by Susan Wiggs
“Butch has already been at you?”
“What do you two do, lie awake at night discussing my love life?”
“No, sweetie. Your lack of one.”
“Give me a break, okay?” She spoke through a smile as a party of four left the restaurant. She and Vince had perfected the art of bickering while appearing utterly congenial.
“Please come again,” Vince said, his expression so warm that the two women did a double-take. Glancing down at the computer screen discreetly set beneath the surface of the podium, he checked the status of their tab. “Three bottles of Antinori.”
Rosa gave a blissful sigh. “Sometimes I love this job.”
“You always love this job. Too much, if you ask me.”
“You’re not my analyst, Vince.”
“Ringrazi il cielo,” he muttered. “You couldn’t pay me enough.”
“Hey.”
“Kidding,” he assured her. “Good night, folks,” he said to a departing threesome. “Thanks so much for coming.”
Rosa surveyed her domain with a powerful but weary pride. Celesta’s-by-the-Sea was the place people came to fall in love. It was also Rosa’s own emotional landscape; it structured her days and weeks and years. She had poured all her energy into the restaurant, creating a place where people marked the most important events of their lives—engagements, graduations, bar mitzvahs, anniversaries, promotions. They came to escape the rush and rigors of everyday life, never knowing that each subtle detail of the place, from the custom alabaster lampshades to the imported chenille chair covers, had been contrived to create an air of luxury and comfort, just for them.
Rosa knew such attention to detail, along with Butch’s incomparable cuisine, had elevated her restaurant to one of the best in the county, perhaps in the entire state. The focal point of the place was a hammered steel bar, its edges fluted like waves. The bar, which she’d commissioned from a local artisan, was backed by a sheet of blue glass lit from below. At its center was a nautilus seashell, the light flickering over and through the whorls and chambers. People seemed drawn to its mysterious iridescence, and often asked where it came from, and if it was real. Rosa knew the answer, but she never told.
She checked the time on the screen without being obvious. None of the servers wore watches and there was no clock in sight. People relaxing here shouldn’t notice the passing of time. But the small computer screen indicated 10:00 p.m. She didn’t expect too much more business, except perhaps in the bar.
She could tell, with a sweep of her gaze, that tonight’s till would be sky-high. “I’m so glad summer’s here,” she said to Vince.
“You know, for normal people, summer means vacation time. For us, it means our lives belong to Celesta’s.”
“This is normal.” Hard work had never bothered Rosa. Outside the restaurant there was not much to her life, and she had convinced herself that she liked it that way. She had Pop, of course, who at sixty-five was as independent as ever, accusing her of fussing over him. Her brother Robert was in the navy, currently stationed with his family overseas. Her other brother, Sal, was also in the navy, a Catholic priest serving as chaplain. Her father and brothers, nieces and nephews, were her family.
But Celesta’s was her life.
She stole a glance at Jason and Linda, and fancied she could actually see stars in their eyes. Sometimes, when Rosa looked at the happy couples holding hands across the tables in her restaurant, she felt a bittersweet ache. And then she always pretended, even to herself, that it didn’t matter.
“I give you two months off every year,” she pointed out to Vince.
“Yeah, January and February.”
“Best time of year in Miami,” she reminded him. “Or are you and Butch ready to give up your condo there?”
“All right, all right. I get your point. I wouldn’t have it any other—”
The sound of car doors slamming interrupted them. Rosa sent another discreet look at the slanted computer screen under the podium. Ten-fifteen.
She stepped back while Vince put on his trademark smile. “So much for making an early night of it.” The comment slipped between his teeth, while his expression indicated he’d been waiting all his life for the next group of patrons.
Rosa recognized them instantly. Not by name, of course. The summer crowds at the shore were too huge for that. No, she recognized them because they were a “type.” Summer people. The women exuded patrician poise and beauty. The tallest one wore her perfectly straight golden-blond hair caught, seemingly without artifice, in a thin band. Her couture clothes—a slim black skirt, silk blouse and narrow kid leather flats—had a subtle elegance. Her two friends were stylish clones of her, with uniformly sleek hair, pale makeup, sleeves artfully rolled back just so. They pulled off the look as only those to the manor born could.
Rosa and Vince had grown up sharing their summers with people like this. To the seasonal visitors, the locals existed for the sole purpose of serving those who belonged to the venerable old houses along the pristine, unspoiled shore just as their forebears had done a century before. They were the ones whose charity galas were covered by Town & Country magazine, whose weddings were announced in the New York Times. They were the ones who never thought about what life was like for the maid who changed their sheets, the fisherman who brought in the day’s catch, the cleaners who ironed their Sea Isle cotton shirts.
Vince nudged her behind the podium. “Yachty. They practically scream Bailey’s Beach.”
Rosa had to admit, the women would not look out of place at the exclusive private beach at the end of Newport’s cliff walk. “Be nice,” she cautioned him.
“I was born nice.”
The door opened and three men joined the women. Rosa offered the usual smile of greeting. Then her heart skipped a beat as her gaze fell upon a tall, sandy-haired man. No, it couldn’t be, she told herself. She hoped—prayed—it was a trick of the light. But it wasn’t, and her expression froze as recognition chilled her to the bone.
