by Peggy Bird
Nick laughed. “Believe me, if I’d known throwing around the names of my sister and my date would get me a good table, I’d have told you.”
“Welcome to Oregon, Nick,” Fiona said as she followed the host, “where the whole state’s a small town. Not everyone likes being only three degrees separated from everyone else but I love it.” Love it? She wouldn’t have it any other way.
Jim seated them at a table in the lower level by the window where it was quiet; almost secluded. When their server came to take drink orders she asked if Fiona was having her usual. She nodded. Nick said, “I’ll have the same.”
“You’re very trusting,” Fiona said when the server left. “Suppose it’s some sort of frou frou girly drink.”
“First, you never ordered one when we were in D.C. And second, the fact you’d call it a frou frou girly drink shows my confidence isn’t misplaced.”
“I hope you like Maker’s Mark Manhattans straight up.”
“My favorite bourbon.” He closed the menu. “And since you seem to be on a roll, why don’t you order for both of us.”
Not sure what to make of it, she took a moment before replying, finally going with, “You’re an interesting man, Nick St. Claire.”
“I’m trying to be.”
“Really? How come?”
“I shouldn’t think it would take an investigative reporter to figure it out.” His smile was slow in appearing but seductive when it showed up.
She cocked her head and stared at him again, trying to read in his hazel eyes what he meant, not sure she was ready for what she saw. Finally she dropped her gaze and opened her menu. “Everything here is good. Greg Higgins, the owner, was one of the first people in the region to go locavore.”
He let her diversionary tactic hang for a moment before saying, “I always think that word sounds funny. If an herbivore eats vegetables and a carnivore eats meat, it follows a locavore should eat the natives, doesn’t it?”
“You’ve met some strange people in your travels. Or have you’ve eaten some strange food?” She went back to perusing the menu. “I think I’ll pick out dinner without following either of those trains of thought.” Ignoring Nick’s laugh she went on. “Greg’s loyalty to local growers is one of the reasons I like this place. The other, of course, is I like what they do with the ingredients.”
Their server returned with their Manhattans and recited the specials. When she left, Fiona raised her glass and said, “Here’s to a successful visit.”
Nick clinked glasses with her. “Thank you. I hope I get what I came for, too.”
He probably meant his photographs but Fiona couldn’t help wondering—and hoping—it wasn’t all he meant.
When the server came back for their order, Nick handed her his menu and said, “Ms. McCarthy is ordering for both of us.” Fiona smiled and said, “We’ll split the spring greens and hazelnut salad to start and have the duck on the menu and the halibut special.”
The order taken care of, their menus and the server disappeared. “Dinner sounds great,” Nick said. “But I was surprised there was no salmon on offer.”
“I think we’re between seasons—too late for one run, too early for another. My favorite is Copper River salmon, but the season’s still about a month or so away.” She handed the wine list to him. “Here, I left the hard part for you—picking out a wine to go with both duck and halibut.”
Nick motioned to their server and, when she got there, engaged in a long discussion about wines culminating in the selection of an Oregon Pinot Noir.
They had just settled back with their drinks again when there was yet another interruption, this time from Duke Wellington. He approached the table, his hand out to Fiona. “I thought that was you. With your red hair, you can’t hide very well, can you?” he said as they shook hands. “How’s your story on our little foundation coming? Can we expect to be inundated with calls from admirers of your prose any time soon?”
“It’s coming along just fine, thanks. Not sure when we plan to run it, but I’ll let you know when it does.” She indicated her date. “Duke, this is Nick St. Claire. He’s a photojournalist here on assignment. Nick, meet Duke Wellington. He’s started a very interesting foundation funding green energy start-ups.”
“Nice to meet you,” Wellington said. Nick had stood and the two men shook hands. “St. Claire. I don’t suppose you’re related to our Amanda St. Claire, are you?”
“I am. She’s my sister.”
“I have two pieces of her work. If your photographic images are as good as her glass, your parents raised two remarkable artists.”
“Thank you. They would be pleased with the compliment.”
“Well, I don’t want to interrupt you two anymore than I already have. I was just on my way out and wanted to let Fiona know I’d seen her. Nice to meet you, Nick. See you again, Fiona, I’m sure.”
What the hell did that mean; he wanted to let me know he’d seen me? And I’m not able to hide? How creepy was that?
Watching him leave, Nick had a puzzled expression on his face. He stared after Duke Wellington for a few moments before taking his seat again. “Why do I get an uneasy feeling about him?”
“You, too? I had a similar feeling when I interviewed him recently, but I can’t put my finger on why.”
“There’s just something off about him, like he’s putting on an act.”
“Maybe it’s knowing he’s one of the guys I’ve been hearing is behind what I’m digging into that’s tainting my opinion of him. Or maybe it’s just his well-known dislike of the press. I don’t know.”
The salad arrived as she was finishing up her musings and Duke Wellington disappeared from their conversation.
They’d finished their salad and were talking, Nick with his hand over hers, when two couples followed the host down the short flight of steps to their part of the restaurant. The first couple consisted of a tall, handsome, dark-haired man, his hand at the small of the back of an equally dark-haired woman not much shorter in her heels than he was. Both were in their thirties and dressed in business clothes.
