Part 13 (2/2)
”Lena has to have dinner with us tonight.” Bruce delivers this line stoically-Lena a.s.sumes he is either very witty or lacks imagination-just as Cheryl swims up. When she bobs out of the water like a fish on a hook, Lena sees that Cheryl is right: she does look good in her bikini, regardless of her age.
”She has to have dinner with us tonight.” Bruce beams at Cheryl. has to have dinner with us tonight.” Bruce beams at Cheryl.
”I say yes to whatever he wants.” Cheryl beams back.
”Sure,” Lena chortles, liking the idea of another chance to gloat, to let Harmon see what he missed, even if that life is no longer real. ”We'll join you.”
”Your husband won't mind?” Harmon asks.
Cheryl cuts a quick look at Lena.
”No, he won't mind. He won't mind at all.”
Chapter 25.
Why did you let Harmon think you're still married? He could be your get-over-Randall screw.”
”Don't say it. Don't think it. Not interested.” Lena lifts her arms away from her body so that nervous perspiration will not create a salty half moon in the armpit of her dark linen dress. Clothes are strewn on the floor, the bed, the chairs, the small table that pa.s.ses for a desk as if she and Cheryl have hundreds of clothing choices instead of the few they've brought with them. Or the few Lena brought.
”What're you waiting for? You can be guaranteed Randall's not.” Cheryl pulls underwear from the elastic pouches around the side of one of her two oversized suitcases.
”That thought turns my stomach.” Lena makes a face. ”But this isn't about Randall. Let Harmon stew.”
”I don't care what you say; Harmon is charming. Harmon is doing well. Harmon is a catch.” Cheryl pulls on a low-cut, sheer red dress. ”I always liked him. He has a good heart-he invested in the works of a couple of unknown artists I represented when I first started-it got my business going. I'm glad to be here for your first date the second time around.”
Energy crackles like electricity in the room and while Lena understands her own, she doesn't quite get Cheryl's. Cheryl dates. There was a time when Cheryl called Lena every weekend with updates on her escapades; that stopped after Kendrick was born. Lena guesses this excitement has to do with Bruce, has to do with the south of France, has to do with an unexpected, free meal at a fancy restaurant and settles with the realization that because she hasn't been around Cheryl this way in a long time, her girlfriend is excited.
”It's not a date-it's old friends getting together.” Lena tugs at her dress: black, plunging neckline and back, tight across the waist and hips. It looked good on her in the store. It looks good on her now.
”Hmmm, I like.” Cheryl adjusts the neckline of Lena's dress so that it falls lower and exposes more cleavage. ”It shows off your chest. And remember: it's okay to flirt, shamelessly.”
Wanting to look good for a man this soon is a confusion Lena didn't expect. If she thinks of this evening as practice for when the next real thing comes along, it will make the evening go smoother. No need to worry about small talk: there's always the past to talk to death. Tiny adjustments, another veneer of marriage falls away: Lena twists the bare knuckle of her third finger left hand.
”You do that a lot, rub your ring finger. Stop it.”
Lena gives Cheryl a thumbs-up and eases her hand from b.r.e.a.s.t.s to waist to hips, wis.h.i.+ng she had the guts to expose as much of her chest as Cheryl does. ”You look beautiful!”
Cheryl grabs a floral print shawl identical to the fabric of her dress and poses like a runway model. ”This is my knock'em-dead alluring. That Bruce may have potential.”
Bruce and Cheryl hit it off immediately. They traded quips for the remainder of the afternoon. Even Lena had to admit that Bruce was funny and pretty smart. He knew a lot about wine, food, and foreign politics-a fact he proved with his explanation of the European Union, the conversion to the euro, and its effect on the global economy.
”And one last lecture about last night.” In the bathroom, Lena straightens the cosmetics strewn across the counter, fiddles with her hair for the sixth time, smoothes her dress, sucks in her stomach. She is procrastinating. She knows it. Cheryl knows it. Still she takes her time. After all these years, Harmon Francis can wait ten minutes more. ”Take your own key. Because if you decide to spend the night, or whatever, with Big Bruce, I'm not getting up to let you in.”
Lena would have married Harmon if he'd asked. Two months after their relations.h.i.+p ended, she realized that she'd gotten love, l.u.s.t, and money completely confused. Yet, there was his honesty, his crooked smile, and sense of mystery that intrigued her. They hadn't paid attention to what they wanted from life-or each other. That's what she loved about Randall-he paid attention.
Out, out d.a.m.ned spot.
Lena wishes that she had her diamond on her finger at the pool to show Harmon that someone thought her performance in bed was quite good, thank you very much. It didn't matter. It doesn't matter. Sometimes old friends come back into your life for a reason, and right now that reason is so she and Cheryl can have some fun.
