I was tempted to stop several times at restaurants filled with yuppies wearing what I call boho chic, both men and women in tight denims, boots and—what else—layers of shirts, sweaters and jackets. What would happen if I stopped in for a drink with all these other professional, well-heeled men and women in my age bracket? Would I find the love of my life at the bar? Would we look across the packed room and make an instant connection? Or would I stand there by myself, surrounded by throngs of the beautiful people, alone in a crowd, while all around me the young and the restless flirted and fawned. The worst kind of alone possible.
So I hurried on by, until I saw what I was looking for, only I didn’t know I was looking for it until I saw it: Ye Olde Bonne Creperie Bretonne, where in the window a guy was flipping paper-thin crepes in the air. The menu was written on a blackboard in chalk and it made my mouth water. One side listed the savory crepes—Mediterranean, New Orleans, Miami Heat and so many more I just stood there and stared at the dizzying number of choices. Finally I decided to get an eggplant crepe with jack cheese, tomatoes, onion, roasted red pepper and, of course, eggplant, and one called The Sopranos, with Italian sausage, mozzarella, black olives, mushrooms, spinach and pesto sauce. Then, after a quick perusal of the dessert options on the other side of the board, I ordered a bananas Foster crepe, with bananas, brown sugar, walnuts and cinnamon.
According to his aunt, Nick would enjoy the food and my company, and I’d leave with a good feeling that I’d brightened an invalid’s day. I suspected that after sitting alone day after day with only his vampire aunt for company, he would be desperate for someone like me to talk to.
I found number 1742 and was impressed by the well-cared-for Victorian house painted blue, its flower boxes filled with daffodils, tulips and trailing verbena. I saw “Petrescu” listed next to the mailbox and was about to ring the bell next to his name when someone came out the front door, so I hurried in. Why announce myself over the intercom when I could surprise Nick with a friendly knock on his apartment door?
I climbed the three flights of narrow stairs and finally reached his apartment. I knew it was his because there was a sign on the door saying Bun Venit, “Welcome.” Also, I heard his voice. I pressed my ear to the door and heard him speaking to someone in his language. Although I had minored in Romanian, I had a hard time understanding it when spoken rapidly by two native speakers, especially when those speakers were on the other side of a closed door.
What I did understand was that he wasn’t alone. The other voice I heard belonged to a woman. I didn’t know who she was, but I did know it wasn’t his aunt. Unlike the vampiric Meera, this woman made a light tinkling sound when she laughed. So much for poor Nick being sick, sad and alone. Not only was he not alone, he also wasn’t hungry, because I smelled food. Romanian food. I could tell by the scent of cabbage, onions and paprika in the air. I looked at the box of crepes I’d brought and I felt foolish. The least I could have done was to cook up something myself, as he’d done for me. But no, I’d bought some trendy French food. I stood there for another few minutes, one hand poised to knock on the door. After all, maybe it was not his girlfriend. Maybe it was his cousin who had flown in from Bucharest to take care of him while he was laid up. But why hadn’t Meera told me instead of asking me to drop in?
Finally, after standing there for several minutes listening to the lighthearted laughter and what sounded like flirtatious conversation, I turned around and walked back down the three flights of stairs. I went back the way I’d come to the bus stop, still carrying the boxes of crepes while my stomach grumbled and my head ached. My aunt Grace was right: Don’t drop in on men without an invitation. Don’t call them unless they’ve called you first.
Back in my own tiny flat, I finally opened the boxes, heated the Mediterranean crepe and ate it by myself. It was delicious. The other crepes I saved for another day.
The days dragged by until Saturday. Vienna continued to rack up sales until I was sure she was making more money in commissions than I was making in salary. The customers seemed to like her from what I could hear from the back room, where I continued to do inventory when I wasn’t answering the phone in Dolce’s office.
