by Lisa Daily
“We’ve met,” I say, trying not to let on how much I despised him. Or the fact that it took me the better part of an hour to figure out how to get the picture of his junk permanently off my phone. Somehow the image had gone to the cloud, and by the time I got home, the slimy little weasel (and his slimy little weasel) was added to my laptop and my iPad, not to mention most likely permanently archived somewhere on my backup drive. It would not go away.
“So how do you two know each other?” I ask.
“He’s part of the boat restoration crew,” says Daniel. “The guys call him ‘Barnacle Brett.’ He’s scraping the barnacles off the boat, getting her all cleaned up.” He laughs and pats Brett on the shoulder. “I think this might be the only time we’ve ever had a conversation when you weren’t wearing a wetsuit.”
Dr. Creepy, aka Barnacle Brett, looks mortified, and I cannot contain my smile. It’s awful, and petty, I know. But it’s also deeply satisfying. And, it explains why so many people knew him at Marina Jack—he probably cleaned the barnacles off half the yachts in the marina.
Barnacle Brett excuses himself quickly, mumbling something about needing to find the men’s room. I wish Darcy were here to see what just happened. She’d be laughing her ass off.
Sitting down at a table next to Carter and Lolly, I’m certain that Santiago will be close by, but I’m determined not to care. I watch Daniel make his way around the deck, chatting easily with new friends and acquaintances. He’s a natural host, charming and funny, effortlessly gracious and welcoming. You’d never know by looking at him that he’s only been in town for a few months. He schmoozes like a local.
The evening is perfect, not too warm, and it’s clear enough to see the stars over the Sarasota Bay on one side of the boat, and Sarasota’s famous kissing statue over the other. The party guests cluster in small groups of old friends and new, laughing and talking, enjoying the food, the wine, and all the evening has to offer.
Carter and I are cracking up about some old story we’ve forgotten all but the punch line to, and the group of us squeeze in together when Cliff Roles comes by to snap a few photos. I try surreptitiously to size up Santiago without him noticing—weirdly curious about what attracted Michael to him. He’s on the short side, but muscular. He has a thick Cuban accent, and a loud and easy laugh. Also his pants are very, very tight.
Michael is a gay man fresh out of the closet. Maybe the pants are all it took.
Cliff stays to dish for a while; the man is the deepest well of gossip in the city. He knows everyone, and has seen everything, and loves to recount every wicked, Technicolor detail. Occasionally I look up in the middle of one of Cliff’s stories to see Daniel glancing over at me. He smiles and goes back to his conversation, but there’s a palpable energy that seems to tether us together, even though we’re on opposite ends of the boat deck. Maybe I’m the only one who feels it. I have to get a handle on myself. He’s a client. A gorgeous, dimpled, probably gay client. Eventually Daniel makes his way to our table, and takes the seat next to mine. There’s already a wineglass at the place, but Daniel swiftly relocates it to the next seat over. I’m not the only person who notices. Both Carter and Cliff Roles are rapt with interest.
“Lovely party, Daniel,” says Carter. “How are you enjoying working with Alex? She’s incredibly talented, isn’t she?”
“Incredibly talented,” Daniel agrees. I feel myself blush at the compliment, and attempt to change the subject.
“How did you and Carter meet, Daniel?” I ask. Carter laughs out loud at the memory, and it takes him a few seconds to respond.
“I think the first time was at Pridefest in Jackson Square,” says Carter. “I remember you wore that pretty purple T-shirt that showed off all your muscles and made the boys cry. And I recall there was a certain chef trying to scale a statue and ride double on the back end of President Jackson’s horse.”
Pridefest. Purple muscle shirt. Daniel is definitely gay.
Daniel smiles, flashing a dimple. “I’m pleading the fifth on the Andrew Jackson statue. But I will say that we’re still very close friends.” He laughs. He looks at me. “Carter was dating my brother Gabriel right after college. He visited us in New Orleans several times, and we stayed in touch after they broke up. I gave Carter a call when I decided to move to Sarasota. He always raved about the city, and between that and the beach, it was one of the big reasons I considered opening a restaurant here.”