Bruce, Lena, Cheryl, and Harmon stand in the entryway of Le Chanson. The restaurant is lit by flower-shaped sconces evenly hung along the length of both sides of the room; cla.s.sical music plays from speakers in the background. White rubrum lilies nestle in a cut-gla.s.s vase atop a polished black marble table. Silverware, winegla.s.ses, and large pieces of jewelry around women's necks and wrists sparkle in the light of the candles on each table. Candles, larger and many more than in Philip's restaurant, surround them on ledges, in cubbyholes and windowsills. Lena wishes to be in a restaurant where music blares and bright lights create a glaring, anything but amorous, atmosphere.
”I hope you ladies enjoy this restaurant,” Bruce says. ”The Michelin guide calls it one of the best in the south of France.”
”Oh, you picked this restaurant?” Cheryl nudges Lena as if to say, ”See, you're making way too much of this.”
”I build all of my vacations around restaurants.” Bruce spreads his arms in front of him. ”As you can see, I don't miss many meals.”
The hostess, whose hips and stomach are equally flat underneath her chic silk sheath, escorts the two couples to a table on the veranda. Cheryl sidles up to Lena and rubs her back. ”You're shaking like a virgin. Calm down. Enjoy. That's all this is about.”
Lena breathes from her stomach through her chest and nose, blows it out the way she learned in yoga. The remnants of sunset hang in the sky, its warm colors mirrored in the Mediterranean's gently lapping waves. Lena turns to Harmon. Her intention is to lie, to tell Harmon she is sick, bordering on nausea, that it is too cold, that there are shooting pains in her stomach, her chest, her head, anything to persuade him to leave for somewhere less romantic. ”All that's missing is a full yellow moon.”
”That's for next time,” Harmon says, getting her sense of humor like he did when they dated. ”It's good to be with you again. And, for the record, you look great.”
”Allow me to order for everyone,” Bruce says when the waiter hands each of them a menu. ”Take a look at the menu, and let me know if there's anything you absolutely veto.”
They mull over the bilingual menu: rougets-tiny red mullets- sea ba.s.s with grilled shallots, gamberoni, baby octopus and squid, lemons, olive oil, truffles, wild mushrooms. Both men study the pages of the wine list. Bruce orders a white Bordeaux-a 2000 Chateau 'Y' d'Yquem, Bordeaux Superiore. ”There have only been twenty-three vintages of 'Y' since the first one in 1959. It goes well with foie gras, if anyone likes that, and it's a good match for seafood.”
Harmon suggests a cabernet from the same region with less flourish or commentary-a 1988 Leoville-Las-Cases, St-Julien. ”This one's a tasty wine just coming into its own.” He leans over to Bruce and points to the wine list; they guffaw as if sharing a private joke. ”They have one bottle of 1982 Cheval Blanc, St-Emilion-it sells for almost nine hundred dollars back home. I'd love to taste that.”
”How do you two know so much about French wines?” Cheryl looks at Bruce, more interested in his response than Harmon's.
”Bruce is the one who decided on the bicycling trip. He wanted to exercise off some of the weight he's gained in two years since his divorce.” Harmon points to his buddy's protruding stomach. ”Actually, I thought it would be a great opportunity to see the south of France and to drink and buy a lot of wine.”
Bruce straightens his tie and leans back in his chair as if he is about to deliver an important message. ”Harmon and I are both considering a break from corporate America to start our own business.” Which, he explains further, they haven't quite nailed down, but it will have to do with importing obscure French wines to the States and staging pairings with gourmet food. ”So I guess you could say that I'm responsible for bringing the two of you back together.” Bruce's whole frame wobbles when he chuckles at his good deed.
”And for us.” Cheryl bats her eyes at Bruce again. If a big man could bat his eyes, Lena is sure Bruce would. Instead, he grins like a kid and takes her hand.
The waiter, deferential and unimposing, returns to the table and pours enough of the cabernet and white Bordeaux into four gla.s.ses for the men to a.s.sess. Each takes a gla.s.s of red wine by its thin stem and holds it up to the dim light. First, they rest their noses on the edge of the bowl, sniff hard, and nod their approval of the round bouquet. Then they sip loudly and let the wine rush to the back of their throats to let their palates experience the full flavor.
Harmon's and Bruce's faces light up with mutual appreciation, but Bruce is the one whose approval signals the waiter to pour a gla.s.s of both red and white for the four of them.
”So, we saw a group of black folks and a van loaded with bikes pulling away from the Matisse museum yesterday. Was that you?” Cheryl asks.
”You mean I missed you?” Harmon sits across from Lena and scrutinizes her face, not for the first time. He has been staring at her since they sat down. Staring with l.u.s.t and ordinary interest all at the same time, watching her hands as they punctuate her thoughts.
”A toast, to old friends and new. Let's see if I can recall a Yeats poem.” Harmon pauses, his lips move in muted preparation. He looks from Cheryl to Bruce and rests his gaze on Lena. The heat of what would be a blush, if she blushed the way Cheryl does, covers her face.
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