Stori
A SMOKY JAZZ rendition of, “I Put A Spell On You” plays in the background. Soft lighting, the ring of crystal glasses being clinked, and the hum of conversations set the night’s stage. I watch my father working the room. He was born for this scene, a handsome man holding court in a sophisticated Manhattan bar. My speakeasy to be exact. And I was born for it too.
He’s got more swagger than the most interesting man alive, sixty-five and cooler than anyone here. The shock of white hair against olive skin, along with a perfectly tailored suit and Italian shoes, make an impressive image. Wouldn’t these people be surprised to know he’s a convicted felon who served eight years for armed robbery? What they see is my elegant host. As far as I’m concerned, their take on him is the more accurate assessment. The past is the lie.
No one remembers details like Henry. Our guests love that he can greet them by name. It lets them know their business is valued. This was one of the first things my father taught me about running my own place. He had a bar back in the nineties, and despite he and his partner’s inability to turn a profit, he knew how to handle the customers. He befriended the men and charmed the women. I may have been a young girl at the time, but I saw the effect. I had been charmed too.
He sees me watching and excuses himself from the three Wall Street types. A small gesture to the bartender and a nod of his head towards the men signals a refill on the house. As he approaches, his hands reach for mine.
“I did that for a reason. They’re booking the back room for the firm’s party.”
“Let’s see if they follow through. If they do, find out who’s paying and send them a bottle of whatever their drinking. And Dad, you don’t have to explain who you give comps to. I trust your judgement.”
That’s not entirely true. He’d give the whole damn room free drinks if left to his own choosing. He knows I’m watching, but I’d never acknowledge it because his pride would be hurt. We always treat each other with respect.
“Let’s sit a minute,” I say pulling out a barstool.
“Okay, Cookie.”
That’s been his nickname for me since I was a child, and it’s an accurate one. I love to eat. I’ve never been able to have just one cookie or chip. My saving grace is I’m often just too busy to think about food.
“I’ll be leaving in a few minutes. I’ve got a late dinner with Zarah and her boyfriend.”
I know full well what his reaction will be.
“Great! Have some fun. You never seem to have enough of it as far as I can see.”
“David’s coming to stay for a week soon,” I say offering proof of my social life.
“That’s not the sort of fun I meant.” His knowing eyes look right through me. I smile because he’s got a point. “Is his boyfriend coming with him?”
“No. They broke up. But it lasted longer than usual. I’m thinking about fixing him up with this cute guy that just moved in next to me.”
“Why don’t you use your Spidey Sense and find yourself someone?” he counters.
Nope. Not going to talk about my love life or lack thereof. “I’ll be back in a few hours. I don’t expect a long night,” I say ignoring his question.
He tips his chin and purses his lips. Here comes a lecture. “Is this really all you want to experience in life, honey? This bar? You need to make room for the meaningful things to find a way in.”
“This is my passion, Dad. To know I’m able to build a stable future for us both. And nobody can take it away.”
Before the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. I see the sting on his face.
“I didn’t mean what you think,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“I know that. But I’m the one responsible for your insecurities.”
There’s no use denying it. But he’s wrong to think it’s the only thing he gifted.
“You also gave me the ability to dream. None of this would have happened without that.”
He moves the long hair from my shoulders, like he did when I was a child, and his voice softens.
“Tell me your dreams include love. You don’t know it yet, but it’s the greatest vision of all.”
“Okay, that’s my cue. I’m off.”
I leave him with a kiss to his forehead. He knows when to quit, gives me a wink and heads for the group of people who just came in. Walking back to the office, I find my Assistant Manager doing payroll.
“Julie, I’m leaving for a few hours. Keep an eye on things, okay.”
She looks up at me, eyebrows raised. “Should I alert the media?”
“Believe me it’s not exactly voluntary,” I say grabbing my coat. “if I didn’t want to see my friends so much I’d make my excuses.”
For once I don’t let the customers distract me. Instead I make my way out the front door, past the doorman looking dapper in his dark suit. He gives me a nod.
“Night, Earl.”
As I pass I touch the small pewter sign that announces Whiskey River. It’s my good luck routine. The plaque is only two inches by ten, but unless you know what you’re looking for you’d hardly notice it against the dark wall. Retreating down the narrow hallway I see a young couple coming my way. We make people work to find our hidden treasure and know the secret word to get in. We were voted one of New York’s best speakeasies by the New Yorker. I smile at the woman and offer my help as I pass.