“Oh Gabriel,” says Carter dramatically, “that boy broke my heart.”
“Cher, as I recall, you were the heartbreaker in that relationship. Weren’t you over the moon about some guy you knew from college?” Daniel clutches his heart and sighs dramatically. “The one who got away?”
“Who was that, Carter?” I ask. “I don’t remember you falling for anyone in college.”
“Oh, there’ve been so many, I don’t remember,” says Carter, shaking his head. He looks very much like he wants to change the subject.
“Love at first sight as I remember it.” Daniel laughs. “He broke poor Carter’s heart. The guy says he was straight, and that was that. Carter tried to move on, and he started dating Gabriel, but never quite got over his first love.”
“Daniel, you cad,” exclaims Carter. “You know for a fact that my first love has always been, and will always be, La Mer skin-care products.”
“A true love story. Just look at his pores!” interjects Santiago, and the whole table is laughing. But suddenly Carter won’t meet my eye, and I begin to wonder if the straight guy that Carter’s been in love with since college is Michael. My Michael. Did Carter flat-out lie to me that day when I asked him if he’d ever screwed around with Michael? Has he been lying to me the whole time I’ve known him? Maybe Michael broke Carter’s heart too.
I try to control my breathing as my mind reviews every interaction between Michael and Carter since the day we met him. Nothing stands out—even now, knowing what I know, I can’t think of anything that proves or even hints that Carter and Michael might have had a spark between them. Not only that, but Carter isn’t on the list. When Michael finally came clean about everything on the way to the airport in New York, he didn’t mention anything about Carter. And judging from the hour of far too much excruciating detail as Michael purged himself of guilt, I’m certain he didn’t leave anything out. Not even the stuff he should have left out.
But this is just too much of a coincidence. Carter had a crush on a straight guy in college. Michael is gay but pretended to be straight. The three of us have been inseparable since we met freshman year. What are the odds that Carter isn’t talking about Michael? Not good, I know that for sure. My brain starts spitting out potential red flags, and I try the best I can to keep it together. Between Santiago and Carter—am I really sitting at a party, at the very same table, with two other people who’ve potentially slept with my husband? Did Michael actually screw three of us? It’s too mortifying to think about, and yet I can’t seem to stop myself. If it turns out my husband and one of my best friends hooked up in college, I’m never going to be able to trust anyone, ever again.
“Who was it?” I ask Carter. He looks up, but avoids looking at me directly.
Daniel looks at me with surprise, and then realization crosses his face. His mouth drops open. “Oh no,” he says, low under his breath.
“It was a long time ago,” says Carter. This is not the answer I want to hear. “I barely remember the guy’s name.”
Was it Michael? I want to ask. But I don’t, because I don’t want Daniel’s elegant little dinner gathering to devolve into a Jerry Springer situation. Cliff Roles and Santiago lean forward with anticipation, as though they’re expecting a bombshell. I need to know, but I don’t want to find out in front of all these people. I need to be somewhere I can have a nervous breakdown in private, if need be. Optimally, somewhere with emergency rum and pie à la mode delivery.
Carter looks at me. I look at him. He shakes his head no and I don’t push it any further. That
will have to happen later.
48
“Who’s up for dessert?” asks Daniel quickly, signaling one of the servers. He turns to me. “This is my favorite song, cher, would you take a turn around the floor with me?”
I nod yes, grateful for the chance to escape the table before I say or do something to embarrass myself. Or Daniel. Carter raises an eyebrow and his glass as we depart.
I feel like an exposed nerve. It’s a lovely party, and I don’t want to ruin it. I should go. Maybe Daniel will send me home with a dessert-filled doggy bag. Or several.
Daniel takes my hand and leads me to a spot near the bar where a few people have begun to dance. The music is a bouncy funk song that sounds sort of like the Neville Brothers, but I don’t know for sure. Daniel pulls me gently into a closed position, which I apparently remember vaguely from my pre-wedding ballroom dancing lessons. He has one hand on my back and his other holding my right hand. He starts grinning as we glide around the dance floor, just moving to the music with no particular pattern—occasionally breaking for twirls, and once for a small dip.
