by Lisa Daily
We make our way back down the tight spiral staircase to the kitchen.
“Let’s talk about the menu. What have you finalized?” I ask.
“All my favorites, fresh seafood, crab cakes, N’awlins classics like crawfish etouffee and jambalaya, fried catfish, pecan pie and doberge. Some more experimental stuff, tropical-Cajun lobster infusions and the like.” My mouth is watering.
His eyes dance as he talks more about the food, and how cooking for people makes him feel. “Speaking of my favorites,” he says, “do you feel like coming round on Saturday night for a little get-together here about eight? Invite anyone you’d like, I’ve always found the best way to make new friends is to throw a party. Casual, of course. Are you free?”
“Um, let me check my calendar.” I take a peek at my phone and pull up my calendar. Yep. Empty. For every Saturday night for all eternity. “Yes, I’m free that night. Can I bring anything?”
“Just your gorgeous self, cher. Leave the rest to me.” He smiles, his palpable charisma pulling me in like low tide. Or a riptide.
45
“Tell me again exactly what happened,” insists Darcy. The two of us are sitting on my lanai, deconstructing every conversation and clue we have about Daniel, starting with the first time I ever met him, at the divorce party. Darcy has a way of stripping someone’s psyche bare, analyzing their behaviors and demystifying their personality with such depth, precision, and authority that there seems no room for the possibility that her analysis might not be true. She’s almost always right. I think that’s why she’s so effective in politics. And friendship.
I go over, detail by detail, every meeting I’ve had with Daniel. The smiles, the little hugs, the electricity I feel when he touches me, the way he looks at me sometimes that makes me feel like he might be flirting with me.
“And you’re positive he’s gay?” she asks.
“Yes.” I say with conviction. “No. Maybe.”
“Okay, obvious solution, uh, why don’t you just ask him?”
“I can’t,” I say, exasperated. “First, he’s a client and if I ask him if he’s gay or he has any idea at all that I have some mad crush on him it could completely screw up our working relationship. I like him, I like this project. I don’t want to mess it up.”
“But what if he’s not gay, and he’s interested in you too, and you’re sending him such weird signals he doesn’t know whether to pursue it or not?” she asks, refilling her wineglass.
“I don’t know,” I say. I stand up from my lounge chair and head over to dip my toes in the pool.
Darcy joins me at the pool’s edge. She runs her fingers through her shock of red hair. “Why do you think he’s gay?”
“He was Carter’s date to the party.”
“Are you sure?” she asks. “Maybe Carter just invited Daniel because he was new in town and didn’t know anyone.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But almost all the men at the party were gay.”
“Correlation does not equal causation,” she says. “The sexual orientation of the partygoers has no impact on whether or not Daniel is gay.”
“I know.” I sigh. “What do I do?”
“Here’s an obvious thirty-second solution: why not just ask Carter?” asks Darcy.
“Ugh, too humiliating. Either Daniel is gay, and I’m a total idiot, again. Or he isn’t gay, and I’m just too clueless to be able to tell the difference. No thanks.”
“Go to Daniel’s party,” she says. “Wear something fabulous. Let your hair down a bit. Be open to whatever happens.”
“You know that going with the flow isn’t exactly my strong suit.”
“I do,” she says, softly patting my arm. “But you’ll never get a new ending if you keep starting with the same tired beginning.”
46
It feels like a date, but I know it isn’t. At least, my brain knows.
I arrive at Daniel’s gathering at precisely eight with a nice bottle of Mollydooker Shiraz called Carnival of Love. It was seventy-five bucks, but the bottle reminds me of New Orleans and the sommelier at the wine shop told me it was a fantastic wine and the perfect gift for a foodie. I took his word for it, I don’t have much of a palate. I just wanted to get something Daniel would really like.
