly?”

  “She’s … ugh. Just being around someone like that is enough to make you want to kill yourself.”

  Taylor’s stopped paying attention. He’s opened his laptop and is typing away. “F-r-a-z-i-e-r?”

  “With an S. Like the TV show.”

  He types.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  Then it’s like Taylor’s eyes explode inside his sockets. Both get very wide, and his neck retracts like a turtle’s.

  “What?” I ask again.

  “Elizabeth Frasier. With an S. Elizabeth with a Z.” He reads. And you said her dad is Damon.”

  “Right. So?”

  He turns the laptop around. “Is this her?”

  I flinch. There’s one shot in the images search where Elizabeth is staring right at the camera. I swear, it’s like she’s back here now, peering into my soul again.

  “You didn’t mention how hot she is.”

  “Because it’s irrelevant.”

  “Is it?” Taylor’s eyes widen again. “Hell. I have your solution.”

  “Those pictures don’t show what a bitch she is.”

  “Maybe I can talk to her for you. Maybe you need a hired gun on this one. Did you see these shots on the beach?”

  “I didn’t do this search, Taylor. I’m approaching this problem like a rational human being and not like a stalker.”

  “You need to see the beach shots.”

  “Taylor, I’m—”

  He turns the laptop again. I assume I’m about to get a full blast of bikini shots — perhaps on the deck of a yacht, sailing in the blue water near Ibiza, a drink with an umbrella in her hand. Instead, I see that what Taylor has found are topless shots, of Elizabeth with two other girls. They’re all artfully covering their breasts as they pose, but these aren’t paparazzi shots taken without her permission. They’re playful, college-girls-gone-a-tiny-bit-wild photos that she might have even shared herself. The beach looks deserted; I get a mental image of chicks in two-pieces deciding they were alone and might as well pretend to be naughty.

  But what strikes me more than Elizabeth’s clear lack of a top beneath her crossed arms is what I see above the neck.

  Her hair is windblown, tousled, not at all salon styled. It’s probably full of sand, tangled with knots. In all three shots, her dirty blonde mane is whipping around her in a halo.

  And on her face? In her eyes?

  A smile.

  I sit down, knowing I’m giving Taylor ammunition against me. It doesn’t matter. The smile transfixes me. It’s not that she’s beautiful, though she is. It’s that I watched those lips throughout our uncomfortable lunch, thinking how it looked like she was born biting a lemon, mechanically incapable of mirth.

  But this Elizabeth Frasier has delight in those cool emerald eyes. Her whole bearing is different. It’s hard to believe it’s the same woman.

  In this shot, like the other, she’s looking directly at the camera. But whereas the other picture made me want to flinch away, this one makes me want to lean in. Her face draws me closer. She’s younger here, maybe by just a few years. Five years at most. But she was different. A wholly altered person.

  What happened to Elizabeth between this magical moment and now?

  I take my time, studying the nuance of each photo. In all of them, she’s not just smiling — she’s laughing. This prank of theirs — this half-nude dalliance on a deserted stretch, showing no real skin — must have felt delightfully disobedient at the time. I picture the person with the camera chasing Elizabeth up and down the stretch of beach, trying to catch her more nude while she continued to screech at the sky.

  “And that body,” Taylor says. “Wow.”

  Taylor’s voice snaps me out of my trance. I look at him, then to where he’s pointing. It’s weird, but I only agree with him in this instant. I hadn’t looked down. I hadn’t noticed the curve of her waist, the length of her legs, or the delicate swell of breast pressed between body and elbow, visible from the side.

  But now that I’ve seen it, my imagination is beginning to play. I fall back through time to our meeting, mental editors superimposing Elizabeth’s laughing visage over her frowning one.

  I was close enough to touch her.

  And again, I see that moment. Where we locked eyes, and I saw the real person beneath. The one she didn’t want me to see. The one she’d hate me, today, for having glimpsed at all.