The second couple looked more casual. The man wore dark denim jeans and cowboy boots with a tan jacket and a white dress shirt and had his arm around the shoulders of a woman in a short, flippy skirt and a lace-edged blouse. Her impossibly high platform sandals looked like an attempt to make her five-foot-nothing self get a bit closer to the height of the man she was with.
Fiona quickly moved her hand from under Nick’s and waved at Margo Keyes and her husband, Tony Alessandro. Nick stood up to kiss his sister, Amanda, and say hello to her husband, Sam Richardson.
“So this is the previous engagement keeping you from having dinner with us, is it, Nicky?” Amanda said as she hugged her brother. She bent and kissed Fiona. “And you, my friend, have been keeping things from me, haven’t you?”
Fiona was happy when Margo interjected, “What’re you two doing here?”
“Duh. Eating dinner. And how’d you both do in court today?” Fiona replied.
“How’d you know we were in court today?”
“Your hair is up in a twist and you’re both in very nice looking suits. Court’s the only place anyone dresses up for any more,” Fiona said.
“Very observant. And correct. Tony had his first outing in a Multnomah County court as the arresting officer. I won the case I was prosecuting, which prominently featured the testimony of one Detective Sam Richardson who, in spite of the fact he defies your stereotype about dressing up for court, was very persuasive with my jury. So, when he told me he and Amanda were celebrating, we decided to tag along.”
“Celebrating the triumph of justice over evil-doers are you, Sam?” Nick asked.
“We’re not celebrating my accomplishments tonight, as impressive as they are. We’re celebrating your sister’s. She’s just signed with a gallery in New York and she’ll be having a solo show there,” Sam said.
“Awesome, Amanda” Nick said, kissing his sister again. �
�How come you didn’t tell me about it when we talked?”
“I just got it firmed up today. I tried to get hold of you this afternoon to tell you and see if your ‘previous engagement’ was still on, but I couldn’t reach you. Were you out shooting without your phone?” Amanda said.
“I was at Mt. St. Helens. Had a phone but no reception in spots. And, to be honest, I was in a hurry when I got back and didn’t check for messages.”
“No cell coverage? That’s not good, Nicky. Were you alone? You shouldn’t go places alone if you can’t be sure you’ll have cell phone coverage.”
“Did you know there was no reception at all when I was in the Amazon six months ago?”
“No, I didn’t, but I don’t live in the Amazon and wouldn’t have Mom on my back if something happened to you. She’d be after some magazine, not me. You really shouldn’t be out there alone.”
“Amanda,” her husband interrupted, “maybe you could have this conversation with your brother when he doesn’t have a dinner companion with him. What do you think?”
“Thanks, Sam. I appreciate the help,” Nick said. “A lecture from my sister on looking both ways before I cross the street doesn’t exactly put me in the best light when I’m trying to impress a woman.”
“Sorry, Fiona, I’m behaving like…” Amanda started.
“Like she usually does, if you want to know the truth, Fee,” Nick finished.
“He’s right, Fiona. His older sister and mine spend too much time intruding into their brothers’ lives and making damn nuisances of themselves. Right, Nick?” Sam asked.
“I wouldn’t think of contradicting my older and much wiser brother-in-law.”
“I don’t intrude, Nicky, I’m just concerned,” Amanda said.
By this time the host had become impatient waiting at the table for the foursome. Nick said, “How about we continue talking after dinner? I’ll treat for dessert and a nightcap to celebrate and to make amends for trying to earn a living when my interfering sister wanted to talk to me.”
“Great,” Sam said. “Grab a table in the bar here, if you can, and we’ll join you when we’re finished. If you can’t get a table, we can go down the street to the Heathman.”
“Since my date has an in with the management, we’ll let Fiona get us a table. Champagne, Amanda, or something else?”
“Oh, definitely champagne,” she said. “I think being in a gallery in New York is worth champagne. Especially if you’re buying.”
A little over an hour later, the six of them were at a table in the bar where, thanks to Fiona’s intervention, there was a “reserved” sign and a bottle of chilled Veuve Cliquot waiting for them. Nick arranged with their server to get the bill, then returned to the table where he settled next to Fiona and draped his arm proprietarily around the back of her chair.
When they’d ordered desserts, poured the champagne, and made a toast, Fiona said, “This is so exciting, Amanda. How’d it happen?”
“The gallery owner saw my work last fall in Seattle and contacted me. Everything is all signed and I may have a show there as early as this winter.”
“Mom will be all over this,” Nick said. “She’s already been to D.C. to see my exhibit, accompanied by friends she’d dragged in from the surrounding states. For New York, she’ll set up base camp someplace in the city and bring in the whole Eastern seaboard.”
“When I called to tell her about it I swear I could hear her clicking keys on her laptop. If she wasn’t checking out some ultrasound images she was probably researching hotels close to the gallery,” Amanda said.
“The good news is her friends bought some of my work. You’ll probably have the same thing happen.” He turned to Fiona. “Have you ever met our parents, Fee?”