I’ve stressed for two days about whether or not I should bring someone to Daniel’s gathering. Not that I have anyone to bring, mind you. Darcy left town this morning. Eventually it was too late to ask anyone else, and I decided to just go alone. I’m wearing a pale blue halter dress, one of those go-to outfits that forgives my flaws and plays up my best features, and always makes me feel confident and beautiful. The dress flatters my skin and makes my legs look long and lean. My hair falls down to my shoulders in waves, and I complete the look with a pair of strappy wedges, a silver necklace, and a chunky turquoise bracelet. I’d like to say I’m not dressed up for anyone in particular, but that would be a lie. What am I doing to myself?
It’s just begun to grow dark, and I step cautiously up the gangplank. Daniel has strung white retro-looking globe lights across the deck, which gives the boat a lovely, romantic glow. The night air is warm, still a bit humid, and the scent of some sweet tropical flower mixes with the seawater lapping against the boat. The unmistakable music of Louis Armstrong floats in the air, but there are no other sounds of people, of other guests. Oh my gawd. I’m such a dork. Have I shown up on the wrong night? I flush at the thought, and I’m just about to turn around and sneak quietly off the boat when Daniel appears from the back deck.
My breath catches in my chest. I’ve never seen him dressed up before, he’s always wearing shorts or jeans when I come to the boat for our meetings. He cleans up nicely, looking every inch the famous restaurateur—wearing a tailored shirt and pants in a deep midnight blue, with a light gray tie. He’s freshly shaven, not sporting his usual stubble, which I find endearing. God, I’m hopeless.
“Oh, hi,” I say awkwardly. “I thought I’d just stop by to say hello…”
“Alex!” he says, embracing me warmly. I reach up to return the hug, finding my hand resting on the back of his arm, noticeably firm beneath my touch. “I’m so glad you made it, cher,” he says.
As usual, I linger too long in his embrace; the night is so warm, the rocking of the boat so lulling, I have to stop myself from swaying to the music. Daniel smells really good—a masculine cocktail of saltwater, citrus, and probably just full-on testosterone. Finally, after too long and yet not long enough, he steps back and I hold out the bottle of wine. He smiles and whistles. “This is one of my favorites, thank you.”
“Thank you so much for inviting me,” I say.
“It wouldn’t be the same without you, cher.” He smiles and the light from the globes catches his deep blue eyes. I could just drown in them. “You look luminous tonight.”
I blush and mumble, “Thanks.” There’s something so easy about his manner. I get the feeling he could say pretty much anything, no matter how wicked or corny, and it would still come out as charming and genteel.
He offers his hand to me, which feels so old-school and manly. “Shall we?” I gingerly allow him to take my hand, trailing behind him as he leads me to the rear deck of the boat. “Watch your step, cher,” he says as we make our way back. There are five tables, all covered in the vintage ivory linen tablecloths I selected from the stash of treasures in the storage room. They’re stunning. A small bar is set up on a side table, and a lavish banquet table is layered in different shades of blue chiffon tablecloths and a lovely presentation of hors d’oeuvres. It all looks delicious. Seeing the boat in the evening, with the stars twinkling above and the elegant arch of the Ringling Bridge in the distance, I’m finally visualizing Boudreaux coming together. The restaurant is going to be everything Daniel wants it to be.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” he asks. He drops my hand as I nod, and pours me a glass from an open bottle. “Try this one,” he suggests, “I think you’ll like it.” I take a sip and nod in agree
ment. It’s really good.
“Thank you. Am I the only one here?” I ask, taking another slow sip. “I’m so sorry, am I early?”
He looks down for a split second, and then up again, until his eyes meet mine. “I might have told you eight o’clock when I told everyone else eight-thirty.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, without knowing why. Nervously, I set my glass down on the bar. “Do you need help setting up?”
“Dance, cher?” he asks, his blue eyes playful. I nod and he pulls me gently into his arms. He’s warm. We sway to the music and the gentle rocking of the boat. His hand rests on the small of my back, in that sweet spot that makes you feel feminine and protected and adored all at once. He’s respectful in his distance, but with every sway back and forth, we move closer to each other, a millimeter at a time. I feel myself melting into his arms, and the tension between us is delicious and innate and disorienting all at once. I examine the line of his jaw, a tiny dimple on the left side of his cheek when he smiles, the sexy cleft in his chin, the firmness of his back, wanting to drink in every detail to relive for later in case this never happens again. Daniel is confident in his movements, but delicate in his touch, as though he’s hesitant to go too far. His breath warms my ear, and I smile as I feel him inhaling the scent of my hair.
