Exploring Happy Hour

 

“I had my tux fitting today.”

“Mm-hmm.” My brother stares at his mobile, intent on whatever he’s reading.

Guy’s Tavern is a misnomer for the elegant place where Tony and I are having Friday evening happy hour. A favorite for professionals, dark burled mahogany and timeworn leather envelop clusters of the suit-clad as they unwind. We began meeting here because it’s close to Tony’s investment and accounting firm. Now, after nearly ten years, it’s our regular haunt.

“Well, hell. Show a little compassion. It’s for your wedding, after all.” I hunch over the bar and sip my scotch.

Tony types in a message, then drops his phone into a vest pocket. “I promise not to make you go through it again. Ever. Better?”

My smirk delivers the pithier sentiments that come to mind. “How is it that I look like I’ve been doing yardwork, and you look like that?” I sit back in the bar stool and jerk my head in his direction.

“Like what?”

Asshat. “My shirt’s open at the neck, my tie’s rolled up inside my jacket pocket, and my night beard’s beginning to itch. You sit there in that three-piece suit fresh as a daisy.”

Tony lifts a negligent shoulder.

“Smug-faced bastard. How ‘bout I drag your ass up and down a basketball court? That’ll mess up Mr. Perfection.”

He sips his Glenlivet and grins. “Calm down. You know wedding details don’t interest me. That’s on Cleo.”

I scoff. “We both know you never miss a detail about anything.”

He might sound indifferent about turning over control for the ceremony to Cleo, but I’m certain he scrutinizes every aspect, ensuring things get done his way. That it also minimizes stress for his fiancée is a calculated bonus.

His gaze floats to the piano where five guys are gang-banging one piano, playing their version of the Piano Guys’ rendition of “What Makes You Beautiful” using the keyboard, the strings, and the deck of the instrument itself to produce sounds.

“I do keep track of loose ends. Are you watching these guys?”

Their music smooths the chaos of simultaneous conversations, providing patrons with an illusion of privacy. Plus, they’re entertaining as hell, beating, plucking, shifting positions to make music from inside and outside the instrument.

“Yeah, pretty amazing all the different ways they’re making that piano sing. So, Cleo’s seeing to the service, but I bet you have the wedding night planned out in minute detail.”

Tony sits back in his bar stool. His golden brown irises darken with anticipation. “I’ve got it covered.”

Looking at my brother is like looking in a mirror -- same hair and eye color, same height and build. He’s two years younger than I am, and there are differences. Where I’m energy and passion, he’s a bulwark of control and gravitas. Comparing the suits we're wearing, his style is more deliberate and conservative than mine, but not by much.

“So, what’s your idea of a good wedding night – a big bed and some well-orchestrated room service?” Doesn't sound half-bad, actually.

Tony’s leer borders on depraved. Edible undies seem more on the menu, judging by the heat in his eyes. Warming up the bride doesn’t seem like it’s going to pose much of a problem.

“Save it for your own wedding. Don’t worry. Someday you’ll find someone to wear that glass slipper.”

Today I met someone who’s not interested in auditioning for Cinderella’s role. Surrounds herself with it, spins it for others, but shuts it down in herself, even as it struggles to break free, if her flustered reactions to me this afternoon are any indication. Many women come to me in need of rescue from one peril or another. This is the first time in a long time—if ever—I’ve felt the desire to rescue a woman from herself, for myself.

“What do you know about Cleo’s friend, Ms. Samson?”

He shrugs. “A bit. She’s Cleo’s best friend and our maid of honor. Owns her own business. Effective, efficient.”

"Client of yours?”

His face shutters. “You know I don’t talk about business.”

I swirl amber liquid around the bottom of the crystal tumbler in my hand, then signal the bartender for a refill, pointing to both of our glasses. My insides warm with the recollection of soft arms reaching around my rib cage, forcing contact between my chest and hers. “She conducted my fitting.”

Tony’s eyebrows lift. “I would have thought she’d have people for that sort of thing.”

“I’m not sure I was really scheduled.”

“Cleo call in a favor?”

The bartender swaps out our glasses. “That was my impression. The shop was like a beehive, everybody scurrying around.”

“So, you got privileged treatment. How was it?”

“Now you’re interested in my fitting?” It’s my turn to grin.

Tony studies me, lounging on his stool. “I’m intrigued that you’re bringing it up.”

Soft gray-green eyes in a quiet, aristocratic face hover in my memory. “Tell me about her. Is she involved with anyone?”

He considers. “She dates. Cleo and I have doubled with her before.”

Something swirls in my gut at that thought. “Anything serious?”

Newcomers sit down, jostling me mid-sip. I grip my glass and hold it away to keep it from clinking against my teeth.

“Not that I know of, but Cleo would be a better one to ask.” Tony’s gaze is too probing. “You’re really interested in this woman.”

My jaw flexes. “We had some stimulating conversation.”

“About?”

“Romance.”

“Really.” His tone is sardonic.

“I dropped some Gregson on her.”

The corners of Tony’s lips curl up. “And that’s when she hopped on the back of your white stallion and demanded to ride off into the sunset with you.”

