4th Musketelle

by Brian Bakos

Two: Deal with the Devil

  The false face must hide what the false heart doth know – Macbeth

  14. Quarterly Luncheon

  The three women sat in the ‘Garden Room’ area of the Gemrock restaurant, a glazed-in annex meant to simulate the bright atmosphere of a conservatory, complete with large decorative plants. Their table was of cast iron filigree with a glass top – tasteful and understated.

  Sharese presided over the table. Of the three, she was the best dressed, the best made up, and the most confident. She wasn’t necessarily the best looking, though – all of them were extremely attractive women in their early 30’s. Sharese was the hostess this time around, but that didn’t really matter. She would have dominated the gathering with her usual tacit power in any case.

  Gemrock was not unlike the upscale Musketeers Lounge and Restaurant where they had first met as coworkers. They’d never forgotten their origins and were prized by all wait staff as being among the best tippers.

  Sharese, the only unmarried one of the three, was finishing a particularly risqué story.

  “... Well, you can just imagine how I felt about that!” she said.

  Candy and Nicole giggled.

  “What did you do next?” Candy asked.

  Sharese held up a hand, took a drink of water.

  “Come on, tell us!” Nichole urged.

  Sharese set the glass down dramatically.

  “What could I do?” she said. “I told him to get dressed and clear out. You should have seen the look on his face!”

  Everyone laughed raucously. At as nearby table, three elderly ladies looked on with acrid disapproval. Sharese caught their eyes and quit laughing abruptly.

  My gosh, she thought, is that where I’m headed?

  She experienced an unsettling vision of herself decades down the road, alone and embittered, hanging out with an equally downer crowd.

  A waitress approached.

  “Are you ready to order?” she asked.

  Sharese shook off the nightmare image.

  “Oh... not yet,” she said. “We’re still waiting for one more.”

  The waitress started to leave, but Sharese stopped her.

  “On second thought, bring us four strawberry daiquiris, please,” she said.

  She looked toward Nicole and Candy.

  “That should be good for starters, eh? And Laila can ‘hit the ground running’ when she gets here.”

  “Make mine a virgin, please,” Candy said. “I’m driving.”

  “Oh, a virgin, eh? ...” Sharese let the teasing comment drift off.

  The waitress left; Nicole consulted her watch.

  “I wonder what the problem is,” she said.

  “Laila did know about this luncheon, didn’t she?” Nicole asked.

  “Off course,” Sharese said. “I even called yesterday to remind her.”

  “Maybe it’s that situation with Frank getting hurt,” Nichole said.

  “Yes,” Sharese said. “It sounds kind of funny, him going off the roof like that, but it must have been quite a shock for her.”

  Nichole nodded agreement.

  “What do you think is going on with her and Frank?” Candy said.

  “I have no idea,” Sharese said. “I really don’t talk to her much more than you do. If it wasn’t for these luncheons, we’d probably lose touch all together.”

  “She’s out of our league, all right,” Candy said.

  Sharese pulled her cell phone out of her purse.

  “I’m worried about her,” she said. “Something’s not right.”

  She was just accessing Laila’s number when Laila herself appeared. She looked flustered, tired, and upset. Her usually impeccable clothing was a bit disheveled.

  “Sorry I’m late, everyone,” she said.

  An astonished silence descended on the table like a wet blanket; even Sharese was at a loss for words. They’d not seen Laila in such condition since the first time they’d met her. Nichole tried to retrieve the situation by applauding softly. The others joined in.

  Sharese stood up and tapped a spoon on her water glass.

  “I hereby declare this quarterly meeting of the Four Musketelles to be in order,” she said.

  “Here, here!” Candy and Nicole seconded.

  Laila sat down, apparently unmoved by the attempt at joviality. Nicole leaned toward her.

  “You look a bit dragged out, honey,” she said. “Is something wrong?”

  “Well ...” Laila said.

  “Troubles with Frank?” Candy asked.

  Laila nodded reluctantly.

  “How’s he doing with his wrist and all?” Nichole asked.

  “Oh, he’s better,” Laila said. “The fracture isn’t too bad.”

  Another awkward silence ensued. Clearly there was more to the story than just a broken wrist. Sharese tried to fill the gap with levity.

  “So, what could possibly be the problem with that husband of yours?” she said. “Let me see ... ”

  “He’s rich,” Nicole said.

  “And devastatingly handsome,” Candy said.

  “The strong, take-charge type,” Sharese added.