He pulls me closer still. “Is this okay, cher?” he asks, his lilting voice just barely above a whisper.
I don’t know what to say. I nod, but I don’t actually know what this is. What is it? Just a dance? A prelude? Is he just warm and gracious, and am I so desperate, naïve, or misguided that I’m confusing platonic friendship for something more? The fact that I find myself drooling over my client and fantasizing that Daniel is flirting with me doesn’t make it so. I can’t trust my instincts, they’re surely steering me off a cliff. Should I really rely on my thumping heart, lust-addled mind, and frenetic hormones? Or do the smart thing and just shut this down right now, eat dinner, beg off dessert, get the hell out of Dodge, and avoid risking the humiliation and heartbreak of falling for yet another gay man?
I close my eyes, pretending to be contemplating a decision, in the same way you promise yourself you’ll get up and out of bed in one minute and that you’re just resting your eyes, when you know full well you’re going to fall back asleep within seconds and it will take a wailing snooze alarm, the promise of bacon, or the threat of unemployment to coerce you out from under the covers. Just another minute of dancing, and then I’ll stop. One more song. After this next song. I rock in his arms under the stars and the blanket of night air, unwilling or unable to tear myself away.
“Hello? Danny, where are you?” A familiar voice pierces our private little bubble and I step back quickly. Daniel keeps hold of my hand a second longer and twirls me slowly before releasing me. I love to be twirled; doesn’t every woman? I can feel myself flushing and hope it isn’t evident on my skin. Daniel looks at me and smiles, his expression playful.
“We’re back here,” Daniel says loudly in the direction of the voice. He leans in close, his lips brushing over my ear and sending shivers down my neck as he whispers to me in his soft Southern cadence, “That was a sweet and unexpected lagniappe, cher.”
I’m going to have to look up that word when I get home. I’m pretty sure it means appetizer. Either that, or rack of lamb.
Daniel strides toward the front of the boat to greet his guests. Just as he reaches the edge of the interior dining area, a group of three round the corner.
“Alex!” exclaims Carter. “I’m so glad you’re here! Out on the town!” He’s flanked by a dark-haired man who looks vaguely familiar, and a woman I’d never met before. Carter makes his way to me quickly and gives me a tight squeeze.
“Good to see you, Carter,” I say, as he kisses me on each cheek with great flourish. He did always have a flair for the dramatic.
“Good to see you too, Alex. How are you holding up, sweetheart? You look amazing. Don’t you just love this little floating palace?” he prattles on without waiting for a response. That’s Carter, I’m used to it. “I can’t wait to see what you and Daniel do with it. It’s going to be fabulous.” He turns quickly to the two guests behind him. “Lolly and Santiago, this is my very dear friend Alex, and our host, Daniel. This is Lolly, she’s a graphic designer who works with me.” Lolly smiles and Carter continues, “And this handsome fellow is Santiago.”
“Nice to meet you both,” I say, shaking Lolly’s hand, then Santiago’s. “Have we met before?” I ask. There’s something about him that is so familiar.
“He was at your party,” interjects Carter. Suddenly, my pulse roars in my ears, and I feel the light-headed, tingly sensation that comes before passing out. I search around desperately for my wine and grab the glass from the bar, swigging it down as my brain races in horror. Oh God. Santiago is the Cuban guy. The Cuban guy Michael made a date to have sex with at our divorce party. The one he flirted with like mad in front of me, in front of all of our friends and family. The man whose name Michael could not remember.
One should not chug an entire glass of wine at an elegant dinner party. I start hacking and coughing, having practically waterboarded myself out of sheer humiliation. Am I ever going to live this down? Am I ever going to be free of Michael? Carter, Lolly, and Santiago look on at my oncoming breakdown with mild concern.
Daniel is at my side instantly. “Are you okay?”
