Celeste. Sylvia. Look at her mother. Shit. Look at herself.
But, besides that, Eric would never mix with her friends. He could make the effort, but her friends wouldn’t let him in. She had tried one night at Yesenia’s, and it was a disaster. A few of the men and women from Otis kept asking him what he did outside of his day job, and he kept insisting managing restaurants was what he wanted to do. Eric had mortified Nataly by revealing to her crowd that his ambition in life was to own a restaurant with an A-list clientele.
Nataly pulled her Altima onto the road. What kind of dream was that? It rankled her.
She knew the restaurant business from years of watching her father manage his C-list clientele. And what was her name? Jeannie? Jolene? Earlene?—that nasal-voiced, beady-eyed waitress bitch who was always calling their house and pretending it was a wrong number. Even now, she burned a hateful smoky orange at the memory of those phone calls.
Nataly could apply for a grant. Lots of paperwork, lots of photographs, lots of networking with the people in charge of nominating, choosing and disbursing. The thought of begging for financial support on paper made her skin crawl, as if she were disrobing in front of them to gawk. She’d rather wait tables. There the contract was clear. Besides, when you were a server, you were an aesthetic object all by yourself.
Nataly arrived at work. She dropped her keys in her bag, tucked her purse safely away, said hello to the busboys. By her reckoning, it had been six months. Maybe another six months, max, and she could strike out living on her art alone. Maybe book that tentative New York showing with Yesenia. October in New York City. What would they wear?
“Vodka gimlet, Belvedere vodka, please,” said the natty-looking gentleman. Late 30s, early 40s, hair cropped close but stylish to disguise the fact that his hairline was receding. His rugged face hinted at interesting experiences and immediately appealed to her. For a moment, she wondered how that face would feel alongside her own. For just a moment.
She was thinking how cool and low his voice was when she brought him the drink, misjudged and spilled the whole thing on his lap. This was her job. This was her rent! This was the trip to the New York galleries with Yesenia. Her entire future lay in a glass of spilled ice and alcohol.
The customer shook his head. “I’d like to speak to the manager,” he said, dabbing with his cloth napkin.
This only intensified her personal misery. She gave her friend Eric a pleading look, then sent him over to table 12. Nataly hid in the kitchen.
Eric came back, his face impassive. “The client at 12 wants to speak with you.”
I will go out with a swagger, Nataly thought. She walked tall and straight and smiled sincerely, apologetically.
“It was all my fault,” the gentleman said looking up at her, staring intently into her eyes. “I’m terribly sorry.”
“You’re very kind,” she said, with much less swagger, looking away. There was something very intense in his face. Something challenging, very masculine and slightly mocking, very attractive. Good grief, now they were conspirators. They had an understanding. This could be the start of something.
Then she noticed the wedding band. And all she could do was to repeat herself, “Very kind. May I take your order?”
Chapter 4
It was the end of a bright sparkling March day. Celeste sat at her favorite Italian restaurant in San Jose having a glass of wine with Victor Resnick. “Thank you, Victor, once again, for the referrals. It’s been a very lucrative year.”
Victor waved his hand and sipped at his wine. “It embarrasses me that you feel you need to bring me here and thank me. You do both me and your clients a service. Who else am I going to send them to?”
He said that with his familiar lopsided grin. When most men his age seemed to be losing their hair, his kept sprouting out into impossibly militant curls. How many times had Celeste thought her life would be so much simpler if only she could conjure the necessary erotic feelings for this man?
The waiter set a platter of antipasti down between them. Victor raised his eyebrows, then helped himself to half of the mozzarella and a slice of the salami. “The clients I have that are the hardest to work with are the ones who don’t call you. Half way through the settlement proceedings, they’re kicking and screaming at me.” He ate the cheese in one bite and shook his head. “These women. You know as well as I do that most of the time they’ve dug their own grave. What’s that phrase? The suspension of disbelief. They sure as hell got that down.”
Celeste smiled and said, “Is that wife number two or number three that you’re talking about?”
“Ms. Amado, you offend me deeply. Wives number two and three signed solid prenups. There were no negotiations, and, if they had read what they had signed, there would have been no surprises.”
Celeste smiled at Victor again and shook her head. What a pragmatist. Ah, the pinot bianco was so cool and crisp, Celeste didn’t realize she had finished her glass. Victor filled hers, then his.
“What about you?” Victor said, with less dissatisfaction on his face and a hint of keen curiosity. “You and Keith still—.”
Celeste shook her head. “You know that I gave him his pink slip. A while back.”
Victor finished the last drop of wine, set his glass down with fervor, sat back and waved a finger at her. “This isn’t right, Celeste. I see now this meal is founded on false pretenses. You’re plotting my seduction.”
Celeste laughed. “You are one of the most insightful men I’ve ever known.”
“Hmm. I suppose I was hoping you wouldn’t have found that quite so funny.”
The waiter deftly removed their empty plates and changed the glassware. He returned with a bottle of red.
As Victor inspected, sipped and savored, Celeste glanced around the restaurant. She recognized a couple in the corner. She’d have to say hello before they left. She turned to Victor and saw him frowning.
“Something wrong with the wine?”
He shook his head. “I don’t understand why you’re not with someone,” he said.
“Why aren’t you with someone?”
“Me? Everyone knows I’m merely between wives. You, Celeste, you of all people, should know you’re between husbands. But you have to know that in order to realize that.”
“Victor, you’re very sweet to care.”
Victor stared at Celeste. “I mean it,” he said, “you’re too beautiful and too smart to squander this life, Celeste. You and I both know the world’s not just about money.”
She said, “I have two little nieces who remind me of that every time I see them. Miriam, I swear, she’s so grown up for eight years old. So smart. And Becky, I think she’s like my mother and my sister combined.” The same silky skin and bony body of Nataly. That same mischievous smile.
Victor shook his head. The sides of his face shook ever so slightly
