by Nick Trout
Keep a clear head or loosen up?
“Maker’s Mark, up.”
While George fixes my drink they walk in, the Telluccis, arm in arm, headed toward a table for four. Strange, I think, four, not two. But the gods are on my side. Amy takes the chair with her back to me. That’s when I notice, tucked into the far left-hand corner of the room, another woman with her back to me, her hair carefully pinned up into a bun; the young man facing me leaning in, animated and vaguely familiar.
“There you go,” says George, sliding over a glass containing at least a double measure.
I nod, take a sip, and relish the burn in my throat as I spy Amy’s hand resting on his, giving it a squeeze before letting go.
“I’ll be in the kitchen. Let me know when your friends arrive and you need a table.”
“Actually, George,” I say, knocking back the entire drink like a shot, “I wonder if you could do me a favor.”
A minute later and Mr. Marco Tellucci is headed my way, the recipient of a mystery phone call at the bar. George has been kind enough to give us a moment alone.
The Italian brushes past me, picks up the hand piece, and says hello to a dead line as I get down from my stool.
“Mr. Tellucci, I wonder if I might have a word in private.”
He hangs up in slow motion, looks confused—no, it’s more than that, maybe wary or even afraid.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Cyrus Mills and I don’t want to disturb your evening, but I’d like to—”
“Cyrus,” he exclaims, clutching his chest like he’s relieved when I was hoping for a heart attack. Without hesitation he steps over, hugs me, and plants a kiss on both of my cheeks.
“Amy has told me a great many things about you,” he says with only a trace of an accent but more than enough to catch your ear, especially, I imagine, if you’re female.
I consider speaking too slowly, cranking up the volume, and overenunciating as I say, “Amy told me nothing about you.”
All I’ve got is a whispered, “Really?”
“But this is wonderful. Come, come, you must join us. I insist.”
At this point he begins strong-arming me toward his table, and I reckon I’ve got about twenty seconds in which to tear free of his grip and run. I didn’t bank on him shouting across the room, “Amy, look who I found.”
Suddenly a moment of uncomfortable camaraderie must look more like a citizen’s arrest and I freeze, the busted bad boy.
Amy spins around, gets out of her chair, and before I can soften the blow with a hasty compliment about how gorgeous she looks in a long-sleeved silky black dress, her eyes have dropped to the floor and she’s shaking her head.
“Just couldn’t let it go, could you,” she says.
Part of me wants to come back with “when something’s worth fighting for.” But remember, I’m standing next to her husband, so I say nothing and let my crimson cheeks do the talking.
“Sit,” says Tellucci, pulling back a chair for me opposite Amy, “let me pour you a glass of Prosecco.”
He reaches for a bottle in an ice bucket before I can refuse, filling my glass with a practiced, deliberate hand and topping up two more. Though this is a table for four, it’s set for three. Who else are they expecting?
“Here’s to Cyrus,” says Marco, “a man after my own heart.”
We chink glasses and sip in unison as Marco signals to a waiter for another bottle. What’s he up to? A man after my own heart? I have nothing in common with this man.
“You made poor George lie about a phone call,” says Amy, “just to get Marco alone?”
I nod, sheepish, guilty as charged.
Amy shakes her head again.
“Then be my guest. Pretend I’m not here. But don’t forget, I was the one who tried to keep you out of this.”
She makes this sound slightly threatening. Maybe I should be concerned about the Cosa Nostra after all.
Marco stares at me, apparently riveted by my curiosity.
“Okay… well… to be clear, you, Marco, are Amy’s…”
“Life partner” and “soul mate” flash through my mind, but Amy gets there first.
“Marco is my husband.”
Despite having seen the certificate with my own eyes, from her lips the phrase pierces me like a steel blade, shockingly cold and deep. I fumble for my glass and knock back a healthy swig of the fizzy wine, hoping to numb the pain as Amy turns to the Italian to add, “Tecnicamente parlando.”
