by Leslie Pike
“That’s going around, I guess,” she says softly.
I’ve never given voice to my thoughts on the subject, but somehow now feels right. I look at her.
“I need to change something too. Just don’t know what exactly.”
“Me too. And I have another problem. If I step away from the life I have now, there may be no stepping back.”
We both get quiet, lost in our thoughts. The dramatic skyline of the city at night is enough to fill the gap. I make the final turn off Presidio Boulevard and into the underground garage of my loft.
“Come on, let’s continue our conversation upstairs.”
The three million dollars my relatively modest-sized loft’s worth is based wholly on its location and the floor-to-ceiling views. San Francisco prices. I was lucky. I bought my place in 2009 when the economy was in the toilet. The breaking of marriages however was booming. Divorces and lost fortunes go well together.
I like simple and clean. My housekeeper says it’s a sin to charge me each week for a place that doesn’t need cleaning. But this morning I asked her to do some extra work. Defrost the manicotti, fill the salt and pepper shakers. The table should be set with flowers. I asked her to use the silver candlesticks I’ve had in my kitchen cabinet for at least five years. Don’t even know where they came from.
The moment we walk in, I hear the reaction. There’s always a gasp when visitors see the view of the bay and Alcatraz.
“Christos, this is spectacular. The view!”
“You should see it when the fog rolls in. That’s my favorite.”
First thing I do is turn on the music. Sinatra’s “Witchcraft” sets the stage. Intentional choice on my part.
“I love this song,” she says locking eyes with me.
“Me too.” I return the unspoken acknowledgement of the night we met.
She puts her purse down and takes in the loft.
My kitchen’s a long granite bar lit by hanging pendant lights. It stands in front of stainless appliances and black cabinets. There’s a great room which encompasses my dining and living space. Couches and chair and table angled towards the view. I’ve enclosed my bedroom and bathroom behind heavy curtains of grey that hang high from the thirteen-foot ceiling creating a private space.
Marta has set the table as requested. The flowers are in a vase I don’t recognize. Must be hers.
“Wow. That’s my review,” she says.
“I’m going to get us a glass of wine, and you can keep me company while I cook,” I say.
“Sounds good.”
More to the point, it’s while I warm the dish and make a salad. My father would be having a fit if he knew that was the extent of my dinner. No olives? No bread? But simple is best when you don’t know what the hell you’re doing.
Opening the wine, I pour us each a glass. I raise mine to her. “Here’s to Kate and her mighty talent.”
“And to Christos and his chivalry. Thank you for saving a damsel in distress.”
She returns my toast then pulls up a barstool so she can watch me. Oh well, she might as well learn my skills lie elsewhere.
“We’re having manicotti and a salad. Is that enough?” Suddenly I’m worried.
She laughs. “I’m mostly a Lean Cuisine girl. Your offerings sound like a feast.”
I set the oven just as Nash instructed. Okay, so far so good. When I open the refrigerator, there’s no manicotti. I move the three items on the shelves just to make sure I haven’t missed where the housekeeper put it. As if it could be hidden behind the jar of capers that’s been there for a year. Crap. I open the freezer. “Shit!” There the dish sits exactly where I left it.
“What’s wrong?”
“My housekeeper was supposed to take the dish out to defrost. It’s frozen solid.”
I’m pissed. But Kate finds it funny. She covers her mouth to hide the laugh.
“We’ll figure it out. Maybe we can microwave it,” she says.
“What do I do? Should I just cook it for five minutes?” I say like a clueless ten-year-old.
She throws her arms in the air and raises her shoulders. “I have no idea. I don’t cook either. I use my microwave to warm coffee or make frozen dinners. Oh wait! Those are frozen and you cook them for about five minutes then stir then maybe three minutes more. So, that would probably work. I’d do it for thirty minutes because it’s much bigger. Then stir and put it back in for I don’t know, maybe ten more.”