  “You there, man?”

  Taylor, snapping his fingers. Trying to be funny, but the snaps are necessary. It’s hard to find my way back. To see reality through this curious fog.

  What the hell am I feeling?

  “Of course.” I wave at the laptop. “Come on, man. Put it away.”

  “You don’t want to fuck her after seeing this?”

  I get an unwelcome vision.

  Skin.

  Heat.

  The woman I despise, her face transformed. Not into laughter, but ecstasy.

  Then it’s gone.

  “I told you. She can’t be moved. Not by persuasion, not by money, not by creative manipulation.”

  Taylor takes this in, for real this time. He looks down, taps his brushed aluminum MacBook, then exhales a few times as his eyes search nothing. This is his famous trance. I suspect there’s nothing mystical this time, for my simple problem, but other people swear Taylor can do voodoo under this trance. He’s like a supercomputer.

  “You’re right,” he says when his face turns back to me. “You’ll hit a dead end with her. She’ll deny on principle.”

  “It can’t be over,” I say. “I don’t want to lose the mountain.”

  “Don’t. Talk to her father.”

  “I’ve talked to him. Again and again and again.”

  Taylor nods. “I know. And you think you can’t convince him.” My mouth opens, but Taylor sticks a finger in the air to stop me before I say a word. “And by that I mean, you can’t convince him enough. You say he’s sold. He is. His daughter’s the problem for both of you. But he can’t tell her no. He also doesn’t want to disappoint her. Similar, but different.”

  “How so?”

  “There’s what Elizabeth wants, and what she thinks she wants. And on top of that, there’s what her father thinks she wants. Do some ballet and play one against the other.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Go back to Damon,” Taylor tells me. “But stop trying to convince him on his terms. Don’t offer more money. In fact, don’t talk money at all. Convince him that you’re the right buyer, and do it in ways he can’t refuse.”

  “I told him about my mission already.”

  “Yes. But now you need to talk to Elizabeth through Damon. Don’t say what Damon wants to hear; say what Elizabeth wants to hear. But don’t say it to her. Say it to her father.”

  “Why the hell would I do that?”

  “Damon wants to say ye
s. If you can convince him that your pitch is what Elizabeth wants — whether it’s actually what she wants or not — he’ll make the deal because you’ll be letting him off guilt-free. He’ll believe that he isn’t disappointing his daughter because your pitch is what she truly wants for the property.”

  It's original. I’ll give Taylor that.

  “You think that will work?”

  He shrugs. “It’ll at least give you a fighting chance — one more shot to prove yourself to both of them.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  MATEO

  BUT THERE’S NO GOING AROUND Elizabeth. I realize that soon after Taylor leaves my place and I pick up the phone to call Damon. The phone is in my hand, finger poised over the touchscreen, when I see the big flaw in our plans.

  I can try to convince Damon that what I’m doing is ultimately what Elizabeth wants even if she doesn’t know it, but at some point, she’ll be asked to ratify. I see where Taylor’s going, and this little realization doesn’t change the fact that it’s my best shot. He probably saw this coming but left out this wrinkle on purpose. Because it’s not a deal-breaker. It’s just extremely unpleasant.

  I call Damon anyway, after composing a few mental scripts. We go through our usual banter because by now we might as well be old friends, but Damon cuts to the chase. Elizabeth won’t sell. I don’t bother to point out that it’s not her choice because that’s something Damon knows. The man won’t upset his daughter, and there’s nothing I can do to change it.

  “Look,” I tell him. “I’ve crunched the numbers. You’ve told me a lot of what I need to know yourself, and the rest I guessed. Based on what I see here, even with conservative estimates, you’re barely staying afloat.”

  “We’ve talked about this,” he says.

  “Yes, but we haven’t really talked, have we? Forget about emotions, or what any of us want. The cold, hard facts, on paper, are that the resort loses money every year. Tell me if I’m wrong.”