Tellucci frowns but arches an eyebrow in agreement. What’s that about? I want to ask but he’s leaning into the table, eager for his next question.
“And… you’ve been… away… for quite some time.”
“Away?” Marco parrots, making me want to suggest, “Kabul? The International Space Station? Leavenworth prison?”
“Yes, I live in San Francisco. Pac Heights. You know it?”
“Just the movie; Melanie Griffith, Michael Keaton. But you’re not from California?”
“No, no. Monterosso al Mare. It’s a small town in the—”
“Cinque Terre,” I interject. “Never been, but I’ve read about it. Supposed to be very picturesque.”
“It is,” says Marco, visibly impressed. “You never said he was clever and worldly.”
Amy places her empty glass down on the table just as George appears with the next bottle, eager to provide us with refills. Mine is empty as well.
“Perhaps we could take some water, still,” says the Italian, “a little calamari and antipasto misto for three. Cyrus, you like anchovies, yes?”
Even though there was a question, clearly Marco never expected an answer. George pulls back the menus he was about to hand out and disappears to place the order.
I can feel the beginnings of a not-unpleasant buzz take hold. A sensible, less tipsy, but suitably humiliated Cyrus would swallow his pride and bolt, but this looser, slightly shocking version plows on, asking, “How’d you two meet?”
“In Burlington, at UVM,” says Marco. “But work took me out west. Advertising.”
Without asking, he tops off my glass.
“Would you prefer a pinot grigio with the appetizers?”
I think about Paul Giamatti in Sideways, and I’m tempted to order a merlot.
“I’m good,” I say, thinking I’d best maintain at least some of my inhibitions.
Either Marco must place the same order every night or George is clairvoyant, because the man in black appears out of my peripheral vision with a steaming plate of crispy rubber bands and an assortment of cold meats, cheeses, olives, and sparkly silver fish. He’s kind enough not to say “buon appetito” as he lays it on the table and backs off.
I unfurl my napkin and place it on my lap.
“Forgive me… but you live in different states and uh, neither of you wears a ring?”
This earns me the full force of her blue and brown lasers like I’ve said too much. I bow out by munching on a little salami and what I believe to be a sweet pickle. Naturally it turns out to be the hot variety and, in the absence of the water (still not delivered), I’m forced to consume a deep draught of bubbly mind-sapping fluid.
“You okay?” asks Marco, quick to refill my glass with more prosecco, just in case.
I nod and notice how my head moves, but my eyes and brain take a split second to catch up. I sense the languid blink, the smile threatening to contort my lips even though there’s nothing funny inside my head. Not drunk, but definitely woozy. I’m going to need to call a cab.
Liberated by my lowered inhibitions, I finally feel myself beginning to man up. After all, I’m the one who’s been duped. Amy’s the one with the explaining to do. Time to ask the kind of questions I will later regret. They have begun to stack up in the back of my throat when Amy drops her napkin on the table, jumps up, and rushes to greet someone over my shoulder.
“Charles,” she exclaims.
I turn in my seat to see a tall, lean man in a black leather jac
ket and white cashmere scarf. Like the guy in the corner with Ms. Bun-Head (who appears to be hiding behind a menu) I’ve seen this man before, but it’s not coming to me. Damn those bubbles!
More cheek kissing (I wish she’d stop pretending to be so European) and Amy, taking Charles by the arm, guides him to our table.
Marco remains seated, a serious look on his face. Is he jealous?
I put down my napkin and get to my feet as Charles comes over. Amy makes the introduction.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, gesturing to the seat next to me, “perhaps George can set another place at the table.”
“Thank you,” says Charles, “but we’re not staying long.”
I’m not sure whom he means by “we.”
“Kevin says you’re good to go.” He’s addressing Marco. “He says it’s going to cost you, him working a Sunday, but everything is in order. We should be able to sign the paperwork at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. George has let me use his office. It’s being faxed over right now.”
Marco and Amy look at one another, scream in unison, and hug. I’m totally confused.