“Okay. Let’s give it a try.”
Sounds logical. I lift the dish into the microwave and start the process. The first thing that happens is the dish hits the door. And again, and again.
“Oh crap,” I say stopping the countdown.
“You’ve got to turn off the turntable. That much I know,” she says laughing.
I’m a little embarrassed. Where the hell’s that button?
“As you can tell, this isn’t something I normally do,” I say turning towards her. “Help.”
I get a dazzling smile and two dimples for that comment.
“Then I applaud your efforts. Press turntable off,” she says.
For the next half hour we try to defrost the fucking manicotti. That’s all it takes to annihilate the pasta. There’s no stirring a half-solid block of ice and slop. It kind of softens unevenly then overcooks around the edges until it’s a lost cause. But through the entire fiasco we’re laughing. I throw the whole thing, pan and all, into the trash.
“We’re pathetic cooks,” she says covering her mouth with her hand. A laugh is about to escape.
“Awful. I’m just glad you’re as bad as I am,” I state unequivocally.
She nods her agreement and gazes at the undisputed proof. It looks like someone barfed in the trash bin.
“We can’t even warm one dish in the microwave.”
“Let’s have more wine,” I say putting an end to our failed attempt.
Two glasses and one salad later and we’re in a happy place. I know what I want to ask her. It’s been floating around in my mind all day.
“My brother’s wedding is next weekend. I’d like to take you. Interested?”
“I’m interested.” She says it with no hesitation.
Her hand runs through her hair as she answers. I’d like to be doing that and more.
“Good.”
There’s a whole lot of subtext within those few sentences. I’m about ready to lean in for a kiss when she makes a joke.
“I’m stuffed,” she says patting her stomach.
We both bust out laughing.
“Want to go out for dinner?” I say.
“No. I’m just joking. I want to stay in for conversation.”
And so we do. We talk until the sun and my heart are just starting to rise.
Chapter Four
Kate
I can’t remember the last time I went to a wedding, or met the parents, or was nervous about being with a man. Men don’t make me nervous. Today all three are happening. I gaze at my reflection in the mirror and know it’s the best I can do with what God gave me. My stomach’s doing cartwheels as I wait for Christos to arrive.
I keep thinking about how he kissed me on Halloween. It was like I was the first piece of chocolate he’d ever tasted. Now, every man I ever kiss will be measured against those lips.
When he took me to his loft last week, we resumed where we left off. He wanted more, but when he advanced I retreated. I like that he didn’t press further and took no for an answer.
It was a reluctant refusal on my part though. For once in my life I’m going to take things slow. Then I can figure out just what it is I want from Christos Santini. It shouldn’t be anything more than a good time. I’m leaving here in two months. But my heart’s not acting like it. I think it’s being influenced by something lower.
I bought a new dress for today. As I slip it on, I’m admiring the icy blue silk wool. Long sleeves balance the formfitting silhouette. Turning, I can see the dramatic open back held together by
one button at the nape of my neck. Dove grey heels were the right color to pair with it. My hair is up, pulled away from my face in an elegant twist that crowns my head. The dramatic earrings are filigreed silver.
A smoky eye and pale pink lipstick work well with the look. It’s not lost on me that my own opinion of my appearance is the only one that counts. But today I’m hoping for his approval. The sound of the Porsche brings me back to reality.
“Prince Charming just pulled up,” Auntie says from the door.” You look beautiful, honey.”
“Thank you. Think he’s going to agree?”
“If he’s got a pulse he will.”
“You’re my favorite cheerleader,” I say. “Will you get the door while I put my purse together?”
“Take your time, make an entrance!” She starts to go but doubles back. “Oh, I’m taking off for Santa Cruz this afternoon. Remember to feed the animals.”
“Will do. Have a good time.”
“I’m bringing the good time,” she laughs.