I followed Vienna’s orders and told anyone who asked for her that I would take a message. She got lots of calls, so scribbling messages for her kept me quite busy. I didn’t know what she did with them when I gave them to her. I did know that each day, instead of her boyfriend on his motorcycle, a car picked her up after work, sometimes right at five, sometimes later. I’m not good at identifying cars, but this one was long and low and looked expensive. I didn’t ask her who it was. After all, I didn’t want her asking me questions about my private life, like why no one ever picked me up.
On Saturday after work Dolce suggested the three of us get dressed at the shop and go to the Palace Hotel together. But Vienna said she would meet us there. She mumbled something about family obligations. Dolce looked disappointed, but surely she understood. Not only did Vienna have parents, she had stepparents too. It was clear Dolce really liked Vienna, and treated her the way she used to treat me, like a favorite daughter. Only Vienna had two other mothers. If it were me, I’d choose Dolce, but I didn’t have a choice.
I didn’t mean to complain. Dolce had given me a dress to wear and a ticket to the gala fund-raiser. On the other hand, it was a ticket to an affair I didn’t belong at. Where I couldn’t participate in the bidding if I’d wanted to, which I did. What would Jonathan say when no one bid on him? Hah, that wasn’t going to happen. Both he and Detective Wall would be snapped up by some gorgeous socialites and they’d forget about me—as if they hadn’t already.
But I put on my happy face along with the gorgeous slinky black dress I liked so much. Dolce helped me iron my hair so that it looked long and slinky too. As for my boss, she wore an elegant satin coat over a simple long dress in a teal color. Next to Dolce in teal I suddenly felt like I was going to a funeral; my long black gown now seemed entirely inappropriate. I couldn’t say a word, since she’d picked it out for me, but it was spring and I looked like winter.
“What’s Vienna wearing?” I asked Dolce when we were on our way to the auction in a cab.
“I don’t know. I asked her, but she said she hadn’t decided.”
There were so many questions I wanted to ask about Vienna, I didn’t know where to start or even if I should start. I had to be careful not to show any signs of jealousy or resentment. Both unbecoming traits in anyone.
I’d never been to the famous Garden Court of the Palace Hotel. The original was destroyed during the big 1906 quake, but they say that when it reopened in 1909, it was more beautiful and splendid than ever before. The cab let us off at the side entrance, and when we walked into the hotel, I could tell by the expression on Dolce’s face it held memories for her. We stood together in the middle of the court with its towering Italian marble columns, gazing up at the Austrian crystal chandeliers hanging from the stained-glass dome. I was awestruck. Dolce had tears in her eyes.
“So much history made at this hotel,” I said. “Didn’t one of those Hawaiian kings die here?”
“King Kalakaua. They called him the Merrie Monarch, the one who restored the hula to the islands,” she said. “He died here at the old hotel. Years later, after it was rebuilt, Woodrow Wilson gave a speech here, and Warren Harding died here,” Dolce said, looking around as if there might be a ghost or two lurking behind a pillar.
“You’ve been here before, of course,” I suggested, wondering what would happen to those chandeliers in an earthquake. Seeing as we were in a Seismic Zone Four, I could imagine the room shaking and the glass raining down on us.
“Not for many years,” she said with a sigh. “It was an engagement party.”
I wondered if it was her engagement party, but I was afraid to ask. I always wondered why she’d never married, but I thought if she wanted me to know, she’d tell me. Then she seemed to pull herself together and waved to someone across the room.
“Who’s that?” I asked, thinking I should recognize her if she was a customer.
“Muffy Spangler,” Dolce said out of the corner of her mouth. “Don’t look over at her. I haven’t seen her since I had to ban her from the store.”
“What?” I was shocked. Dolce banning a customer?
Dolce leaned forward and spoke in a half whisper. “She got into a fight with a customer over a dress they both wanted, and Muffy actually punched the poor woman in the face. Someone called the police, and we all had to go down to the station. It was horrible. That was a few years ago, and she hasn’t dared come been back since, though I’ve heard she wants to. I hope she stays away.”