"Clever." Serious, conservative brother? I snort. “She doesn’t seem keen on it.”

“The poetry, or the romance?”

One side of my mouth lifts. “Neither, but romance in particular.”

“In regards to you?” He peers at me over his drink.

“In regards to you, actually,” I drawl with all the superiority of an older brother I can muster.

That catches him with his glass halfway to his mouth. “Explain.”

I laugh, glad to deflect him from my interest in Juliette Samson. “She’s hoping your marriage has…substance.”

He stares.

“More than flowers and satin and lace. Actually, ‘puffy dresses and shiny armor’ were the terms she used.”

“She’s worried about lust versus commitment?” Tony’s face relaxes some but now he seems chagrined. “I couldn’t care less what she thinks. But if you’re worried, Leo, rest assured; at thirty-one, I do know the difference.”

My head bobs, acknowledging the assertion. “I got the impression that Ms. Samson is not a fan of the lighter, more fanciful aspects of relationships.”

“A wedding planner who isn’t into the romance of weddings? That’s rich.”

“I thought so, too.” I rasp my stubble between a thumb and forefinger, contemplating the fine Ms. Samson.

“Almost as good as a divorce lawyer who doesn’t believe in divorce.”

My head whips around. “Oh, divorce is no fairy tale, Tony. It’s as fucking real as it gets.” I reflect on the client whose husband left her with $97 in the bank when he ran off with another woman.

“Point taken, Big Brother. So, you think it’s romance in general Juliette scorns?”

I drain the last of my whiskey and set the glass on the shiny bar top. My hand covers it when the bartender tries to give me another refill. A woman sits down on the other side of Tony and rakes me with her eyes before ordering a drink.

The invitation is ignored. “I’d say she’s been burned in the past.”

“Ah. At our age, who hasn’t? At any rate, it’ll give the two of you something to talk about next weekend, during all the festivities.”

Tony’s phone vibrates. When he answers, his voice changes, goes deeper, quieter, yet more commanding. He glances at me with a ghost of a smile.

“Cleo wants to know if we’d like to take her to dinner.”

I grimace. “I’m beat, and not interested in being a third wheel.”

His face is studiously bland. “She has our wedding planner with her.”

My gaze connects with his. Dinner, by all means.

I consider what might be on the menu, and try not to lick my chops.

 

*****

 

“Oh, Jorge, you gorgeous man,” Cleo grabs a glass off the granite bar and sucks down her rebujito as though it were iced tea. She pushes the empty glass toward the bartender. “More, please, and bruise the mint just like this one before you cover it with the sherry and tonic."

A blonde lock has fallen into my face. I fling it back over my shoulder and sigh. “Cleo, we’ve been coming here for years. He knows all that.”

Jorge winks at me. By the time her second glass is assembled, mine is ready for a refill as well. Crystal chandeliers and glasses sparkle in the soft evening ambiance, their fractals of light caught and rainbowed off the bank of mirrors behind Jorge’s head.

“What a day! I’ve been running around like crazy, trying to get things off my desk so I can enjoy my honeymoon.” Cleo’s short, angled bob and long bangs remain perfectly coiffed, in spite of her agitation and constant motion. It’s a really good look for my dark-haired friend. Chic, sassy, and edgy.

“What’s the current project?”

Her hands wave back and forth, as expressive and fluid as a ballerina’s, the crimson lacquer on her nails matching her matte lipstick. “Do you know how hard it is to come up with clever ad ideas for children’s underwear, without coming off like some sort of pedo-perv?”

“Hmmm…” is all I manage before she’s off again.

“We put a few pairs on kids—you know, baby goats?—and photographed them gamboling in a green field. It worked!” Her hands flip through the air, palms up. I can almost hear ‘Ole’ echoing around us. “We were able to capture the frills and embroideries and colorful prints, without turning the shoot into an over-sexed set for a magazine centerfold or compromising any children’s futures. I present to the manufacturers tomorrow morning.” She talks so fast, she’s out of breath.

“It sounds adorable,” I assure her, out of breath from listening.

She nods, vigorously. “I think so, too. A bit predictable, maybe, children, birds, bees, flowers, and baby animals, but I learned long ago that you can’t go far wrong with that combination.”

Mint mutes the ice cubes swirling in my glass. “I hope your wedding pictures turn out half so well.”

“The photographer I had you hire is excellent. If I can’t take the photos myself, he’s the next best. In fact, on second thought, I do better with staged shots. He’s a wonder with anything spontaneous.” Cleo takes a long sip of rebujito. “How was your day? Did Leo show?”

“Good, busy, and yes, your future brother-in-law arrived on time for his fitting.”

“Sooo…how’d it go?”

“Fine. Straight-forward.” An image of strong shoulders, long dark hair, and warm eyes flashes in my mind. “Smooth.” Like his muscular body.

Cleo grimaces at my one-word responses, which makes me smile. “He’ll look very good in the tux you picked out for the men to wear. He could model for GQ.”

“Jules.”

“Hmm?” A catwalk, a confident swagger, and a seriously sexy dimple float through my mind.

“Juliette.” Her probe is insistent.

