Single-Minded

by Lisa Daily

  73

  I cry in my car on the entire drive to Fred’s house. My chest aches and my nose is running, but I can’t stop. Everything hurts so much. I tell myself it’s just the stress of Michael’s accident, not enough sleep, and having two major client events in twenty-four hours. But the flurry of thoughts that occupy my mind aren’t about slumber or work.

  I pick up a change of clothes for Fred, and pack his toothbrush, razor, and cell phone charger, and then head back to the hospital to drop them off.

  Fred naps in the corner, snoring softly, but Michael is awake. The drill sergeant nurse is nowhere to be seen. I put the bag with Fred’s things on the table, and sit at the foot of Michael’s bed.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask.

  “My whole body hurts like hell,” he says. “I think the pain meds are starting to wear off again.”

  “I’ll call someone,” I say.

  “I already did,” he says. “I’m sure they’ll be here soon.” I refill his water glass and help him take a few sips.

  “Can I get you anything?” I ask. “Are you hungry, do you need an extra pillow?”

  “I’m fine,” he says. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you about Daniel earlier. I didn’t mean to.”

  “I was embarrassed,” I say, “but not for the reasons you think.” I tell Michael, in excruciating detail, what happened the day before, every awful moment. It’s a relief to talk to him, I’ve missed it more than I realize. He listens and pats the top of my hand with his, until his IV monitor starts beeping.

  “Be careful,” I say. “You don’t want to pull out your IV.”

  “I’m so sorry, sweetie,” he replies. “What did he say?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “After it happened. Who was she? What was the story? Did he explain himself?” Michael asks.

  “He tried to, I guess. I ran off so quickly. I was humiliated. The poor woman was obviously in distress and I didn’t want to make it worse. I was in distress. And then he showed up at my event at the Ritz last night and wanted to explain, but I didn’t want to hear it. Then he tried again today when I went to do the walk-through before the opening tonight.”

  “He crashed the Wildlife Foundation benefit?”

  “Not exactly; he bought a whole table, came by himself, and then gave Olivia a five-thousand-dollar donation. And then he waited outside for me with flowers, but still…”

  “But…,” says Michael.

  “But I told him I just wanted to get through tonight’s event,” I say. “What does it matter? What possible explanation could he have that would make me okay with this?”

  “Maybe he had a relationship with the woman and it’s over. Maybe it wasn’t what you thought it was. Maybe she’s a crazy chef groupie. Or maybe he was with her and then he met you and couldn’t imagine his life with anyone else,” he says. “I certainly know how that feels.”

  “Yeah, that turned out great,” I say. “And I don’t think chefs have groupies.”

  “Oh, they do,” he quips. “Some of those Food Network ladies are out of control.” I smile at Michael, I can’t help myself. He always has a way of joking me out of a bad day.

  “Look, I don’t know Daniel,” says Michael. “I only met him once that night at our party, and to be honest I wasn’t checking out his personality.”

  “Great,” I say.

  “But Carter’s been friends with him for ten years, and he says Daniel’s one of the good guys.”

  I weep and Michael leans forward to hold me, except he can’t move his arms so it’s really just more of an off-center shoulder bump. “I can’t go through this again,” I say. “I won’t survive another betrayal. It’s better to just end it now, before I get in any deeper. If I fall in love with someone, I need them to love me back. Just me. I have to be enough.”

  “I’m so sorry,” he says, “I wish I’d never hurt you. I wish I’d never lied to you. I feel responsible.” He sighs. “Look, you have to at least listen to Daniel’s explanation. Give him the benefit of the doubt. If you listen and it’s not good enough, fine. If you don’t believe him, fine. But you at least have to listen. If you don’t, you’re giving up on something real, something that could make you happy, without giving it a chance. There’s nothing I want more than for you to be happy. You deserve to be loved, all the way.”

  “It’s too late,” I say. “Even if I bought whatever explanation Daniel served up, which frankly, I can’t imagine—I already told him I didn’t want to see him again after the party tonight.”

  I’m wiping the tears from my eyes when Santiago and the drill sergeant nurse enter Michael’s room together. Santiago steps to Michael’s bed and gives him a tender kiss on top of his head.