She’s off to greet Christos, and I get to gathering my things. The doorbell sounds followed by my heart skipping a beat. After a few seconds, Auntie opens the door. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but they laughed after it was said. I take one final look in the mirror and repeat the same mantra I always say before walking onstage. Wow ’em.
I hear his voice as I walk down the hallway, asking Auntie about the cat. But as I start to descend the staircase he goes silent. Oh Lord. He’s wearing the hell out of that tuxedo. Is it my imagination, or did my vow of self-enforced chastity just waver?
Watching me, his jaw clenches in an involuntary response. Slowly, a smile lifts the corners of his mouth. If I could I’d bottle up the way he looks at me and take it out whenever I had doubts about myself.
“Hello,” I say.
“Hello, beautiful.”
Just three words between us, but they speak volumes. Auntie reads the room and quietly moves away. I reach the bottom of the stairs and he comes to me, hands rising to my face.
“This is your fault.”
He kisses me softly. But even this chaste touch of our lips is enough to push me in one direction.
“I could start a fire with what I’m feeling for you,” he says.
I know I’m ablaze, with zero percent controlled.
The closer we come to the Santini house the more nervous I get. It’s going to be a small gathering at first, just immediate family, the wedding party and their plus ones for pictures. The ceremony doesn’t begin for a few hours. Christos and his brothers are all groomsmen because Nash chose his son as best man.
We pull onto the stone circular driveway to the two-story Mediterranean home. Oversized Italian-style urns with lemon trees line the way.
“You’re awfully quiet,” he says.
“I don’t know why but I’m nervous. It’s ridiculous.”
He chuckles a little and I see my comments made him happy. He turns off the engine and takes my hand.
“What are you worried about? What they’ll think of you or what you’ll think of them?”
“Neither. Let’s go.”
I’m not about to tell him I’m worried I’ll like them too much. I’ve never been part of a real family, and I shouldn’t want what’s too far out of reach. He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses it.
“You’re gonna wow ’em.”
I never told him my mantra. Coincidence I guess. But it sets me right. I’m going to gather the confidence I have going on stage. How much scarier can this be?
By the time he gets out and comes around to my side I see the front door open. The groom comes down the steps to greet us. Christos offers his hand to me and I exit the car.
“There he is!” Christos says happily.
“Today’s the big day,” Nash responds.
The brothers hug it out. But it’s not a quick peck on the cheek and pat on the back. It’s more meaningful even though it only lasts a few seconds.
“Kate, I’m so glad you came.”
He comes to me and gives my cheek a kiss like we’re old friends.
“You and your brother should be models for the tuxedo designer. You both look so handsome.”
Nash immediately strikes a pose, hands on hips, looking to the sky as if he’s in a magazine. Christos follows with his own version of a male model’s pose as he looks at his watch. Then they laugh at themselves and so do I.
“As you can see, we’ve done this before,” Christos says.
“When we were kids, our mother used to tell us how good we looked every damn time we dressed up for something. It got old, so we made a game of it. We’d go into our versions of model poses,” Nash says.
“I think it’s a riot.”
“All except for the little asshole,” Christos says. “That’s what we used to call our youngest brother Nikos.”
“What did he do to deserve that?” I laugh.
“Everything,” Nash says.
“He was only about six, so we told him he couldn’t pose because he was too young to model,” says Christos.
“He’d go crying to my mother.” Nash laughs.
“He always had this uncanny ability to figure out what we were up to and excluding him from.”
The two men are laughing so hard at the memory and it’s making me laugh. It must be kind of wonderful to have such fun shared histories.
“The fact that he ended up a backup dancer in Las Vegas did nothing to tame him,” Christos says wiping a tear of laughter from his eye.
Out the open door comes a boy in a tux, a darling kid about twelve. He runs up to Nash.
“Dad, Nonna wants you to come back inside. They’re gonna take pictures.”
“First, I want you to meet someone, son. Max, this is Kate.”
The boy extends his hand to me. What a doll.
