Sapphire Ice

by Hallee Bridgeman

  "He's going to sell it, anyway." He watched as Barry lightly hit the ball, smiled as it rolled to about two feet past the hole.

  "Good. Let someone else take the loss."

  A scowling face with a pair of bright, deep blue eyes hovered in front of Tony's vision. Then he remembered her body, her grace, her grin.

  "No. Give him his asking price but give him some earnest money up front. Ten percent, maybe. That's in addition to the asking price if he stays on as manager."

  "His asking price? He's cushioned that by at least twenty percent."

  Tony's ball landed on the green and slowly rolled toward the hole, teetered on the edge, then fell into the cup. He turned his body and looked directly at Barry, his face hard, his eyes serious. "Barry, I have accountants. I need you to be my lawyer. Think you can get the papers drawn up today?"

  Barry shrugged before he putted. "It's your money." His ball rattled into the hole. "What about the bar?"

  Tony retrieved his ball from the cup. "You know I don't like it. None of my other restaurants have a bar. I'll have to think on it and pray on it, but I'm already ninety percent sure we'll lose the bar."

  "With Hank wanting to keep his staff, we'll need to make sure something that extreme is in the contract."

  "Whatever you need to do." Tony watched as Barry retrieved his ball and they both replaced their putters and climbed back into the cart. "See, Barry? You're wrong again."

  "Again? About what?"

  "I just conducted business on a golf course."

  "True. But it would have been more satisfying if I could have tackled you to the ground with my bare hands instead of whacking some stupid little ball with a stick."

  Tony chuckled for the sake of the gentle giant's sense of humor. He always laughed at Barry's jokes. The men understood each other on many unspoken levels. They approached the eighteenth hole. "As soon as we're done here, I'll buy you lunch," Tony offered.

  Barry sighed, understanding that lunch would likely be the special at Hank's Place. He pulled his telephone out of his pocket and dialed his office number. "I'll have the papers waiting on us. We'll need to stop by my office on the way."

  THE three men sat in Hank's office in the back of the restaurant, sandwiches at their elbows. Hank had reading glasses perched on his nose and slowly read over the contract one more time. "What's the deal, here? Did someone find uranium under the patio tiles? Am I sitting on top of an unknown oil well or gold mine?"

  Tony drained his glass, uncommonly relaxed. "Yeah," he drawled, "your restaurant. This place is its own gold mine."

  Hank looked at him over the rim of his glasses. "Don't play games with me, Viscolli. You have a reputation that well precedes you and I'm not as dumb as I look. How come you're giving me my asking price without even trying to negotiate?"

  Tony returned his stare. "I want to buy this place. You want to sell it."

  "What's this offer of earnest money above the asking price? This ties me in for five more years if I accept it."

  Tony shrugged. "It's pretty black and white. Why the questions?"

  "Because, suddenly, I don't trust this deal."

  "You contacted me, Lamore. I've done my due diligence and this is the only way the place remains profitable."

  "What does a small time restaurant outside the city limits have that draws the direct attention of the infamous Antonio Viscolli?" He tossed the contract on the desk in front of him and leaned back in his chair. "I sign nothing until I figure that out."

  Barry spoke. "You sell nothing if we get up and walk out, too."

  Hank shrugged. "Maybe not to you, but I will to someone, and probably inside of five years."

  Tony surged out of his chair and paced to a picture hanging on the wall. He stared at a picture of a younger Hank, looking very different in a crisp white uniform, his arm draped across the shoulders of a woman, presumably his wife, standing in front of their restaurant. A banner across the front of the building read "Grand Opening."

  He put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. "I want to buy this place for the reason that I buy anything – because it's a moneymaking venture. I'm choosing to offer you your asking price for two reasons. First, it is actually a very reasonable asking price, and you could have asked for more. You should have consulted with more people before locking in. Secondly, I like you. I rarely allow emotions to affect business deals, but I do like you, and I figure my offer just might make your retirement sweeter." He crossed the room and stood near his chair, but didn't sit. "But I'm not going to play cat and mouse games with anyone. You decide, now or in your own time, but you decide without the games."

  Hank drew his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. "I have a condition that I absolutely will not back away from."

  Barry uncapped his pen. "What's that?"

  "You keep my employees, without pay cuts and with similar benefits."

  "That's a standard clause. If you'll see article fifteen of the – "

  "I don't need to read it. I'll take your word." His eyes cut to Tony but addressed Barry. "Because I'm guessing your word is as good as his."

  "The bar will be removed. The bartenders will have to be assigned new jobs, and if they choose to quit instead, that will be their choice and not affect the contract."

  Hank raised an eyebrow. "No bar?"

  Barry answered, thumbing through the stapled contract and marking places requiring his personal touch. "No Viscolli restaurant has a bar. We're also closed on Sundays in observance of the Sabbath."

  Hank looked from Barry to Tony. "No kidding?"