I could empathize. I’d spent enough time with the police when MarySue Jensen was murdered some time ago. Not that I minded having contact with Detective Wall; what I did mind was being hauled down to the station, which was inconvenient to say the least, and where I’d had to worry about saying the wrong thing and incriminating myself or someone close to me, like Dolce.
“Could that tall, glamorous woman with the short bald man be Vienna’s mother and stepfather?” I asked Dolce. I’d seen their pictures in the society pages of the newspaper, and the resemblance between this woman and Vienna was striking even from across the room. The same blond hair, the tall, willowy body and the angular face.
“Yes, that’s Noreen Fortner and her husband Hugh.”
“She looks too young to be Vienna’s mother.”
“She’d love to hear you say that,” Dolce said. “She likes to be told they look like sisters. She used to be a good customer until they moved across the Bay and now she shops…well, I don’t know where she shops. I would be surprised if Vienna was with them. After what she said about Hugh.”
I waited but Dolce didn’t elaborate, and it was none of my business what Vienna had said about her stepfather. If it was anything like her feelings for her stepmother, I didn’t want to hear her ranting.
Dolce looked around, keeping her eye on the door. She wanted us to sit together, her and “her girls.” But maybe Vienna preferred to sit with either her mother or her father despite what she thought of their current mates. According to Vienna, the two families did not mingle. Ever. Which, from what I understood, forced Vienna to make some hard choices.
Suddenly Dolce’s face lit up. “There she is.”
I turned and watched Vienna enter the room in a gorgeous black strapless dress with a hot pink satin bodice tied in back with a huge pink bow. Around her neck was a sparkling diamond necklace with a huge pink stone. It stood out even in a room full of beautiful people dressed in everything from Versace to Nika to Stella McCartney. There were all kinds of gorgeous jewelry and designer dresses, some strapless, others one-shoulder or Grecian.
Dolce waved to her. But Vienna hardly noticed us. After the barest hint of a cool smile in our direction, she headed across the room toward…someone. But who? Which family? Would they fight over her or try to avoid her altogether?
Dolce’s face fell when Vienna passed us over for someone more important. At that moment I could have smacked Vienna for her rudeness. I could understand how she’d have to sit with her family, but couldn’t she have spared a moment to greet the woman who’d hired her, who’d done everything she could to help her succeed in her new job? As if Dolce just wasn’t important enough or rich enough or young enough to deserve more than that.
Would Vienna sit with Noreen and Hugh or her stepmother and her father, Lex? I stood on tiptoes and craned my neck, but I couldn’t see.
I wanted to ask Dolce about the necklace and the dress, but I felt it was out of place for me to bring it up. If either had come from the shop, why hadn’t I seen them? Instead, I tried to distract her by pointing out several women I thought were either well dressed or not.
“What do you think of the organza and tulle dress over there?” I asked with a nod toward a woman hanging on the arm of a tall man.
“It looks like Jason Wu, and I think it’s too frilly for the occasion and for someone her age.”
“What about that flirty Oscar de la Renta number?”
Dolce squinted and shook her head. “Terrible. And the shoes.”
“Miu Miu platform sandals if I’m not mistaken.”
“All the money in the world doesn’t make up for poor taste,” Dolce said.
We laughed at a striped Missoni maxi dress, and I was hoping she’d forgotten that Vienna had snubbed us.
I scanned the room to find something to applaud and finally found it: an off-the-shoulder goddess dress. If the woman didn’t have a gorgeous shape to begin with, she had one in that dress with its gathered knee-length skirt. When I pointed her out to Dolce, she agreed with my assessment but told me I looked even better.
Finally some other people Dolce knew joined us at our round table, and we all sat down to eat dinner. Next to Dolce was a suave gray-haired man in formal wear with a red bow tie who seemed unaccompanied by a date. I’d never seen him before, but he and Dolce appeared to be getting along splendidly.