  “Glad to see you up, querido,” Santiago says. Michael beams at him like a high schooler in love.

  “How’s your pain?” asks the nurse, “on a scale of ten, ten being the worst?”

  “About a nine,” answers Michael. Santiago hovers around Michael, fluffing his pillows and refilling his water pitcher. Seeing Michael and Santiago together, how sweet they are, how obviously taken they are with each other, makes me long to fall in love again too someday. Unfortunately, my fate doesn’t seem to agree.

  74

  I kiss Michael on the cheek, and hug Santiago goodbye. Fred is still snoozing in the chair in the corner of the hospital room and I don’t want to disturb him.

  By the time I arrive home, I’m so cross-eyed and foggy from lack of sleep that my bedroom seems too far away from the front door. I make the trek across the house anyway, knowing I’ll sleep more soundly in my own bed than I would on the couch, even though it’s comfy, and inviting, and only ten feet away.

  When I awake four hours later at five-thirty, I’m spooning Morley, and still wearing my jeans and T-shirt from last night. For once, Morley doesn’t seem to mind. My alarm has not yet gone off, and it isn’t until I hear the doorbell ring that I realize what woke me up.

  Still a bit disoriented, I wander to the front door and open it.

  “Hello, Cinderella,” says Carter with flourish, “It’s time to get ready for the ball.” He’s sporting a blue suit with a bright pink tie and classic Wayfarer sunglasses. Darcy stands next to him on the porch, with a garment bag flung over her shoulder and a bottle of dark rum under her arm. I motion them inside, and they sweep into the house and take over the kitchen as I trail behind.

  “Get in the shower, you look like a hobo,” instructs Carter. “We’re leaving in an hour. Sam is meeting us there.”

  “I’m making my famous mai tais,” says Darcy. “Carter and I will be having a little cocktail while you get ready. If you hurry, you can have one too.”

  “Thanks.” I laugh, heading back toward the bathroom. I brush my teeth for a solid three minutes and then slip into the shower. The warm water feels good. I’m remarkably refreshed after my four-hour nap, and although I’m hesitant to see Daniel, I figure he’ll be very busy all night, and I can’t wait to see Boudreaux in all her glory. I’m really proud of my work there.

  When I emerge from the shower, I wrap my wet hair in a towel, slip on a short cotton robe, and head to my closet for inspiration. Laid out on my bed is the slinky aqua dress I haven’t worn since my divorce party. The one that hugs every curve and makes my legs look a mile long.

  “Carter, have you been going through my closet again?” I yell toward the kitchen. He and Darcy appear in the doorway of my bedroom, mischievous looks on their faces.

  “Michael insisted,” says Carter. “He says if he croaks tonight that you wearing that dress is his dying wish.”

  “He’s not dying,” I say.

  “He is eventually,” says Carter solemnly. “We all are.” He keeps a straight face for all of ten seconds and then he and Darcy start cracking up.

  “Fine,” I say, “I’ll wear the dress. Did Michael want to pick out my shoes too, or were you guys going to let me handle that?”

  “It’s Michael’s o
ther dying wish that you wear the strappy silver stilettos. But get a move on, we’re on a tight schedule.”

  Darcy hands me a mai tai. “For courage,” she says.

  “Thanks,” I say, accepting the glass. I head back into the bathroom, brush and dry my hair, and apply some makeup.

  “Twenty minutes!” yells Carter from somewhere near the kitchen. “We’re leaving in twenty minutes.” Carter is the only person I know who is more obsessive about punctuality than I am.

  I pull on a strapless bra, panties, and a silk slip before putting on the gorgeous aqua dress. I know why Michael picked it for me. It’s his favorite because he says I always look so confident when I wear it, like I could take on the world.

  I accessorize with my favorite aquamarine drop earrings, a bejeweled silver cuff with stones the color of the ocean, and a delicate Tiffany starfish necklace on a barely-there silver chain. To finish, I select a teal-blue ombre clutch with a silver chain, and the strappy silver sandals Michael had suggested. Really, what’s the point of having a gay ex-husband if you can’t rely on him for fashion advice?