  Tony gave a slight nod of his head. Hank continued. "Okay. That's intriguing." He cleared his throat. "I'll sign these papers in two weeks. It will give my lawyer time to go over them, and give my wife time to make sure that it's what we want to do."

  Tony held his hand out. "Then we'll be in touch in two weeks."

  IT was rare for Antonio Viscolli to have an entire afternoon off, alone. It seemed wherever he went, whatever he was doing, business followed, and when business followed, it meant dealing with people: asking, demanding, meeting, negotiating. If it wasn't a lawyer, it was a secretary. If it wasn't a secretary, it was a reporter. On and on, constant demands. It wasn't something he disliked or resented. It was simply his life.

  He woke early to pray and meditate on God, to read his Bible, and to have conversations with his heavenly Father. The opportunity to get away in the daytime, during business hours, was a rare treat.

  After working almost nonstop for months, Tony was exhausted. It was rare for his energy to be so diminished, but when he thought back, it had been more than two years since he'd truly taken any time for himself. The golf game relaxed him a bit, but he needed more. He needed to pour some energy into something, let his body slow down with his mind.

  He needed to sweat.

  He'd taken up rowing because it was something kids with his background didn't do. It was a sport in which the blue bloods of the country competed, kids in Ivy League schools and their recent graduates. It was one more step away from his childhood, one more step to discard his past. It was also a sport that required no interaction with another human being. His solitude was something that he treasured.

  He let his mind wander as the muscles in his arms worked the oars. Smoothly and cleanly he cut across the water, letting the sun beat down on his head, warming his neck and shoulders. The breeze blew warm, heated by the late summer the state presently enjoyed, and he lifted his face, letting the stress and pressures bleed out of him with each stroke.

  In just two short weeks, he would celebrate his thirty-second birthday. All he had striven to achieve in life had been accomplished and then some. He was very nearly bored. Perhaps it was time he set his sites on something new. Something that didn't require contracts or negotiations. The water reflected back at him, as blue as a pair of eyes that hadn't left his mind in nearly twenty-four hours.

  Pushing the thought away, he tried to plan for the coming month.
He'd spent almost too much time in Los Angeles, but it had been necessary. It had taken him some time to establish himself in the business, to make sure those he left in charge knew that he, ultimately, was the boss. It hadn't been easy, but he had friends who helped him out, helped him sort through the lingo and nuances unique to Hollywood. With their continued help his company would provide good, quality, Christian films and television shows, and it would soar.

  Because they all did, all the enterprises he owned. Tony Viscolli insisted on it.

  A bird flew by overhead, hunting fish that were foolish enough to swim close to the surface. He heard it cry out, watched it circle back, then dive down and come up clutching its dinner in its beak. Across the river, he passed a small boat with a father and son fishing. The oars occupied his hands, so he nodded to return their polite wave, glad no words needed exchanging. If envy twisted in his gut at the sight of such a simple father and son outing, he ignored it and pushed the feeling away, focused on something else.

  Women had always thrown themselves at him. He knew he was physically attractive and actually used his looks to his advantage as he scrambled up the ladder of success.

  When it had become necessary, he'd hired consultants and learned how to dress immaculately for whatever the occasion demanded. Learned how to speak without his street accent coming through. Learned what fork to use when, learned how to have polite dinner conversation. He had transformed himself, but his Savior had transformed him even more completely before Tony ever began that process, and Tony admitted that fact and felt humbled by it.

  In the process of his transformation, he met women who, five years before, would have turned their noses up at his offer to clean their toilets. None knew he'd been a street rat, as he'd been called on several occasions. They never saw past the charm, the polish. They never saw the kid who had eaten out of garbage dumpsters when he'd been hungry enough. They saw Antonio Viscolli, a man with money, power, connections, and a bit of danger lurking in the background behind those dark brown eyes.

  Tony enjoyed women, enjoyed being with them, enjoyed entertaining them. He had scores of women across the country he could call on at any time if he wanted a date or a hostess. It was something that was just part of his life, something he never gave much thought. Most didn't even mind the platonic boundaries of their relationships, always hopeful that he might fall in love and propose, giving away the coveted title of Mrs. Antonio Viscolli.

  This one was different. He didn't have a finger on it yet. Something about her, something in her, made her different. His attraction to her had been instant and absolute. Was he listening to God's whispered voice in his ear, or his own human weaknesses? He didn't know. All he knew was that he must see her again. He felt led to get to know her.

  Pushing all thoughts out of his mind, he concentrated solely on the rhythm of his strokes. Flexing his arms, he cut the oars through the water, sending the boat sleekly across the surface as a trickle of sweat rolled down his back between his shoulder blades.

  THAT insufferable, miserable–. Robin's hand slapped the side of the wall, cutting off the next words in her mind.