“I’m sorry about the Carter thing,” he whispers. “It didn’t even occur to me…”
“It’s fine,” I say, hoping both desperately and proactively that Carter had a crush on some other straight guy he knew from college. “I’m grateful for your kindness, but you have other guests and I think it’s probably time for me to go. I don’t want you to feel like you have to keep whisking me away from the parade of awkward that has become my personal life,” I say. “Besides, that way you don’t need to dance with me, you could dance with Carter instead.”
“His legs aren’t as nice as yours,” he says, laughing. “Oh, I’ve stepped in it now. That was completely inappropriate and unprofessional wasn’t it?”
“Thanks for the compliment,” I say, blushing. “I’ll let it slide.”
“I want to dance with you,” he says earnestly. “Wait … you think I’m interested in Carter?”
“Aren’t you?” I ask. “He was your date to my divorce party, wasn’t he?” At least now I’ll get an answer to the Is he or isn’t he? question that has been plaguing me since the first day I came to Daniel’s floating restaurant. Please don’t be gay, please don’t be gay, please don’t be gay …
He stops dancing abruptly, while we’re in the center of the cluster of people, but keeps one hand at my back and holds my hand with his other. The guests keep dancing around us.
“I’m straight,” he says. “Very, very straight. Just because I cook and let my brother buy me jeans does not make me gay.” He laughs. “I’m gay-friendly, gay-supportive, often gay-adjacent—but I’m as straight as they come.”
And all of a sudden, my brain is practically belting out the “Hallelujah Chorus.” Not gay! Not gay! Not gay!
And he’s not gay even with abs like a sex god.
Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
And we shall make out forever and ever.
Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
“Wait, you let your brother pick out your jeans?” I laugh.
He looks a bit embarrassed. “Jeans, suits, shirts. We’re the same size, and Gabriel has really good taste. If he weren’t a chef, he’d be a stylist, or a set designer. Also, he’s been known to clean out my closet and replace anything he deems unsuitable.” He cracks, “I have to hide my flip-flops when he visits.”
“I can’t decide if that’s sweet that you let him dress you, or just really, really odd,” I say teasingly.
“Oh, it’s sweet,” he says, laughing. “I’m a sweetheart, I tell you. Gabriel’s been supervising my wardrobe since he was in seventh grade. My whole family’s, actually. At the time, it just felt like a way we could be supportive of his creativity. Now that I’m an adult, I appreciate the fact that I hardly ever have to shop for suits. They just magically show up on my doorstep—sorry, my gangplank—courtesy of UPS, and conveniently charged to my credit card.”
“So all those cool-guy band T-shirts you have, those are all strategically picked out by your tasteful brother?” I tease.
“No, cher, that’s my department. He picks the suits, and the ties, and the dress shirts. And shoes. He’s always sending me shoes. And Diesel jeans, which it never would have occurred to me to buy if not for Gabriel. But the T-shirts, and the board shorts, and the flip-flops are all me.”
I’ve seen Daniel in jeans. I should send his brother a thankyou note. Or a really big fruit basket.
“What?” I say with feigned awe. “You pick out your own flip-flops?” He grins in response.
We’re standing still in the middle of the dance floor when the song changes to a slow ballad. Daniel pulls me closer and the two of us begin to sway to the music. Dancing with him is so easy, so effortless, so elemental. My breath catches in my chest as he holds me close. Suddenly I’m no longer aware of the people around us, just the feel and the warmth and the scent of Daniel, and the way he’s holding me near to him. I don’t care that he’s a client, or that I’ve only learned in the last three minutes that he isn’t gay. I don’t care about any of it, and I let myself just sway and sway, lavished in his embrace. I want him to kiss me and I’m profoundly surprised by how rapidly the desire overtakes me. My list-making, pros-and-cons, rational brain is overruled. I don’t want to think about anything other than how I feel in that exact moment—exquisite and romantic and full of possibilities.