“For a few minutes at Sam and Amanda’s wedding. Not to talk to.”
“Conversations with our mother are an interesting cultural experience. Like being examined in an adolescent rite of passage in a tribal society someplace.”
“It sounds like I need to be on assignment far, far away when they come to town,” Fiona said.
“Sorry, the out-of-town-excuse is exclusively mine,” Nick said, hugging her. “You’ll have to find another.”
“Fiona, don’t let them scare you. Dr. and Mr. St. Claire are really nice people,” Sam said.
“Of course you think they’re nice. My mom adored you before she even met you.” Amanda said.
“I met her by e-mail first. I’m more impressive in writing, apparently,” Sam said.
“Your mom is obviously a doctor, Amanda, what’s your dad do?” Tony asked.
“Mom’s an OB-GYN. Since he retired from business, Dad runs the family trust.”
“How come I didn’t know you two had a family trust?” Fiona said, looking first at her friend then at her date.
“Our great-grandfather on the St. Claire side set up a trust to hold real estate and pay for college. On my mother’s side, we had a stockbroker grandfather who set up trusts for us to inherit when we turned twenty-five. All very weird and nineteenth century,” Amanda said.
“But when you marry into it,” Sam said, leaning over and kissing his wife on the temple, “and gain not only a talented and beautiful wife who loves you but who already owns a home in Alameda and a beach house, it’s not bad.”
Chapter 8
After the dessert party broke up, Fiona and Nick walked through the Park Blocks toward his hotel. It was a pleasant spring evening and, in a move that reminded her of their walk around the Tidal Basin in Washington, Nick took her hand as they strolled unhurriedly between the beds of red and yellow tulips in full bloom.
“So, a trust fund baby,” Fiona said. “Must be nice. What’s it like?” Crap. That sounded bad as soon as it left her mouth. What was it about this man that made her forget how to filter her words?
“The good thing was we could go to any college where we were accepted and had an income when we graduated, so we could get established in careers that aren’t always easy to start in without a safety net. The bad part is the tone in people’s voice when they say ‘trust fund baby.’”
She dipped her head and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound insulting. It’s just so far outside my experience, I’m not sure how to process it.”
“It’s okay. You’re not alone. It’s why I don’t talk about it. Amanda’s more comfortable with it, I guess. At least she makes jokes about having robber baron ancestors whose wise investments gave us a nice life.”
“You shouldn’t be embarrassed. Look at what the two of you have done with your lives. It’s not as if you’ve been sitting around eating bon-bons and having your nails done.”
“Maybe. Although sometimes I think the reason I like challenging assignments is because it makes me feel like I’m paying my dues for the good luck of being born into my family.”
“I begin to see why your sister hovers. You take many chances with your work?”
“Not really. Are you worried?” He put his arm around her shoulder and squeezed her in an affectionate hug.
She slipped her arm around his waist and decided to change the subject rather than answer the question. “So, where did you go to college?”
He had an amused expression on his face as if her evasion of his question was what he expected. “Columbia.”
“Good journalism school.”
“Exactly. The j-school and the chance to live in New York for a few years were the attractions. Where did you go to school?”
“Washington State University, in Pullman, which is so far east in Washington State it practically qualifies as Idaho. I was a communications major with journalism as my minor.”
“And what’s your family like?”
“As different from yours as it’s possible to be. My father was a longshoreman at the Port of Tacoma and my mother was an office manager for a local real estate developer. You ever been to Tacoma?”
“Yup. One summer while I was in college, I interned with a photojourna
list and we covered a strike at the port. You didn’t want to go back when you graduated?”
“I thought about it, but the job offer came from Portland. So here I am. I missed my family at first but now I have friends who are almost as close as family.”
“Your parents still live there?”
“They do, in the same little house they’ve lived in for forty years. They’re retired now. Which means my mom can enjoy her grandkids who live close by.”
“You smile when you talk about them. Good family to grow up in?”
“It was.”
By this time, they were standing in the lobby of the Paramount Hotel. Nick caressed her cheek with the backs of his curled fingers. With his touch she lost all interest in her family; couldn’t have remembered her sisters’ names if he’d asked.
“What do you think? Am I going to ask you up to my room?” He dropped a quick kiss on her forehead.
“I don’t know. Are you?” Every cell in her body was concentrated on the feel of his fingers on her face and a desire to taste his mouth.
“If I ask, do you know what you’ll say?”
She reached up and took his chin in her hands. After she kissed him, she said, “Did I give the right answer?”
“The elevator’s this way.”
• • •
She’d been thinking about this ever since yesterday, when they’d had drinks. Would he ask? Of course he would. Should she go? Maybe just have dinner. Which would be stupid, after Washington. But what about Amanda? She’d lied to her friend. Okay, not lied, just not told her the whole story.
Then she’d seen the look in his eyes when she walked into the restaurant, felt his thumb caress the back of her neck as they sat in the bar while she tried to carry on an intelligent conversation. His touch so unnerved her at first she was sure she’d been speechless. And now, with just the brush of his fingers across her cheek, he had her where he wanted her. Where she wanted to be, in the elevator going up to his room.