  Robin stood under the weak spray of the shower, wishing that the wall she slapped with her open palm could be him. His face. No, she changed her mind. She wouldn't give him a full slap on the face. No, she'd curl her hands until her nails would rake some of the handsome off, until they drew blood and left scars.

  The nerve of the man.

  She slopped shampoo into her palm and started the long process of washing her hair. How dare he? Leaving her a tip under his plate that nearly matched to the penny the tip put on his account that she and ten others split. Who did he think she was? What did he think she was? It seemed like he made it clear what he thought she was, asking what she'd do to keep her job at Hank's a secret from Benedict's.

  Oh, and the way that he just smiled that irritatingly polite smile at her through the rest of breakfast. And then there was that stupid trick of the way he held her eyes, giving her the feeling that he wanted to be alone with her in a candlelit room, and the whole time giving some stupid speech about the economic development of Boston. He never even tripped on his words, not when she glared at him, nor when she turned her back on him.

  She scrubbed her scalp until it hurt, then finally took mercy on her poor roots, knowing that the strands were going to have to be bound tightly in a bun for another grueling eight hours.

  She would just put the bills into a little envelope and mail the money right back to him. She didn't need him or his money.

  She closed her eyes and rested her cheek against the tile wall. What she needed was a vacation. "Two more years," she said out loud, then ducked her head back under the spray to finish washing the suds away.

  Feeling better after pounding the shower wall some more, she sat at her kitchen table, a tuna sandwich and a cup of coffee at her elbow, and figured out her budget. She'd had a good summer, considering the way business declined at Hank's during the school's off season. That was a good thing about working two jobs. Without fail, Benedict's always had a great summer.

  While she had very little money for herself, very little extras, she was able to pay all of the bills without a hitch. She finished balancing her checkbook and found the money that Maxine deposited into her account. She made a note to call the bank and have it transferred. She'd made a vow to do this alone, and she intended to see it through to the end.

  Maxine had tried giving her checks, but eventually quit when Robin kept handing them back to her torn up. She had tried cash, but it kept ending up on her bed. Now she'd resorted to directly depositing the money. Robin simply opened her sister a savings account and had the money transferred as soon as she discovered it.

  It bothered her that she hadn't been grocery shopping in months, and that was because Maxine beat her to it. If she could take the food back, she would. Of course she couldn't, so she simply added what she guessed Maxine was spending on the food to the amount that got transferred into the savings account.

  Robin popped a peppermint onto her tongue and looked at the balance in the account. There wasn't a whole lot left but she would have enough from tonight's tips to fill her car up with gas. Then she wouldn't have to worry about anything for another week.

  Just as she finished putting everything away, she heard the apartment door open and close, and watched Sarah come around the corner of the kitchen. She wore a baggy T-shirt that advertised Hank's and a pair of baggy jeans. She stopped short when she saw Robin sitting at the table.

  "Hey. I expected you to be sleeping."

  Robin shrugged and sucked on her peppermint. "I guess I'm not used to napping." She stared at Sarah while the young woman rummaged in the refrigerator and pulled out salad makings. "How did your test go?"

  Sarah groaned as she tore off lettuce leaves and dropped them into a bowl. "Microbiology." She popped a cherry tomato into her mouth and grinned around the fruit. "But, I think I aced it. Whether or not I'll remember anything remains to be seen, but at least I got through the exam."

  "That's great." Robin reached across the table and snagged a slice of cucumber from the bowl. "Your dip's in the fridge."

  "Thanks, Robin. I appreciate that."

  The front door opened and shut again. Seconds later, Maxine footed into the kitchen looking as if she were dashing toward an unseen finish line. She wore a plum colored skirt and a white silk blouse, and somehow had all of that hair contained in a stylish twist on the back of her head. Robin thought that the contrast between her two sisters was almost comical.

  "Hi honey, I'm home. What's for lunch?" she grinned, looking over Sarah's shoulder. She snagged a slice of carrot from the bowl.

  "If you two want some of this, I can make a bigger salad," Sarah frowned.

  Robin winked at Maxine and snuck a tomato. "Don't be silly. We can just eat off of yours."

  Maxine kicked her heels off, pulled out a chair, and sat down. "You have any meat to go with that?"

&
nbsp; Sarah shuddered. "Do you know the types of hormones and other toxins they pump farm animals full of? How can you eat that?"

  Maxine grinned and snatched a peppermint out of Robin's tin. "Luckily, I studied mundane things like art and drafting, and have no need for that kind knowledge. And after my double cheeseburger on my way home just now, I must say that ignorance is bliss." She turned her head and looked at her older sister. "You look tired."

  "Don't I always look tired?" She stood and stretched, then threw the checkbook and calculator into a drawer. "I need to get ready to go to Hank's." She lifted her hair and let it fall. It was nearly dry. "What are you two doing tonight?"

  Sarah carefully added extra virgin olive oil and a dash of vinegar to her salad. "I have to take that dip out to my parents'. I'll probably just spend the night there."