The Lion's Den

by Katherine St. John

  Marlena beckons for the others to follow, looping her arm through mine as we traverse the deck. Trailing behind us, the girls fan out around John like the petals of a flower.

  “It’s such a beautiful evening,” I remark.

  “Isn’t it?” Marlena agrees. “It never becomes old. Every night I am here, absorbing this beauty. It is so important to be in life, don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely.” I like this woman.

  She slips her arm around a wiry, intelligent-looking man about her age and gives him a kiss that leaves a lipstick stain on his cheek. His curly hair falls in front of his glasses as he turns to us with a lopsided smile. “This is my husband, Charles.”

  “Hello, ladies,” he says. “And John. I’m glad you could make it on such short notice.”

  “Impromptu parties are the best parties.” Marlena taps the shoulder of a young man in a seersucker suit who is deep in conversation with the bartender. “Darling, I hate to interrupt, but you must meet our guests.” And then to the bartender. “And, Emelio, I’d love a martini.”

  “Mother doesn’t drink champagne,” the young man says, turning toward us with his father’s lopsided smile. “I’m Michael.”

  Michael is about our age, good-looking and coiffed beyond metrosexuality. A paisley silk pocket square adorns his seersucker, and underneath he wears a pink button-down, open deep enough to show his hairless chest. He raises his champagne glass to us, and we reciprocate. “Cheers,” he says.

  The photographer snaps more pictures as we sip our champagne and gaze at the sunset, mesmerized by the view. Summer hangs on John’s arm while he chats with Charles, her eyes sliding helplessly toward Marlena. But Marlena is far less interested in idle chitchat with Summer than in telling bawdy jokes with her son and the bartender, who appears to be his boyfriend.

  A few additional guests filter in, but it’s an intimate gathering, and our group of ten will likely take up half of the dining table. Claire is confiding in me about how much she misses her boyfriend when I notice Wendy talking with an unusually tall man on the other side of the deck. Their backs are to us, but I can tell she’s in flirt mode as she smooths her glossy black tresses over one shoulder and places her hand lightly on his arm, hanging on his every word.

  “Wendy seems to have found a friend,” I say.

  Claire follows my gaze. “Yeah, she said she knew him from somewhere, but I can’t remember where. I think Summer knows him, too.”

  Wendy leans her back against the rail and meets my eye. She beckons for us to come over, and he turns as we move toward them, flashing a smile. He looks familiar, but I can’t place him.

  Wendy’s face is lit with delight as we approach. “Belle, Claire, this is Leo Martin.”

  My hand swims in his paw. He must be six foot six, but he’s not gangly; he’s well proportioned, fit, and sharply dressed.

  “My pleasure,” he says.

  “You remember Gianni?” Wendy asks.

  Gianni, the Italian designer Summer dated in the small pocket of time between when Eric moved to New York and she met John. He wasn’t around long. I only met him once or twice. It ended badly, but I can’t quite remember the details.

  “And remember Gianni’s birthday party,” she continues, “at that beautiful home down in Newport Beach, when everybody jumped in the pool at the end of the night?”

  Ah, yes.

  “That was Leo’s house! He’s friends with Gianni. He was throwing the party for him.”

  It’s all coming back to me now. Leo’s rich. Like, John rich. A count or a baron or something, far richer than Gianni, and better-looking, too. Summer got uncharacteristically sloshed at the party and threw herself at Leo, who rebuffed her in deference to his friend.

  “What a small world,” I say. “We met briefly at the party. It’s nice to see you. How is Gianni?”

  “He’s well. I was just with him at his home in Sardinia,” Leo replies. “He is there for the month, with his children and his girlfriend.”

  “Have you said hello to Summer yet?” I ask with a big smile. “I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to see you.”

  I should keep my mouth shut. But I’m on my second glass of champagne, and I’m sick of being treated like the help. I want to see her squirm. Anyway, it’s a party of twenty people; it’s not like they’re going to be able to avoid each other all evening.