  I slip on the stilettos, and put the essentials in my clutch—lip gloss, wallet, mini-toothbrush, phone, keys. My pedicure from last week still looks great, no need to touch it up.

  Heading into the kitchen, where Darcy and Carter are hanging out, I’m five minutes ahead of schedule. Carter will be so pleased. Darcy’s changed into a stunning, off-the-shoulder white dress and tall salmon-colored wedges in a funky geometric pattern. She looks amazing, as always.

  We toast to Michael’s health, and then head out the door to Carter’s big black Lincoln Navigator.

  Traffic is light, and it only takes about ten minutes to get from my house to the marina. Carter, always the gentleman, drops Darcy and me off by the dock entrance so we won’t have to tromp through the marina parking lot in our high heels. We wait in the shade while Carter parks the car, and the three of us walk down the dock to Boudreaux together.

  We arrive at six-thirty, although the party and first seating aren’t until seven-thirty. I need to make sure everything is in place, and Carter promised Daniel he’d arrive early for moral support.

  “The magnolias are a great touch,” says Carter.

  Tina, the headwaitress, is standing at the hostess stand when we arrive at the gangplank.

  “This is Alex,” she says to Brenna, the hostess. “Please take her to her table.”

  “Fancy,” says Carter. “You have your own table.” We cross the gangplank, and the view is stunning. The vintage linen and sea-colored tablecloths flutter gently in the breeze, the centerpieces are perfection, the ivory cane-backed chairs look elegantly formal and comfortable all at once.

  “Oh, Alex, it’s gorgeous,” says Darcy.

  “You’ve really outdone yourself,” says Carter. I smile, pleased as I can be. I love that moment when the vision in my head for a space or an event becomes a reality.

  Brenna takes us along the wall with the framed black-and-white photographs, and across to the rear deck with the view of the bay. She leads us to the table where Daniel and I so often sat together, in the corner, near the railing.

  “Here you are,” she says.

  “Oh no,” I say. “We’re happy to sit at one of the interior tables. This is the best table in the house; we should save it for a VIP at tonight’s event.”

  “Chef Daniel was very specific.” She smiles. “Very specific.”

  “Thank you,” I say. Carter and Darcy make themselves comfortable. I sit down and hang my clutch. Everything is so beautiful, I can’t stop gazing around.

  “Look at this,” says Darcy, pointing to a silver-framed photograph on the wall behind us.

  “Oh my God,” says Carter.

  I turn to look to see what the two of them are so enamored of, and I’m stunned to see a black-and-white print of the photograph that Cliff Roles snapped of Daniel and me while we were dancing—that very first night we kissed. The vintage globe lights strung along the deck shimmer in the background. Daniel and I are both smiling in the picture, completely entranced by one another.

  Daniel had it framed in silver like the others, the photographs of his beloved family and their culinary legacy, and hung it right next to our usual table. I’m touched.

  “I told you,” Carter says. “Smitten.”

  “I’ll say,” says Darcy.

  “I’m going to the bar,” Carter announces. “Does anybody want anything?”

  “I’d just like some Perrier with a twist of lime for now, please,” I say. “I need to do a quick walk-through to make sure everything is in place before the event starts.”

  “Do your thing,” says Darcy. “You know where to find us.”

  “Yes,” teases Carter. “At Alex’s table.” Smiling, I roll my eyes at him and excuse myself to do the walk-through.

  I’m so thrilled by how everything has turned out. Both decks are flawless, and the inside bar area has been reconfigured according to my plan. One of my signature red binders sits open on the bar. I close it and stow it on the shelving underneath. The mermaid statue with the verdigris patina we found in storage is elegant in her permanent place near the inside entrance. My Yahtzee victory the other night assured her a home in the restaurant, rather than upstairs in Daniel’s studio.

  Cliff Roles arrives on board around six forty-five and I ask him to please take as many shots of the decks and bar area as he can before guests arrive. Cliff and I have a standing deal when he photographs my events. In addition to the work he does for the society pages, I pay him extra to shoot the rooms themselves. It works out well for both of us. Cliff makes some extra cash for taking photos at an event he was shooting anyway, and I get some amazing photographs for my portfolio. Boudreaux is the most stunning restaurant I’ve ever done, and I want to capture every exquisite detail for posterity.