“Hi, Max. I’m happy to meet you. You look handsome in that tux.”
He immediately poses, just like his father did, then laughs at himself. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
“Come on, let’s go in. Everyone’s waiting to meet Kate,” Nash says leading the way.
Here we go.
Once inside, I can see all the way through to a great room and kitchen and beyond to the veranda outside. The rolling hills of St. Helena’s vineyards and the purple-hued mountains are the dramatic backdrop. It’s an impressive setting made more special by wedding decorations everywhere. I’m aware people gathered in the kitchen are trying to look nonchalant, but they’re checking me out.
“Christos and Kate are here!” a female voice says.
A striking exotic-looking woman in a beautiful pale green dress comes towards me, her arms held wide. She takes me in an embrace.
“Welcome to our home, Kate! I’m Sophia, Christos’ mother.”
She kisses me on both cheeks.
“Your home is beautiful, Sophia. Thank you for having me.”
“I absolutely love your look. Very chic,” she says, holding my arms out for a good look.
“Thank you.”
Behind her a handsome older man in a well-cut black suit approaches. But before he reaches us he bursts out in song, his voice strong and deep.
“Tonight is the night, the most wonderful night . . .” he sings to me.
I return his greeting with one of my own. I know this song, so I sing the next line loud and clear. Which surprises everyone, but Christos especially.
“And they call it bella notte,” I sing.
“What?!! Oh my God! The voice of an angel! Our Kate can sing!” the man says.
He continues with the song and I join in, our voices blending in a nice harmony. When it ends there’s applause and I see tears in his eyes.
“Dad, what are you crying about?” Christos says.
“I’m just so happy. Welcome to the Santini sandbox, Kate. I’m Valentino, the father of this rowdy bunch.”
Now everyone comes my way and Valentino helps make the introductions. Dion, another
brother, offers a warm greeting. Lana, the only sister, is lovely and friendly. Her husband Robert is enchanted with her, it’s easy to see. Their children, Boo and Gregory, both at ease meeting someone new.
“My turn!” says a good-looking guy with arms opened wide. He has the same film-star smile all the Santini’s have.
“This is my brother, Alexander,” Christos says.
“Hello, honey. Wow, you’re a looker.” He turns to Christos and adds, “Kudos, brother.”
“Thank you. Nice to meet you, Alexander.”
He takes the hand of the man standing behind him and brings him close. “And this is my guy, Joseph.”
“Hello, Joseph. My God is this a handsome man convention?” I say. “Really, I’ve never seen so many in one place.”
“Did someone page me?”
The voice comes from the staircase. I turn to see the only blonde in a sea of brunettes. Well, mostly blonde. His dark roots are part of the look. He’s striking looking with ice blue eyes. His tuxedo looks more tailored to his body. Tighter. I’d bet this is the little asshole just by the way he moves. He takes the last few steps in a kind of dance, skipping smoothly into the room.
“Here he comes, Mr. America,” Alexander sings.
The little asshole takes Christos in a bear hug then gives him a big loud kiss on the cheek. “Hello, brother. I’ve missed you. Where the hell have you been? We never see you!”
Christos is about to answer but is interrupted when blondie spots me.
“Oh, I withdraw the question, counselor. It’s obvious you’ve been busy. What’s your name, darlin’?”
It doesn’t matter that I’m at least ten years older than him. He’s a charmer this one, most likely treating every woman like an ingénue, whether nineteen or ninety.
“This is Kate. Kate, this is the little asshole,” Christos says grinning. He gets a frown in response and a groan from Sophia.
“Christos! No!” she says.
My mother never liked our nickname for Nikos or the fact we say it so freely in front of people. She’s fought it for twenty-five years, but I’m afraid it’s written in stone now.
“I’m Nikos. And it’s great to meet you, Kate. Don’t listen to anything these guys tell you about me. They’re just jealous because I’m the youngest and best looking.”
