by Kyra Davis
“You’ve gotten all your errands done?” he asks as I sit down, his tone somewhat bemused.
“Virtually.” I take my seat across from him, giving away nothing.
A waiter arrives with two cocktails. “I hope you don’t mind,” Lander says, “I thought you’d like their specialty.”
I examine the two cocktails. His drink, which appears to be bourbon on the rocks, looks considerably simpler than mine, which is . . . something mixed with several other things and garnished with a twist.
“You like to add interesting flourishes to your alcoholic beverages, don’t you?” he asks, his voice casual, though immediately I think of my garnet ring.
“Why do you say that?” I ask, matching his tone.
“You’re a bartender. All bartenders like intricate mixed drinks.”
Is he playing with me? I can’t quite tell. I hold up my drink and smile. “Well, let’s see if this ends up being a little too interesting for me.”
We clink glasses. My drink tastes of bourbon and grapefruit and bitters. A little comfort, a little tart, a little bitter . . . not a bad balance to try to strike in life. But then, I gave up striving for balance a long time ago.
“You realize that this is our first date?”
I smile, nod. “It’s very . . . traditional of us, isn’t it?”
“What would have been traditional is if we had started with dating and worked our way up.”
“I meant that having dinner together is normal, and up until now nothing about us has been . . . normal. You’re not normal.”
“You don’t think so?” He picks up his menu, studies the choices. A few tables over a group of slightly drunk voices launch into a rendition of “Happy Birthday.”
“I’ve been to your penthouse,” I say, taking another sip of my drink. “I’ve been . . . in your limo.”
That causes his eyes to flicker up to mine, his smile growing a bit more mischievous.
“I know how you live,” I continue. “I know that the clothes you wear are expensive as hell . . . and I know you don’t have to go to a dive bar in Harlem to get cheap drinks. It’s totally out of your way and it takes you way out of your element. Yet you’re a regular there. That’s not normal.”
Lander hesitates a moment before lowering the menu. “I like . . . I like the clarity of the people that frequent Ivan’s.”
“Seriously? Most of the people in that bar are too wasted to have clarity about anything.”
“That’s not what I mean . . .” He takes a moment, gathers his thoughts, and starts again. “That girl with the rainbow hair, it took me about fifteen seconds to realize that she has a drug problem.”
“Wow,” I say as I scan the appetizers on the menu. “You’re a real Sherlock Holmes.”
“That’s my whole point.” He picks up the pen and starts drawing on the back of a paper napkin. “I didn’t have to figure it out. If she were advertising her addiction with a neon sign it couldn’t have been any clearer.” From my position I can make out that he’s drawing someone in a biker’s jacket. “That man I got in a fight with, he doesn’t like himself very much, so he uses violence and intimidation to give himself a sense of self-worth. The guy I gave the two hundred dollars to, he’s an alcoholic with no family and no home and a lot of money problems.”
“Lander, he literally told you all that. He stood by your side and he said—”
“I know what he said, I was listening.” His pen is still moving. It’s almost as if he’s unaware he’s the one moving it. It’s like a tic, except in this case his “tic” is creating something rather interesting. “That’s why I like Ivan’s so much. All I have to do is watch and listen to know what the people there are all about. I know what their issues are.” The biker he draws has his fist raised as he shouts at an invisible foe. “The people I work with, the people who live in my sliver of Manhattan, they have a lot of the same issues. But it can take months before you realize that your secretary has a Valium addiction. Alcoholics disguise themselves as wine connoisseurs because they have enough money to float their addiction ‘responsibly,’ and others who aren’t making enough to support their way of life are buttressed by credit cards. You never know what anyone’s issues are.”
“And the bullies?” I ask. The waiter approaches our table, but Lander waves him away.
“There are plenty of those, and they all look and dress like me. We all shop at the same stores, work in similar jobs . . . It can be incredibly hard to distinguish them from everyone else, and many of them are so subtle in their aggression that you don’t know you’re a target until you’re already down for the count.” He studies his picture for a moment, his forehead creasing as if he’s in the middle of solving a puzzle.
“I spend all day, every day,” he says, somewhat distractedly, “trying to peel back the layers, trying to peek behind the curtain, trying to figure out who the people I’m dealing with really are, trying to figure out what they really want and what they really need. It’s a game . . . and I’m not bad at it.” Carefully he writes the word Cries under the picture. “But I get tired,” he continues. “So I go to bars where the people aren’t hiding behind curtains pretending to be Oz. I go to places where the patrons dance around with rainbow-colored hair or snarl behind grizzled beards.” He writes the word in. “I go to places where I know exactly who and what I’m dealing with at all times.” He smiles to himself as he finishes the title of his art with the word Rebuke. Cries in Rebuke. “At Ivan’s, that’s the way it is.” He suddenly looks up from his picture and meets my eyes before adding, “I’ve always known who I’m dealing with at Ivan’s . . . except when it comes to you.”
My mouth rises into a one-sided smile. “I’m the only one at Ivan’s you couldn’t figure out, so I’m also the only one you took home. You say you don’t like complications, but”—I lift my drink, take another sip—“I think the lady doth protest too much.”