I’d never seen her flirt before, maybe because we saw so few men at the shop to flirt with. But in between the shrimp cocktail and the crab bisque, she was smiling, gazing into his eyes, listening intently to everything he said and laughing appreciatively as if he were a combination of a guru and a stand-up comedian. I wished I knew who he was. I certainly didn’t want her falling for some guy who wasn’t suitable after all her years of abstinence.
Over steak Diane in a velvety rich sauce laced with Cognac and served with creamy mashed potatoes and sautéed mushrooms, Dolce finally introduced him to me as William Hemlock. I was happy to hear he was a retired airline pilot. Immediately I pictured Dolce flying off to exotic locales with him on his airline discount. Leaving me in charge of the shop, of course. To add to his appeal, William mentioned that when he made steak Diane he always served it flambéed. I wanted to give Dolce a thumbs-up sign, but since that would be a little obvious, I nudged her instead to indicate my approval. A man who looked like that, flew airplanes and cooked too? How unusual was that.
After a dessert course of tiny little frosted cakes and coffee, I was ready to leave. But of course I couldn’t. The fun hadn’t started yet. Where were the men to be auctioned off, I asked myself, wishing I could slip away so I didn’t have to sit there watching while gorgeous hunks paraded across the stage and every woman under fifty but me held up banners supplied by the waitstaff indicating how much they would bid.
I looked around the room. Nothing but beautiful people. And no escape without looking like a bad sport or a wimp. Suddenly a blast of music. A fanfare. An emcee in a tux stood up and told us it was time to start what we’d all been waiting for—the Bachelor Auction.
I could hardly wait. Not.
Three
The bidding went beyond all expectations. The men were snapped up for astronomical amounts so fast I had no idea who were the lucky winners. I didn’t even have time to raise my hand. So much for my promise to Dr. Jonathan. How could he blame me when he didn’t need me at all? By now he’d forgotten all about me and his desperate call for my help. Not all the men on the stage were gorgeous, I could see that. Not all were millionaires either. Some were billionaires. But they all acted like they were both gorgeous and rich. Except for Dr. Jonathan and, of course, Detective Jack Wall. Even from the back of the room I could tell those two both looked uncomfortable, like they wished they were somewhere else.
I wanted to leave before I saw them being claimed by the high bidders, leaving me conspicuously dateless, and I almost made it. I left the table thinking I’d sneak out and make up an excuse later, but I got stuck at the door and couldn’t leave. It wasn’t so much that the doors were closed, it was that I was frozen in place. My legs wouldn’t move. Some otherworldly force kept me glued to the spot and compelled me to watch the men on stage being claimed by their dates.
That’s when I saw Vienna in her dress with the giant bow, her blond hair pulled back in a s
leek chignon, hold the winning bid of a few thousand dollars for Jonathan. I couldn’t believe it. With all those men up there, she had to choose the one I knew. I didn’t blame her for bidding on him. The emcee made him sound like a cross between a young George Clooney on ER and a surfer dude. Which was actually pretty accurate.
To cap off the evening, Detective Wall was auctioned off to a woman who looked like a runway model in a wild print chiffon ball gown with a ruched strapless bodice. Her short white-blond hair was swept behind her ear. Did she know Jack in his professional capacity as I did? Or was she just a rich woman who wanted to contribute to a good cause? Or was this the beginning of a beautiful friendship? I didn’t want to know. I just wanted to disappear.
I made it as far as the bathroom, where I ran into Vienna, who else? She was standing over the sink applying a fresh coat of makeup, as if she needed it. Her skin was flawless, and her eyes sparkled brightly. Almost as brightly as the diamonds that surrounded the hot pink tourmaline in her necklace. When I’d seen it from across the room, I hadn’t really appreciated how stunning it was, but up close I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. It was so perfect with the dress.
“I love your dress,” I said. “And the necklace.”
“Thanks. You look terrific, Rita. Very Hollywood.” So she wasn’t ignoring us after all. She was her usual self.
By Hollywood I hoped she meant Sandra Bullock and not Joan Rivers. “So you won a date with my doctor, I see.”
Died With a Bow Page 3