The Italian, suddenly all teary eyed, turns to Charles. “I can’t believe it’s finally happening.”
“Well, it won’t if we don’t get your John Hancock on these documents.”
Marco knocks back his glass and stands. “This may take a while,” he says.
“We can wait,” I say.
“No, please, order your dinner. We want to get this done. Right, Charles?”
“Absolutely. Don’t make me stay in this Podunk town any longer than necessary.”
And in his flash of anger I recognize Charles. The man fighting with Marco in the Humvee parked at the gas station.
I stand again (this evening is more like a game of musical chairs), shake Charles’s hand, and watch as Amy squeezes her husband in a tight embrace. No kiss, but she places her lips by his ears and whispers something out of earshot. Whatever she says, it causes Marco to burst into laughter. Am I about to get stuck with the bill? How much does this Prosecco cost?
Amy and I watch them go, letting the sensation that we are alone settle in before returning to our seats, our plates strewn with the flotsam of nibbled appetizers.
“Very nice man,” I say.
“He is. He’s wonderful.”
George magically appears, though without glasses of water.
“Can I take your plates?”
Amy nods.
“And how about a menu for dinner?”
Amy looks at me as though she wonders if I might run out on her. Finally I have her alone in a quiet, intimate setting.
“Please,” I say, “and a wine list.”
I’m definitely going to need a cab.
George hands out his large leather binders. It’s standard Italian fare, with a generous smattering of the usual phrases—shaved, glazed, infused, seared. Seems as though Chef needs to unload an awful lot of truffle oil. Amy’s quick to blurt out “chicken piccata” as though she already knew what she wanted. Her haste is infectious, baiting me to say, “I’ll have the same,” but in keeping with my alcohol-induced theme of “dare to be different,” I order a bottle of Vermentino and opt for a shrimp fettuccini, the choice causing Amy to flash me a questioning glance. What could be wrong with Sunday seafood hundreds of miles from the nearest coastline?
“What did you think?” she asks as soon as we are alone. “About Marco?”
Where to begin?
“Um… well… you’re a lucky woman.”
She hesitates, the wrinkle in her nose signaling her annoyance.
“Come on. I can practically see the wheels turning inside that brain of yours. Don’t stop now. You’ve got to be curious.”
“Oh, I’m curious. But I’m also…”
“What?”
“Sad. Yes, sad. Sad that we met each other when we did. Sad that my timing was off.”
Her wrinkle vanishes, replaced by an earnest cant of her head.
“So when were you going to tell me?” I ask.
“I could ask you the same question,” she replies without missing a beat.
My turn with a “you’ve lost me” crinkled brow just as Ms. Bun-Head stands up, tosses a glass of ice water in the face of her fellow diner, leaves her table, and heads my way.
“Oh my God…”
This inner monologue gets away from me as none other than Mrs. Crystal Haggerty, wife of Ken Haggerty, headmaster of Eden Falls Academy, dressed to display her ample cleavage and thighs, totters past on ridiculously high heels. She appears to wipe a tear from her eye as she hurries out of the restaurant. I look back to the young man at her table, wiping a napkin down his face, watching her go and realize where I’ve seen him before—he was the owner of a Lab puppy from our free clinic last weekend.
“You’d think she’d have a little decorum,” I whisper, once Crystal is out of earshot.
“Because she’s married?” says Amy, and then, hand on chest, hamming up her best Scarlett O’Hara accent, “Unlike certain ladies, I have a reputation to uphold.”
I don’t want to laugh, but I can’t help myself, as the Lab owner asks for the check, drops a wad of cash, and leaves with his tail between his legs.
“Looks like someone made an improper advance.”
Amy rolls her eyes.
“You have a lot to learn about women. Crystal has been hiding since we walked in. She knew she was busted. I guarantee that was all show to save face. No doubt she’s headed to meet him right now back at the room she’s already paid for.”
I ease back in my seat and sigh.