  As if on cue, Summer turns to see all of us staring at her, a flicker of recognition playing across her face as she notices Leo. She releases John’s arm and slips away, striding toward us with a smile plastered on her face.

  “Hiiiii,” she says as she approaches.

  Leo bends to give her kisses on her flushed cheeks. “You remember Leo,” Wendy says.

  “Of course,” Summer intones without dropping her smile. “How are you?”

  “I’m well. Just saw our mutual friend in Sardinia.”

  “Ooohhh.” She watches him carefully. “That’s nice. I’m here with my boyfriend, John.”

  “Yes, Wendy said,” Leo returns. “I know John. He is a lucky man to have you beautiful girls with him.”

  Summer relaxes a little. “Yeah, I brought my friends to celebrate my birthday. I guess Marlena and I have birthdays a day apart.”

  “Happy birthday.” Leo smiles.

  “Thanks.”

  “It’s crazy,” I say to Summer. “I mean, you told us that everyone who’s anyone is on the Riviera in August, but I didn’t think I would know so many people. Leo—”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Her eyes slide past me toward John, who is still engrossed in conversation with Charles.

  I shouldn’t poke the bear, I know. But I simply can’t help it. “And I ran into Dylan at the restaurant earlier,” I continue, watching for her reaction. “Did you know he and John work together?”

  I think I see her smile falter, but maybe I’m imagining it.

  “How strange.” She glances over her shoulder at John. “I better get back. Good to see you,” she says to Leo, and heads for John like a homing pigeon.

  Once the sun has set, the stocky steward rings a bell and invites us all down to the main deck for dinner. Wendy hasn’t left Leo’s side. I’m glad she’s warmed to the idea of finding someone better than Mr. Pussycat, but a little surprised that she would be so obvious about her interest in Leo in front of Summer after what happened between them. Wendy is generally an incredibly loyal friend, but I guess Leo is an even better catch.

  As we head down to dinner, I watch Summer’s eyes travel to Leo’s hand on Wendy’s bare lower back while Leo explains to John that he and Summer met through mutual friends. No specifics or insinuations, no ego boosters to spoil any story Summer might spin for John. A gentleman used to covering his tracks.

  I wonder if Summer is having second thoughts about her commitment to John, considering whether she could have done better. But she’s made her bed.

  The table is lined with white roses, set with silver and crystal that reflect and splinter the flickering candlelight. A quartet plays what I can only describe as Mediterranean jazz as the sky loses its color, and we exchange our champagne glasses for wineglasses. I locate my place card, thrilled to find I’m seated at the opposite end of the table from Brittani and Rhonda, next to Michael.

  Marlena is in the midst of an impassioned discussion with one of the men as she makes her way down to her seat at the table. “No, I am happy to pay the taxes,” she’s saying. “If we humans cannot take care of one another, then we are all doomed, because there is no one else.”

  “But you’re paying more.” The man’s accent is American, his watch worth more than my car. “If it were a flat tax, you would still be paying your share, and it would still be more because you earn more, but you wouldn’t be penalized for earning more.”

  “Oh! You poor man, penalized for earning more.” She dismisses the idea with a wave of her hand. “I am a lucky woman. There are many artists better than me who are not so lucky. Now the people like my paintings. The
y think I am a good artist. I have them fooled. Tomorrow, who knows, they don’t like my paintings. I am out of favor.”

  “You’re too modest,” the bejeweled wife of the man chimes in. “Your paintings are brilliant.”

  Again, the dismissive wave of her hand. “It is all in the eye of the beholder. The mistake is to believe we deserve the things we have.”

  “You deserve it all, Marlena,” says the man lightly.

  “Do I like this boat? Of course I like this boat,” Marlena continues. “I love this boat, but I do not deserve this boat. I do not need this boat. I was happy before I had this boat.”

  “That’s because you’d never had the boat,” the man says.

  Everyone laughs.

  “Mother, for the last time, please don’t give away the boat,” Michael implores.

  “Okay, we keep the boat.” She smiles. “For now.”