“Seasick,” I choke out.
Confusion colors his expression.
“Why don’t you just come with me?” he asks, leading me around the front of the boat, through the dining room, and back through the kitchen, setting me on a stool. “Are you okay? Are you really seasick?”
I’m sure this is baffling to him, as I’m on the boat three or four times a week and have never, ever complained of seasickness. I should have come up with something more plausible. Scurvy, maybe. Rapid-onset scurvy.
I nod my head no, still coughing in fits and starts. The kitchen is buzzing with activity from the line, and several servers make their way around us, as though we’re part of the furniture. Daniel hurriedly brings me a glass of water, and I take a sip, and then another. I hang my head in embarrassment, and he kneels down in front of me.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. What the hell is wrong with me?
“What’s going on?” he asks.
“It’s nothing. Carter brought a friend, Santiago, tonight. Santiago and Michael apparently … made a date … at our divorce party. It’s stupid. I was just taken off guard.”
“I understand,” Daniel says, holding the glass of water for me. His eyes are kind, and it makes me feel even more ridiculous. But how could he possibly understand?
“I’m sorry. This was a bad idea,” I say. “I should go.” I need to regroup. This is no way to behave in front of a client.
“Please stay, cher,” he says. “Eat something and you’ll feel better. You want me to toss him over the side of the boat? Maybe poison his appetizer?” He grins at me, and offers up the glass of water again. I giggle, in spite of myself.
“We can probably let him live,” I respond.
“Well, isn’t that generous of you.” He laughs and offers his hand to me. “Come on, you’ve already gotten the most awkward situation possible out of the way in the first five minutes of the party, now you can relax and just have a good time. I’ll make sure you don’t end up sitting at the same table with Santiago.”
“That’s kind of you,” I say, “but it’s really not necessary. I’m fine, I don’t want to trouble you.”
“It’s no trouble, cher,” he says, smiling. “I was looking for a good excuse to sit next to you anyway.”
47
Daniel and I exit the kitchen, as Carter and his little entourage cheer me on.
“She lives!” he says, extending his arms to hug me. Santiago and Lolly applaud enthusiastically, joined by several other guests who arrived while we were in the kitchen and have no idea why they’re clapping.
Carte
r hugs me and kisses me on the forehead, whispering, “Forgive me, Alex, I never would have brought Santiago if I’d known you were going to be here.”
I nod without saying anything. It’s the only way to ensure I don’t burst into tears.
“Also, I had no idea Michael told you they’d hooked up,” he says. “So that’s a little awkward.” I nod again, and search around for my empty wineglass. I probably need a refill.
Daniel makes introductions all around, as a few more people arrive. His construction manager, Scully, is there along with some of the crew, the metals artist who’s creating the Boudreaux sign, and several chefs I recognize from popular restaurants around town: the Cariguilos are here, as well as Michael Klauber and Phil Mancini of Michael’s on East, and Alyson Zildjian, a talented Sarasota caterer. Sarasota is a small beach community, and many of the guests already know one another well. Cliff Roles, man about town and the city’s most outrageous and colorful photographer, alternates between mingling with guests and snapping pictures, some of which include him. There are about thirty guests in all, and I know or have heard of about ten of them. It’s a colorful, creative, and boisterous crowd, comprised of probably every person Daniel has met since he moved to town a few months before. The wine flows and the food is heavenly.
I’m chatting with Lolly when I spot him out of the corner of my eye: Dr. Creepy. Daniel is on his way toward me with a glass of wine, when Dr. Creepy sees him and makes a beeline in his direction. Creepy doesn’t notice me until it’s too late.
“Brett,” says Daniel warmly, “glad you made it.”
“Thanks for the invite,” says Dr. Creepy.
Daniel touches my shoulder gently, “Alex, this is Brett.” He gasps audibly. Well, this is going to be interesting. “Brett, meet Dr. Alex Wiggins, she’s an environmental psychologist and her firm is helping to design the milieu for Boudreaux.” I turn to face Dr. Creepy head-on. There’s no getting out of it now.