  “Did I mention rich?” Nicole said.

  Laila managed a weak smile, but she was well aware of the envy behind these comments.

  “Tell you what,” Candy said. “If you’ve got troubles with Frank, send him my way. I’ll straighten him out.”

  “Fat chance of that!” Nichole said. “He’s as loyal as they come.”

  “Don’t think we didn’t all make passes before you two got serious, Laila,” Sharese said.

  “Yeah,” Candy said, “and we got shot down – in no uncertain terms.”

  “Face it, Laila, you hit the jackpot in the matrimonial game,” Nichole said.

  Sharese leaned back wistfully and glanced at herself in a nearby window. She looked older and less attractive in the reflection than she wanted to be.

  I wonder how things would have turned out if I’d been tending bar that night instead of Laila, she thought.

  The waitress arrived with the daiquiris. Sharese hoisted her drink from the serving tray.

  “Here’s to lost opportunities, as my second husband used to say.”

  Everyone took swigs from their drinks, including Laila who nearly drained her glass. The tension lessened a bit.

  “Not that there’s anything wrong with marrying a dentist,” Nichole said. “I mean, take a look.”

  She displayed her perfect teeth.

  “Or marrying an accountant,” Candy said.

  “You know what they say about accountants, don’t you?” Sharese said.

  “What?” Candy said.

  “They do it by the numbers!” Sharese and Nichole chimed.

  Later that afternoon, the women lingered over dessert and their final cocktails, luxuriating in the atmosphere of the fine restaurant. Everyone was nicely loosened up; even Laila had mellowed a bit. The Garden Room had largely emptied out, except for the three older ladies at a nearby table.

  “Sure is good to enjoy a place like this from the customer side, isn’t it?” Sharese observed.

  “Amen to that!” Candy and Nichole replied.

  “No cranky patrons to deal with, no bosses breathing down your neck,” Sharese said. “Remember Rick over at Musketeers?”

  “Who could forget!” Candy said.

  “I can’t believe that I actually ... well you know that story,” Sharese said.

  Candy and Nichole giggled; Laila smiled wanly. Sharese leaned over toward her.

  “Feeling better, honey?”

  Laila nodded and sipped her drink.

  “Try to keep things in perspective,” Candy said. “Everyone has problems – usually about money.”

  Laila stiffened, and a terrifying vision barged into her mind:

  Clad only in a nightgown and robe, she is being escorted out of her house by Sheriff’s deputies. Henry exits the house behind her, smiling and rubbing his hands tog
ether with satisfaction. Then Patricia comes out, giving Henry a high five.

  “We did it, Sis!” Henry cries.

  “Good riddance, Laila!” Patricia shouts.

  Men are hauling Laila’s furnishings out of the house and dumping them at the curb. Laila tries to enter her car, but a tow truck grabs it first and hauls it away.

  Laila shook her head to clear the horrible scenario. Sharese’s voice faded in.

  “ ... you’ve got the lifestyle of the rich and famous, Laila. The rest of us can only hover around the edges.”

  “You should see my ‘step-son,’ Henry,” Laila said. “Now there’s a man who ‘hovers around the edges.’”

  Candy, Nicole, and Sharese exchanged glances, shifting uncomfortably in their chairs.

  “Well, I mean – don’t we all admire your position?” Nichole said. “Not having any money problems and all.”

  Another ferocious vision assaulted Laila’s mind:

  She’s a bag lady wandering the streets alone, bedraggled, prematurely old and forlorn. She riffles through a trash container, finds nothing. A surly policeman approaches her.

  “Move it along, you!” the cop snarls.

  Laila shuffles away. She passes the front of the Gemrock restaurant where well-dressed people are going in and out. The patrons look askance at her.

  “Isn’t she disgusting?”a woman says.

  “Just ignore the old hag,” her male companion says.

  A restaurant employee opens the door for the couple. They glance back at Laila with disdain, then enter the establishment with their noses held high.

  “Excuse me, I’ll be right back,” Laila said.

  She left the table quickly before anyone could offer to accompany her. She needed to get away from her friends for a while. They were, doubtless, just trying to cheer her up, but Laila also detected a strong undercurrent of envy, and it put her on edge.

  Well, why wouldn’t they be envious? Laila had ‘hit the jackpot,’ in their opinion. If only they knew the real story! As she made her way across the big restaurant to the ladies’ room, memories of her first encounter with the Musketelles came flooding back.