  “A toast.” Charles raises his glass from the head of the table. Everyone quiets down and raises their glass. “To my beautiful wife on her…”

  He looks to her across the long table for confirmation he may reveal the number, and she rolls her eyes. “Cinquantaquattro! Fifty-four! And glad of every year!”

  “On her fifty-fourth birthday,” Charles finishes.

  She blows him kisses and we all drink. “Grazie mille.” She raises her glass to us. “And to all of you, for making it a party. I do love a party.”

  We drink again, then take our seats. Immediately, as if in one motion, the staff places our plates in front of us. The steward announces, “Bresaola, arugula, Grana Padano, and fresh lemon.”

  I lose count of the perfectly timed number of plates, each small enough not to be intimidating and big enough that I am full before we’re halfway through but keep going nonetheless, unable to turn down the experience of each delectable dish.

  This is the first dinner I’ve had on this trip during which the conversation is not moderated by our patron, and it’s lovely. There is actually an exchange of ideas, witty repartee.

  But like Victorian children, John’s girls are meant to be seen and not heard, to speak only when spoken to. I’ve been trained by the conditions of the past few days (was it only a week ago that I was in the bohemian cocoon of my apartment, packing for this trip?), and I know better than to make waves.

  This, of course, does not stop me from engaging in conversation with my new friend Michael, who, it turns out, is a big fan of Hunter’s music and is ecstatic when he finds out I’m friends with him.

  “I love Hunter Rogers!” he enthuses. “He’s so dapper, and his voice is sweet and smooth, like molasses. And he’s gorgeous.”

  “He would be thrilled to hear you say that.” I laugh.

  The best way I can describe Hunter’s music is Cole Porter goes to Ibiza. Original songs in a jazz standard format, set to dance music. He’s not hugely famous, but he does have a loyal following among Broadway fans and dance music lovers. So, mainly gay men. Which, of course, suits him just fine.

  “You have to introduce us,” Michael begs. “Maybe he’s my soul mate. We could have a wedding right here on the boat. You could be our maid of honor. But I’m getting ahead of myself. How did you guys become friends?”

  “We met doing a musical in college. Grease. I was Sandy and he was Danny. Then we lived together till he had to move to New York for his first Broadway show.”

  “I live in New York! Where does he live? Not that I’m gonna stalk him or anything, of course.” He winks.

  “He has a loft in the Meatpacking District.”

  “I’m in SoHo! Seriously, you have to call me next time you’re there. We can all hang out. I swear I won’t be weird.” He lowers his voice. “I’m gonna go smoke some hash before dessert. Wanna come?”

  I glance down the table to where Summer is sitting. She’s engrossed in conversation with the bejeweled wife of the American that Marlena was debating taxes with earlier, her back to us. John wouldn’t notice if I fell off the boat, and Wendy is across the table to my left, but she’s so captivated by Leo that she hasn’t glanced at me since we sat down. Claire is their third wheel. Brittani, Rhonda, and Amythest are doing shots of limoncello, and Bernard and Vinny are nowhere to be seen.

  I turn my attention back to Michael and grin. “Sure.”

  Indeed, the only person who notices as we push our chairs back and exit down the spiral staircase behind the table is Marlena, who meets Michael’s eye and nods.

  On the lower deck, Michael sinks into one of the couches and lights the spliff. “Your friend Wendy is in for a disappointment if she’s looking for more than a night of fun. Leo’s a trophy hunter.” He inhales.

  “She has a boyfriend at home anyway,” I say, suddenly defensive of poor Wendy, so desperate to start a family.

  “Don’t they all?” He blows smoke rings as he exhales.

  “Neat trick.”

  He passes me the joint, and I inhale the taste of tar and tobacco. Hash is a different beast than California Kush, and while I personally prefer the green stuff, I’ll take what I can get.

  “My mom taught me,” he says.

  I laugh. “Your mom’s pretty cool.”

  “When I was younger, I was super annoyed that she wasn’t like the other moms. But then I figured out that I wasn’t like the other boys, and we’ve been tight ever since. I mean, she always encouraged me to be whoever I wanted to be, but she was secretly so relieved to have a gay son. She abhors all the traditionally male things, like sports and cars and hunting…”

  “Hunting? Who in New York City hunts? That’s where you grew up, right?”