Lander laughs and now catches the waiter’s eye, letting him know it’s all right to approach. “Are you a fan of Shakespeare?”
“I know a few of his plays.”
The waiter takes our orders. For himself, Lander gets the escolar appetizer and fettuccine as an entrée, then he orders for me, a spring pea salad and branzino, before topping it off with a rather expensive bottle of wine to share.
“So you’re an artist?” I ask and take another long sip of my cocktail.
“I doodle,” he says quickly. He briefly holds up the picture, giving me just a few seconds to examine it before folding it up and tucking it into his pocket. It’s as if he’s suddenly embarrassed to have it in the open, as if he hadn’t thought I’d notice what he was doing.
It is a kind of tic, I think to myself. When he ponders things he draws . . . it’s a little odd, but then, at least it’s helpful to me. It means that those drawings I saw at his place are a peek into something . . . deeper.
“You’re right, you know,” he says as if trying to draw my attention away from the picture. “I did choose to take home the most complicated girl at the bar. For instance, after talking to you for five minutes I sensed that you were well-educated . . . most well-educated women don’t work at bars like that.”
“Most well-educated men don’t frequent them,” I counter.
Our conversation is momentarily put on hold as the waiter comes back and pours a small amount of red wine into Lander’s glass. Lander swirls it almost impatiently before tasting it and giving his nod of approval. When my glass is filled, I take a moment to admire the color, which is so dark it’s luscious. I would wear this color if I found it in a dress. Lander’s right: The rich disguise their sins so well. Their vices are actually made pretty . . . before they turn ugly.
“When you quit, you didn’t do the expected thing,” Lander continues as the waiter retreats again. “You didn’t seek employment at a different, better bar. No, I run into you on the streets of the Upper East Side looking like you just stepped off the pages of some cutting-edge style gu
ide. That’s a pretty dramatic switch.”
“Guess I’m a Renaissance woman.”
“And then when I asked you to come home with me, you said yes, but you were conflicted. There were moments when I thought . . . the way you looked at me sometimes . . .”
“It made your heart melt,” I say teasingly.
“It made me think you wanted to hate me.”
I hesitate a moment, take another drink. “I don’t want to hate you,” I lie.
“Who are you, Bellona?”
A warrior. That’s what I want to say. But instead I shrug bashfully. “If I’m mysterious, Lander, I’m certainly no more so than you. I’ve . . . been with you twice, I’m about to share a meal with you now, and I still don’t even know your last name.”
He’s taken aback for a moment and then laughs, genuinely. He truly didn’t realize he’d kept this fact from me. “I guess I haven’t been so forthcoming either, have I?” He smiles and casually says, “My last name is Gable.”
“Gable,” I repeat, then I widen my eyes with practiced surprise. “Gable? You’re not any relation to Travis Gable, are you?”
“Yes,” he says warily. “He’s my brother.”
The waiter returns with a breadbasket as I prepare to launch into a performance. “Lander—that’s who I just interviewed with. Travis and Jessica Gable. I’m going to be Jessica’s personal assistant!”
Lander looks at me for a moment, his face washed of emotion. I can’t read him at all.
“Seriously,” I press. “I mean, what are the odds? I can’t believe—”
“No.”
He says the word so quietly I’m not sure I heard him correctly. The restaurant is bustling with laughter and chatter. “Did you say—”
“NO.”
Our appetizers come but neither of us reach for our utensils as the food is placed in front of us. “No . . . what?”
“You can’t work for my brother.”
“Actually, I can.” I pause before deciding to throw on a carefree grin as if he hadn’t overstepped. “Although technically I’m working for Jessica.” I pick up my fork and stab my salad. “I’ll only be doing things for your brother when . . . well, when he needs me. I still can’t believe the guy’s your brother. Are you sure we’re talking about the same—”
“Don’t do this.”
“Lander, I was a personal assistant before I started working at Ivan’s. The bartending gig was really more of a holdover than anything else. This PA job is just perfect. And the pay—”
“Listen to me!” he snaps, stopping me short. The people at the next table send him a quick, curious glance before turning their attention back to their meals.
“Bell, you have to understand,” Lander continues. “My brother—” He pauses as he searches for the right word before finishing with, “My brother is an asshole.”
I break into a fit of giggles, making a display of levity as I mentally parse out his reaction and comments. The sibling rivalry between Lander and his brother isn’t exactly a secret, but from all appearances it’s a friendly rivalry. In fact, my studies and observations had led me to believe that the two brothers had actually become closer over the last few years. I’m pretty sure that’s what everybody believes. But that’s apparently not the case. So perhaps the brotherly love is all just for show?
I let my laughter die down and take another forkful of salad.
“This isn’t a joke,” Lander presses.
“I can deal with your brother. I’ve always been skilled at managing men.”
“I didn’t say he’s a man. I said he’s an asshole.”
“There’s a difference?” I snap before I can stop myself, then grin teasingly to take away the impact.
“Bell, please don’t do this.”