My laugh is more like a huff. “Yes, you were right; he’s big, handsome, charming.” And bemusing.

Awareness of him as more than a sex object is irksome, and I don’t appreciate Cleo reminding me of it. He’s the kind I usually find easy to dismiss, handsome and masculine, confidently aware of himself and his effect on others, assertive. The kind whose very existence seduces women. The kind I love and leave without a second thought.

Cleo bounces with delight. “I told you."

“Yes, you did.” And I told you, I’m not interested in a relationship…

“But…?”

“You aren’t match-making again, are you?”

Cleo tries to make her eyes wide and innocent-looking. It doesn’t work, and she knows it, so she gives up and grins at me instead. Not for the first time, the spectacle of shiny dark hair, clear white skin, electric blue eyes, and signature shocking red lips stuns me. “I’d like to see my maid of honor as happy as I am. So shoot me!”

My sigh is without rancor. “We keep having this conversation, Cleo, and I keep telling you I’m not interested in a relationship right now.”

She pouts. “I wish I knew why. You’d be such a catch. And so is Leo. I don’t understand you two. Both so eligible, both so alone.” Cleo seems truly perplexed. “Don’t you want a companion, someone to grow old with?”

I’ve been alone, by design, for so long, the idea of a relationship gives me hives. Particularly when I think of my marriage and how it went downhill so dramatically, so frighteningly. “I’m fine the way things are, Cleo." And I'm safe.

“But did you like Leo?”

“Yes, and I’m looking forward to this week…but, he’s a bit unexpected…maybe even a little eccentric.”

Cleo blinks a couple of times. “Eccentric?”

“Is he an amateur poet, by any chance?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“He quoted some during the fitting.”

Her eyes go wide, making her look like Betty Boop come to life. “Really? That man. A total romantic. He’s overprotective of his mother, too. Got some sort of St. George complex, Tony says.”

“What, as in dragon-slayer?”

She shrugs. “All I know is, he reads a lot. He has lots of interests. Unlike my darling, whose only interests are managing his clients' money, and…me!” She dissolves into girlish giggles.

Yes, Tony does manage Cleo. Frequently. My smile is indulgent, because I dearly love my best friend, but worry about her dealing with the rigors of marriage. Lots of changes and challenges ahead…I set my drink down and straighten in my seat.

“Cleo?”

“Yes?”

“It’s two weeks until your wedding. How are you feeling about all of it?”

“Oh, Jules, I’m beyond excited!” She clasps her hands together, eyes bright and sparkling. “Tony is so good for me, and I love him so much.”

Yeah, yeah, can we get past the gushing bride syndrome? “No doubts?”

“Not really. You know me, I function at near-meltdown most of the time. I sometimes worry about wearing Tony down with it. But he insists it’s not a problem, and so far, it hasn’t been.”

A few of the struggles they had at the beginning of their relationship were epic, as I recall, two strong personalities vying for supremacy. But they weathered through them, Tony taking more and more control over their lives. Can they can continue to weather Cleo’s irrepressible exuberance? It worries me. Women have so little real power.

“Cleo, I want to share something with you that I hope someone would share with me before my marriage. I want to say this, just in case, because I love you.”

“Darling!” Cleo lays one manicured hand over mine. “You sound so serious! What is it?”

I close my eyes and swallow. “It’s never too late to pull out.” There, I’ve said it. “Even if you’re walking up the aisle, it’s not too late. If you have any doubts, any real concerns, then pull out. Marriage is serious business. Tough business. If you need to back away from this, it’s not too late. I’ll always be here for you, Cleo.”

Her eyes and mouth form circles, then her entire face scrunches in anger. She drops her gaze to the hands clenched in her lap.

When she looks up again, her face has smoothed, cerulean eyes soft. Everything about her is as calm as Clementine Waiteberry ever gets.

“Juliette. I know something in your past happened that makes you need to say this to me. But, listen to me now. I’m not pulling out. My marriage will be a good one. Tony gets me. Tony’s got me. We have each other. I don’t want you to worry about us.” She peers at me. “Okay?”

I reach for her hands and squeeze them. “Okay. But—"

“No buts.” She shakes her head for emphasis.

“Okay.” It’s all I can do. Now I just need to be her good friend and support her decision.

Come hell or high water. Scratch that; hell and high water.

Cleo’s energy amps as her focus shifts. “I’m hungry! Want to have some dinner? I’ll call Tony and see what he’s doing for supper.” She pulls out her phone and, before giving me a chance to accept or decline, talks to her fiancé.

“Perfect.” She signs off and drops her phone back into her purse. “They’re just finishing happy hour and are going to meet us.”

I gulp the rest of my drink. “They?”

“He and Leo are having their weekly boys' night.” She looks like a cat that’s already dined, and I’m the proverbial canary.

“Seriously?” I let my gaze convey vexation at her further meddling. Much as I like the idea of relaxing with friends over dinner, I don’t want to encourage Cleo in her efforts to pair me up with her soon-to-be brother-in-law. Not until he and I work out some details.

She dazzles me again with her megawatt smile.

I groan. “Is it too late for me to back out of this?”

My so-called friend drags me off my bar stool. “Much too late. Come on.”