  He nods. “In all the traditional places, there’s always the head of some poor beast staring down from on high while you eat his brothers. A reminder to all the men they are kings of the jungle.”

  “I’m surprised your mom goes to those places.”

  “Oh, she avoids them like the plague. My dad drags me along every so often. He went there with his dad…he likes tradition. I have no idea how the two of them work, but they do.”

  “They probably balance each other out. It’s nice to see a couple who actually love each other in this environment. Most of the other romantic situations seem so overly…complicated.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Like your friend?”

  I snort. “My friend.”

  “Lemme guess. She’s totally smitten with her sugar daddy. It’s true love.”

  “Let’s just say she’d do anything for him.”

  “Full disclosure, my mom can’t stand her,” he whispers. “Or John. She’s philosophically opposed to gold-digging as a career choice.”

  I haven’t so much as said a bad word about Summer this entire trip, but the wine and the spliff have loosened my tongue, and I’m thrilled to have someone to confide in. “I swear she wasn’t always like this. Or maybe she was. I don’t know. Money does strange things to people. That, or I’m a terrible judge of character.”

  “Money doesn’t change people,” he reflects. “It only magnifies the qualities that were already there.”

  I nod, thinking about the Summer I used to know. She always found her validation in men, even when we were sixteen. “That makes sense.”

  “I’ve seen it over and over with the owners of the companies my dad buys,” he expounds. “Money allows them to be who they truly are, without restriction. Someone generous becomes super generous; someone with insecurity becomes a super dick.”

  “You’re very observant.”

  “I’ve been watching people court my parents my whole life. Your friend’s sugar daddy is really only here to get money out of my dad. They’re not friends; their ideals are diametrically opposed. And my dad’s never gonna invest in the project he’s proposing.”

  “How do you know?”

  “John’s already burned him once, and now he wants to completely destroy a town that’s hundreds of years old, upending the lives of all the people who have lived there for generations, to make way for an incorporated l
uxury town and resort for the superrich. My parents have spent my life teaching me the importance of strengthening and giving back to communities, not destroying them. Not to mention you’d have to consider the environmental impact of a development of that scale. The ecosystem of this area is very delicately balanced.”

  Sounds familiar. “I think I’ve heard him discussing that project the past few days.”

  “He’s already bought most of the town at ludicrously low prices and run the rest out with threats of imprisonment for withholding property and all kinds of other made-up charges.”

  “How can he do that, legally?” I ask.

  “You can do anything with enough money.”

  I think of Summer and what she’s gotten away with.

  “Wait.” He jumps to his feet. “You said earlier you were Sandy in Grease. So do you sing?”

  I nod. “When I’m drunk enough.”

  “I play the piano. I can play anything. Like, anything. Come on.”

  My body tingles from the hash as he pulls me to my feet and across the sunken living room to the grand piano. I’m on a yacht in the Mediterranean and life is good. Tonight has finally felt like a vacation. I curl my toes in the plush carpet as Michael lifts the shiny black top of the piano and takes a seat on the bench. “A grand on a boat,” he says, playing arpeggios. “What a terrible extravagance. So much damage from the salt air, you have to pitch them overboard every couple of years.”

  “Is that true?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. Makes for a good story, though, doesn’t it? You know this one?”

  He starts into “Fly Me to the Moon.” I spin, my arms outstretched like wings. “A few steps higher.”

  He scales up, and I start in, singing as much of the song as I know, which is more than I realized.

  “Bellissimo!” He claps. “What do you like to sing? Throw it at me.”

  “‘God Bless the Child’?”

  He throws his head back in laughter as he plays the opening notes. “What are you trying to say?”

  I join him, and before long Marlena wanders in with the Italian couple who were seated across from her. She lights up to see us playing. “I knew I gave you piano lessons for a reason. You have?” She raises two fingers to her mouth in the international mime for joint.