Big deal, she thought, trying not to hyperventilate. She was bound to run into him sooner or later.
“Uh-oh,” Vince muttered, assuming a stance that was now more protective than welcoming. “Here come the Montagues.”
Rosa struggled against panic, but she was losing the battle. You’re a grown woman, she reminded herself. You’re totally in control.
That was a lie. In the blink of an eye, she was eighteen again, aching and desperate over the boy who’d broken her heart.
“I’ll tell them we’re closed,” Vince said.
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Rosa hissed at him.
“I’ll beat the crap out of him.”
“You’ll offer them a table, and make it a good one.” Straightening her shoulders, Rosa looked across the room and locked eyes with a man she hadn’t seen in ten years, a man she hoped she would never see again.
two
“You asked for it.” As though flipping a switch, Vince turned on the charm, stepping forward to greet the latest arrivals. “Welcome to Celesta’s,” he said. “Do you have a reservation?”
“No, we just want to drink,” said one of the men, and the women snickered at his devastating wit.
“Of course,” said Vince, stepping back to gesture them toward the bar. “Please seat yourself.”
The men and their dates headed to the bar. Rosa thought about the nautilus shell, displayed like a museum artifact. Would he recognize it? Did she care?
Just when she thought she’d survived the moment, she realized one man held back from the group. He was just standing there, watching her intently, with a look that made her shiver.
Her task, of course, was simple. She had to pretend he had no effect on her. This was easier said than done, though, because she had trouble keeping her feelings in. Long ago, she’d resigned h
erself to the fact that she was a walking cliché—a curly-haired, big-breasted, emotional Italian American.
However, cool disregard was the only message she wanted to send at the moment. She knew with painful certainty that the opposite of love was not hate, but indifference.
“Hello, Alex,” she said.
“Rosa.” He lifted the corner of his mouth in a half smile.
He’d been drinking. She wasn’t sure how she knew. But her practiced eye took in the tousled sandy hair, the boyish face now etched with character, the sea-blue eyes settling a gaze on her that, even now, made her shiver. He looked fashionably rumpled in an Oxford shirt, chinos and Top-Siders.
She couldn’t bear to see him again. And oh, she hated that about herself. She wasn’t supposed to be this way. She was supposed to be the indomitable Rosa Capoletti, named last year’s Restaurateur of the Year by Condé Nast. Self-made Rosa Capoletti, the woman who had it all—a successful business, wonderful friends, a loving family. She was strong and independent, liked and admired. Influential, even. She headed the merchants’ committee for the Winslow Chamber of Commerce.
But Rosa had a secret, a terrible secret she prayed no one would discover. She had never gotten over Alexander Montgomery.
“‘Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, he walks into mine,’” she said. She pulled it off, too, with jaunty good humor.
“You know each other?” The woman with the Marcia Brady hair had come back to claim him.
He didn’t take his eyes off Rosa. She refused to allow herself to look away.
“We did,” he said. “A long time ago.”
Rosa couldn’t stand the tension, although she struggled to appear perfectly relaxed as she offered an impersonal smile. “Enjoy your evening,” she said, every bit the hostess.
He looked at her a moment longer. Then he said, “Thanks. I will,” and he stepped into the bar.
She held her smile in place as he and the others settled into an upholstered banquette. The women looked around the bar with surprised appreciation. The norm in these parts consisted of beach shacks, fried food, dated seaside kitsch. Celesta’s one-of-a-kind bar, the understated handsomeness of the furnishings and the unparalleled view created an ambience of rare luxury.
Alex took a seat at the end of the table. The tall woman flirted hard with him, leaning toward him and tossing her hair.
Over the years, Rosa had kept up with his life without really meaning to. It was hard to ignore him when she spotted his face smiling out from the pages of a newspaper or magazine. “The thinking woman’s hunk,” one society columnist dubbed him. “Drives Formula One race cars and speaks fluent Japanese....” He kept company with billionaires and politicians. He did good works—funding a children’s hospital, underwriting loan programs for low-income people. Getting engaged.
Pharmaceutical heiress Portia van Deusen was the perfect match for him, according to the people-watchers. With a slight feeling of voyeuristic shame, Rosa had read the breathless raves of society columnists. Portia was always described as “stunning” and Alex as “impeccable.” Both of them had the social equivalent of champion bloodlines. Their wedding, of course, was going to be the event of the season.
Except that it never happened. The papers ceased to mention them as a couple. The engagement was “off.” Ordinary people were left to speculate about what had happened. There was a whisper that she had left him. And she appeared so quickly on the arm of a different man—older, perhaps even wealthier—that rumor had it she’d found greener pastures.
“Vince said he offered to beat the crap out of him,” said Shelly, holding aloft a tray of desserts and espresso.
So much for privacy. In a place like Celesta’s, rumors zinged around like rubber bullets.
“As if he could stand to have one hair out of place.” In spite of herself, Rosa smiled, picturing Vince in a fight. The sentiment was touching, though. Like everyone who had seen the wreckage Alex had left in his wake, Vince was protective of Rosa.