I sit back and really study his face. He’s completely serious, but he doesn’t look angry . . .
. . . he looks worried.
Could he actually be worried about me?
“I need you to trust me,” I say. And in a way it’s true: I need him to trust me so I can betray him.
I stare down at my hands clutching the fork and knife.
This is the first time you’ve thought about what you’re doing in terms of betrayal.
It’s the silent whispered voice in my head, moving me toward something that bears a dangerous resemblance to guilt.
“I can handle myself,” I continue. “But if there’s something I should know about your brother, you should tell me now. Don’t ask me to step away from a very lucrative job just because you have sibling rivalry issues. Tell me why your brother is an asshole. What exactly has he done?”
Lander chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him look uncomfortable. “He’s a womanizer.”
“Mm-hmm, so was Bill Clinton. That didn’t stop Janet Reno—”
“See, like that. How is that a reference you can just pull up at the drop of a hat? Who the hell are you?”
“Well, I was a bartender—who followed politics somewhat—but I’m about to be your brother’s personal assistant, at least I will be if you can’t pull up an objection that doesn’t reek of complete bullshit. Give me specifics, Lander.”
“He sleeps with his assistants, Bell.”
“Really? Your sister-in-law told me that his last assistant was a guy, so if that’s the way Travis rolls, I think I’m covered.”
“Fine, he probably didn’t sleep with the last one—”
“Probably?”
“Definitely not with the last one, but . . . Bell . . .” Again he chews his cheek, and his eyes move aimlessly around the room. “I wish you could just take my word for this.”
“I can’t,” I say dryly. He winces at my refusal, making me soften slightly. “Look, I’m taking the job . . . but I will promise you that if your brother steps out of line or does anything blatantly . . . unethical, or immoral, I will let you know about it.”
His eyes snap back to me.
I just offered to spy on his brother for him. He knows it; I know it. Now all that’s left is for him to take me up on it. Or not.
And his decision will tell me so very much about Lander’s relationship to the Gable family dynamics.
The restaurant noise that seemed held at bay in the background throughout our conversation now envelops our table, ringing in my ears, making me wonder how we were even able to hear each other speak only moments before.
Seconds pass, then a minute, and as the waiter takes away our plates, behind us someone’s cell phone rings the notes of Vivaldi . . .
. . . and then Lander nods and just like that, the noise of the restaurant just sort of falls away again, and my ears, my eyes, and my . . . well, my everything . . . are tuned in only to him.
“I still wish you would just walk away from this. But if you insist, then yes, you should tell me about anything . . . anything my brother does that makes you uncomfortable or makes you . . . wary.” He’s choosing his words so carefully now. It makes me smile. “I want you to be okay, and if you let me know what’s going on I can make sure of that.”
I shift in my seat as new dishes are brought back to our table. “Okay, I promise to tell you if things get weird, or even if I think they’re about to. But you have to do something for me too.”
He raises his eyebrows, digs into his fettuccine.
“I want this job to work, Lander.” I bring my voice down an octave, emphasizing my earnestness. “Assuming everything’s basically on the up-and-up, of course. But I worry . . . if your brother knows that we’re . . . well, that we know each other like we do, then it could make things difficult for me.”
Lander takes another sip of wine in lieu of answering.
“I just . . . I don’t want him or his wife to think of me as the woman his brother is fucking.”
“Bell.” Lander says the name softly. “It’s not like that.”
Actually, it’s exactly like that, but I keep the thought to myself and wave h
is concern away with a flick of my hand. “I don’t want them to think of me as the woman Travis’s brother is dating either. I don’t want any kind of special treatment any more than I want them to look at me like I’m some little gold-digging whore.”
“Bell!”
“Just let me establish a relationship with my new employers on my own merits. If the job goes well and this”—I gesture to myself and Lander with a quick swing of my fork—“if this goes well too, then we can act like we met and started dating well after I took the job. But if the job ends or this”—again I gesture with my fork—“ends, then . . . I mean, why screw things up by revealing everything too soon? Why not just let it all run its natural course before we start merging things together, like work and family, too soon?”
“I’ve been merging work and family all my life,” he points out.
“Well, I haven’t, and I don’t want to start quite yet. Are you okay with that?”
Are you okay with lying to your brother and his wife? That’s the real question. I look at him calmly as my heart pounds against my chest. What’s the answer, Lander?
“Yes, I think we can hold off on letting them know.”
I have to stuff my mouth with fish to keep myself from grinning ear to ear.
Travis doesn’t trust his wife. Lander doesn’t trust Travis. And now Lander has just given me what I need to make sure that Travis doesn’t trust Lander either, if he ever did.
It’s the trifecta of family dysfunction.
It’s going to make it so much easier to do what I need to do.
chapter ten
By the time we leave the restaurant we’ve each had a cocktail and shared the bottle of red. The streets of New York seem to have a warm, hazy glow and the honking of horns and growl of engines almost sound musical. I have to resist the urge to clap my hands in time, adding my own harmony to the city’s symphony. Lander gestures to his limo. “I’ll take you home.”
I shake my head. “Not necessary.”