  “I’m so glad you’re here tonight, cher,” comes Daniel’s unmistakable voice. “It wouldn’t feel right without you.”

  I turn toward his sweetly melodic tenor, a masculine siren song in the key of Louisiana drawl. He’s debonair as you’d expect culinary royalty to be; his dark hair urbane, his cleft on stun, and his charisma at full wattage. He looks polished and dapper in a slim cut navy suit. It’s all I can do not to just rip it right off him.

  “You’re breathtaking,” says Daniel.

  “Thank you,” I say. “You’re pretty breathtaking yourself.” Jesus, I can hardly contain myself. I give myself a quick reminder of what transpired the morning prior.

  “You’re wearing the same dress you wore the first night we met,” he says. His deep-blue eyes are so intensely captivating, I can hardly focus. The fact that he remembers what I wore the first time he ever saw me makes me blush.

  “Before everyone arrives, I hoped you’d allow me to explain about yesterday,” he starts. I think about what Michael said about giving Daniel a chance. Actually, I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon.

  “Okay.” I nod.

  “It was not what you thought—” he starts to say, as he’s interrupted by a cohort of Southerners crowding around him, blessed with the same movie-star chins, dimples, and bourbony New Orleans accents.

  “Cher, is this her?” asks a striking older woman with dark hair pulled back in a sophisticated chignon.

  “Daniel, Daniel, are we finally meeting your Alex? We’ve waited all day, son. Where is she?” says a man in chef’s whites.

  Daniel’s skin flushes a little, which I find completely endearing.

  “Yes, this is Alex. Alex, this is my family,” he says. “I’d like to introduce my mother, Genevieve Boudreaux; my father, Etienne Boudreaux, who everyone calls ‘Chef’; my brother and, as you know, wardrobe consultant, Gabriel.” I smile a little when he mentions the wardrobe consultant bit. “And this is my grand-mere, the incomparable Miss Georgina Boudreaux.”

  “So nice to meet you all,” I say, shaking hands all around. It’s so lovely that they’ve all made the trip from New
Orleans to support Daniel on his opening night.

  They’re a gorgeous bunch, dressed mostly in kitchen clothing, with the exception of Gabriel, Daniel’s brother, who’s nattily turned out in a linen suit, bow tie, and a straw fedora—every inch the Southern gentleman.

  Daniel’s father wears chef’s whites, the traditional black-and-white houndstooth pants, and a toque blanche. He looks like Daniel, thirty years older. He’s still lean and strong, not quite as tall as his sons, his own dark hair peppered with gray. Daniel’s mother is slender and elegant. She wears classic red lipstick, and has on a chic black dress and heels, covered with a full-length white apron. His grandmother, a stout woman in her seventies, wears a long black cotton skirt and a white chef’s coat.

  Daniel’s grandmother grasps my arms with both her hands, and kisses my cheeks. “Cher, you and my Daniel have created a beautiful restaurant. I wish you much success.”

  “Thank you.” I smile. I’m not sure that she knows that my part ends after tonight, but I don’t want to spoil the mood.

  “The detail is magnificent,” says Chef. “You and Daniel had quite the vision. I never believed old Archer’s boat could be turned into such a showplace.”

  “I think Daniel always knew,” I say. He beams with pride.

  Genevieve pulls me to the side as Daniel converses with his father and brother. I feel instantly at ease with her. Like Daniel, she has the talent of making you feel you were a lifelong confidante.

  “This place is so much Daniel, such a tribute to our family history. You’ve truly captured Daniel’s raison d’être.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “That means a lot to me.”

  “I love the magnolias outside, cher,” she says. “So beautiful. They reminded me of the sixty-five-year-old magnolia tree we have in our yard at home.”

  “Daniel spoke of it often,” I say. “It felt important to him.” A wide smile lights up her entire face.

  “Did you see the picture of the two of you?” Genevieve whispers in my ear. I nod, surprised she noticed it. She smiles a dreamy, faraway smile. “He’s very sentimental, my son. Steadfast. He has the gentle soul of an artist.”