“Are you all right?” Shelly asked.
“I’m fine. You can tell that to anyone who’s wondering.”
“That would be everybody,” Shelly said.
“For Pete’s sake, we broke up eons ago,” Rosa said. “I’m a big girl now. I can handle seeing a former boyfriend.”
“Good,” Shelly said, “because he just ordered a bottle of Cristal.”
From the corner of her eye, Rosa saw the sommelier pop the cork of the bottle, listed at $300 on the menu. One of the women at Alex’s table—the flirt—giggled and leaned against him as he took a taste and nodded to Felix to pour. The six of them lifted their glasses, clinking them together.
Rosa turned away to say good-night to a departing couple. “I hope you enjoyed your evening,” she said.
“We did,” the woman assured her. “I read about this place in the New York Times ‘Escape’ section, and have always wanted to come here. It’s even nicer than I expected.”
“Thank you,” Rosa said, silently blessing the Times. Travel writers and food critics were a picky lot, as a whole. But her kitchen had proven itself, again and again.
“Are you Celesta, then?” the woman asked as she drew on a light cotton wrap.
“No,” Rosa said, her heart stumbling almost imperceptibly as she gestured at the lighted portrait that hung behind the podium next to the numerous awards. Celesta, in all her soft, hand-tinted beauty, gazed benevolently from the gilt frame. “She was my mother.”
The woman smiled gently. “It’s a wonderful place. I’m sure we’ll be back.”
“We’d love to have you.”
When Rosa turned from the door, she used every bit of her willpower to keep from spying on Alex Montgomery. She knew he was watching her. She just knew it. She could feel his gaze like a phantom touch, finding her most vulnerable places.
They had said goodbye many years ago, and it was the sort of goodbye that was supposed to be permanent. She wondered what he was thinking, barging in on her like this.
“May I have this dance?” Jason Aspoll held out his hand to Rosa.
She smiled at him. It was a well-known fact that on most nights, near closing time, Rosa enjoyed getting out on the dance floor. It was good marketing. Show the public you like your place just as much as they do. Besides, Rosa did love dancing.
And she didn’t like going home. There was nothing wrong with her place, except that it simply wasn’t...lived in enough.
“I’d love to,” she said to Jason, and slipped easily into his arms. The ensemble played “La Danza,” and they swayed, grinning at each other like idiots.
“So you finally did it, you big goof,” she said.
“I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“I know,” she said breezily, then patted his arm. “Seriously, Jason, I’m honored that you asked for my help. It was fun.”
“Well, I’m in awe. You managed everything perfectly, down to the last detail. Her favorite food was tonight’s special, the ensemble kept playing songs she loves... You even had special flowers on all the tables. I didn’t know Lily of the Valley was her favorite.”
“In the future, knowing her favorites is your job.” Rosa was always mystified that people simply didn’t notice things about other people. She had once dated an airline pilot for five months, and he never learned how she took her coffee. Come to think of it, no man had ever bothered to learn that about her, except—
“How does Linda take her coffee?” she asked Jason suddenly.
“Hot?”
“Very funny. How does she like her coffee?”
“Linda drinks tea. She takes it with honey and lemon.”
Rosa collapsed against him in exaggerated relief. “Thank God. You passed the test.” She didn’t mean to dart one tiny glance at Alex. It
just happened. He was looking straight at her. Fine, then, she thought. Let him look.
“I didn’t know there was a test,” Jason whispered to her.
“There’s always a test,” she said. “Remember that.”
The music wound down and then stopped. During the polite patter of applause, Linda joined them.
“I’ve come to claim my man,” she said, slipping her hand into his.
“He’s all yours.” Rosa gave her a quick hug. “And that’s for you. Congratulations, my friends. I wish you all the happiness in the world.”
Linda jerked her head in the direction of Alex’s table. “What the hell is he doing here?”
“Drinking a $300 bottle of champagne.” Rosa held up a hand. “And that’s all I have to say on the subject. Tonight is your night. You and Jason.”
“You’re meeting me for coffee tomorrow, though,” Linda insisted. “And then you’ll spill.”
“Fine. I’ll see you at Pegasus tomorrow. Now, take your man and go home.”
“All right. Rosa, I know how much you did to make this night special,” said Linda. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough.”
Rosa beamed. The look on Linda’s face was reward enough, but she said, “You can name your first child after me.”
“Only if it’s a girl.”
She and Linda hugged one more time, and the happy couple left. The music started up again, Rosa went back to work and pretended not to see Alex ask the tall woman at his table to dance.
This was absurd, she thought. She was an adult now, not a wide-eyed kid fresh out of high school. She had every right to go over to him this minute and demand to know what he was doing here. Or for that matter, what he’d been doing since he’d said, “Have a nice life” and strolled off into the sunset.
Did he have a nice life? she wondered.
He certainly looked as though he did. He seemed relaxed with his friends—or maybe that was the champagne kicking in. He had an air of casual elegance that was not in the least affected. Even when she first met him, as a little boy, he’d had a certain aura about him. That in-born poise was a family trait, one she’d observed not just in Alex, but in his parents and sister, as well.