The ballad ends too soon, followed by another up-tempo jazz number. I reluctantly take a step back from Daniel, and his fingertips linger at the small of my back for another heartbeat. My breath holds in my chest as our eyes lock on each other’s—as though we’re both waiting for the other to be the first to glance away.
Cliff Roles snaps a photo of us, startling me. He pats Daniel on the shoulder. “Lovely party, Daniel. I’ve stayed too long and drunk too much, and I’d love to do it again soon. Thank you for your hospitality.” Daniel gently lets go of my hand and turns to give Cliff a hug. I’ll be trolling Cliff’s social media pages the second I get home in search of the image he just snapped of us dancing, hoping against hope that the picture is in focus, flattering, and discreetly downloadable.
“So glad you could be here, Cliff,” says Daniel. “How are you getting home?”
“I rode with Alyson,” he says. “She’s at the dessert table right now, trying to deconstruct your pralines.”
“I’m happy to give her the recipe,” Daniel says.
“She’s a purist,” he laughs, “I think she likes to guess.” Cliff gives Daniel a pat on the back and a warm handshake, and then turns to hug me.
“You’re looking fabulous, darling,” he says. “I was so surprised to hear about Michael.”
“You and me both,” I say. Cliff laughs at my response and then wanders off toward Alyson.
“Nice guy,” Daniel says to me. I nod. We return to our table and Carter announces that he’s exhausted and has to be leaving too, as Lolly and Santiago stand up and gather their things. I suspect that Carter’s sudden departure has something to do with the uncomfortable discussion about the man he was in love with in college who may or may not have been my (now former) husband. I don’t want to think about it anymore tonight; I’ll deal with that potential disaster later.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” says Carter as he kisses me on each cheek. I nod.
“Nice to meet you both,” I say to Santiago and Lolly. They both hug me and say goodbye. It’s weird, hugging a guy who slept with Michael. But not as weird as you’d think. Daniel excuses himself to make the rounds with his guests once again. It’s almost midnight and the partygoers are complimenting the chef and saying their goodbyes.
I finish my wine, my third glass, I think, while chatting with a local author named Darby Vaughn, who’s funny and bright, and the kind of person you meet and ten minutes later it feels like you’ve known them all your life. I sneak a peek as Daniel talks with the group of local chefs he invited. He looks up
and smiles at me as though I’d called his name.
“That’s some serious chemistry,” says Darby to me. “Are you and Daniel together?”
“No, no.” I shake my head. “He’s a client.” As though that somehow explains everything.
“Client, hmmm. He keeps looking over at you.” She smiles. “Definitely some serious sparks.”
My cheeks flush. I feel it.
Darby’s friends begin to congregate at my table and then after a few moments, Daniel joins the group. As they thank him for the party, I grab my clutch and my wrap, and wait my turn to say goodbye to him.
Before I can speak, he leans forward and whispers in my ear, “Please don’t go, cher.”
49
The remaining guests ready themselves to leave, hug their host, and disembark into the warm night. My heart thumps achingly at the possibility of what might lie ahead. I visit the ladies’ room to smooth my hair and freshen up. Also, because it’s easier to hide out in the restroom than nonchalantly hang around the boat deck not leaving while everyone else is saying goodbye. Apparently dating involves spending a lot of time in the bathroom, which is something I had not anticipated.
I readjust my cleavage, brush my teeth using one of the tiny disposable toothbrushes I always keep in my bag for emergencies, and touch up my lip stain. Emerging a few minutes later, I’m surprised to find that the boat deck has cleared out almost completely. Servers are cleaning up what’s left of the dessert table, clearing wineglasses and empty plates. A wide smile appears on Daniel’s face as soon as he sees me, and he crosses the deck to join me.
Suddenly I feel awkward and self-conscious, even though I’ve been alone with Daniel at the restaurant dozens of times before.
“Thanks for inviting me tonight,” I say. “I had fun, and it’s so easy to see how amazing Boudreaux is going to be once it opens.”
“Thank you for being here,” he says. “I’m glad you stayed. I thought you might take off after the surprise Santiago visit, and then the thing with Carter. I’m so sorry I even brought that up. After that mess, I’m lucky if you ever come back.”