“You got all that just from, what, female intuition and body language?”
“You bet,” she says. “Oh, and that shocked expression earlier, when I said ‘husband’—it might have won over your high school drama teacher, but not me. When were you going to tell me about computer boy?”
“You spoke to Gabe?”
“Of course not. But Charlie Brown did. I stuck around after you left the K of C yesterday. Thanked Doc Honey for her informative lecture and took her daughter out for a sundae. Hey, you want facts, you’ve got to play to people’s weaknesses. You’ll be pleased to know she’s switched to low-fat, apparently she wants to squeeze into a bikini.”
Hands clasped together (to stop them twitching), elbows on the table, I say, “Okay, it was wrong, but if you were me, wouldn’t you have tried to find out who he was?”
“Yes,” says Amy without hesitation.
“And would you have told me?”
“Course not.”
I take a deep breath and reach for another drink. Here’s the fork in the road, the turning point, old life or new? These past few days I’ve given up the first canine love of my life (yes, I admit it—love), cured a certifiable collie, and saved an Eden Falls institution. Put this way, it sounds like the stuff of Clark Kent. In fact all I’ve done is my job, my new job, a job whose best reward is the chance to give people and animals second chances. If this is my second chance, my only hope is that she’ll cut me off before things get too awkward.
“Well… maybe this is easier knowing that you’re a happily married woman. Being unattainable makes me realize how foolish I’ve been.” My laugh is pure innocence. “I mean, I really thought there was something… I don’t know… like when I was around you, something clicked inside me. Oh, not warm or fuzzy, no, it was more physiological, the way you switched on my sympathetic nervous system—increased heart rate, dilated pupils, dry mouth—totally beyond my control. I’m embarrassed to say you created these changes in me like no other woman I have ever met, and, not knowing you were spoken for, I enjoyed the way they made me feel. If that’s the mark of someone who…” I catch myself just in time to avoid the next word—fell. “If trying to discover your mystery man came across as jealousy, then I’m sorry. But the truth is, I was… am… well… jealous.”
Without saying a word we take a moment, staring at one another, before Amy pours me
another drink. I take it, thinking, why not crawl into a drunken stupor and blame an alcoholic haze? Strange the way our silence is comfortable, easy, like with Stash when we had no expectations of each other, simply happy to share space and time.
Amy puts her lips to the glass, takes a sip, and says, “Charlie Brown thought as much. I mean, her mom’s a great catch, especially for you, but the daughter sensed you were smitten—”
“Smitten. That’s exactly the right word.”
Just then, George appears with our meals and our new bottle of wine. My request for water sparks another bout of humble apologies and a promise that it will be right over. Despite the foreboding, the food is good, and thankfully, George has sufficient confidence in his chef that he knows better than to circle back and discover if everything is to our satisfaction.
“So I guess this will be our first and last supper,” I say, spearing a shrimp.
Amy dabs the corners of her lips with her napkin and puts down her knife and fork.
“Okay, my turn. This was not how I planned to tell you about Marco. He is my husband, but I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”
My fork fumbles with a spool of fettuccine.
“Yes, we met when I was an undergrad at UVM, but what Marco didn’t say was that he was a foreign exchange student over for a year abroad. During that year we became good friends, and ultimately he fell in love.”
“Yes, I already got that, and it was incredibly uncomfortable the first—”
“Shut up, Cyrus.”
This time I take a decent swig.
“He didn’t fall in love with me. He fell in love with someone else.”
“O-kay.” I split the syllables, having no idea where this is going.
“They wanted to be together, and, for that reason, he wanted to stay in the country.”
“Hold on. Where do you come into this?”
“Because the person he wanted to be with was another man.”
“Um… so… Marco isn’t—”
“He’s gay. Always has been. We were best friends at college. I wanted to help him out, and he needed a green card to stay in the country. It’s what friends do. Or so I thought at the time. I wasn’t tied to another man, and Marco needed my help.”
“Wait, so married in name only?”