“Do you know the password?”
She speaks up. “We think it’s Zebra.”
“It changed last month. It’s Houdini now.”
“Thanks! We hear it’s a great place,” the man calls back.
I walk away confident their experience will be a good one.
Out on the street, the aroma of good food hits, and my reaction is as predictable as Pavlov’s dog. Tony’s Steakhouse a few doors down tempts me every night. The valet there gives a nod and signals for a taxi. I made it my business to make friends with my neighbors.
“Let me get that for you, Stori,” he says opening the cab door.
I slip him a twenty and slide into my chariot. “Thank you.”
“Where to?”
“Fifty Third and Madison. Pure restaurant.”
As the driver pulls away, I bring out my compact and lipstick. Just a quick swipe of pink Dior, a few dabs of perfume behind the ears and I’m good to go. It’s not like I’m going to the ball. All I care about is seeing Zarah and getting reacquainted with Fig. Leave it to her. She went on a trip to Italy and came back with a boyfriend. The most amazing part of the story is it’s someone we knew as teenagers. Seventeen years have passed since Fig and I have seen each other. It must have been that last day at Mater Dei, almost through my sophomore year in high school. That horrible afternoon when my father was arrested, and the news spread through the campus. I can still see the look on their faces. My mother came and took me out of school in the middle of the day, and I never went back. For a few minutes I’m lost in the past, reliving the worst day of my life. I shake off the memories as we pull up to the curb.
“Here you go,” I say, handing the driver his due. The etched glass door to Pure opens with my approach. When the doorman nods his greeting, I acknowledge him with a thank you.
The difference in sound levels here compared to Whiskey River is striking. “I’m joining the Dragoni party. Have they arrived?”
The hostess checks her screen. “Yes. They’re in one of our private booths. Michael will escort you. Can I take your coat?”
I hand it to her and adjust my silver cuff and smooth the skirt of my black pencil dress. Good thing it’s sleeveless, it’s warm in here.
The hostess nods to the dignified gentleman standing nearby. “Number twelve.”
“This way, miss,” he says
We weave through the tables, past contented diners enjoying the chef’s best. Happy faces brightened by cocktails and conversation. Along the back wall tall cushioned three-quarter booths isolate guests wanting a more intimate experience. My escort motions in the direction of my friends. I spot Zarah. Premature grey spiked hair and infectious laughter is hard to miss. With her delicate features and tiny frame, she’s always reminded me of a beautiful fairy come to life. Besides her sits a man. Must be Fig. Only a forearm peeks out and a hand cradling a glass with two fingers of Bourbon. I like him already. Just as I’m a few tables away he slides out of the booth time seems to slow. My stomach knots in response and my legs feel rooted in place.
Oliver . . . my God, it’s Oliver.
I’d know his face no matter how much time has passed, and even though we were barely sixteen the last time we saw each other. But there’s no boy here. He’s taller now and his thick dark hair falls on wide shoulders and frames a seductive face. Thirty-three years look stunning on him. Turning as if to go to the Men’s Room, he looks up and casually glances my way. The shocked expression says he recognizes me but had no idea I was coming. When our eyes lock mine instantly fill with tears. He walks towards me and when he’s close, I see his are misty too. I feel the slight quiver in my chin, but I can’t will it to stop. Without words, we come together in an embrace and neither cares that it’s in the middle of a restaurant and inappropriately long. And then suddenly we’re alone. The room falls away, and everyone disappears. I hear the beating of my heart and nothing else. He holds me so tenderly, his arms wrapping me in a familiar intimacy. I remember everything I worked so hard to forget, his touch, his smell the way he felt against me. But that was a boy’s body. This one’s a man’s.
“Stori,” he says softly in my ear, the voice now deep and rich.
I’m weeping for this moment and for the past. As we part he takes either side of my face in his strong hands, leans in, and rests his forehead on mine. Our lips are almost touching, just a breath away.
“Where have you been?” he whispers, as if all the years could be condensed into a sentence. A single tear courses down his cheek.
He laughs at his own question and so do I through my tears. I feel arms encircling my waist and Zarah’s kiss on my cheek. I’m shocked back to reality.
“Surprise!” she says, her voice cracking with emotion.
Fig’s next to Oliver, and he’s smiling, but I’m sure I see glistening tears in his eyes too.
“Bellissimo! Come on, crybabies, let’s sit.”
Is this a dream? I slip into the booth and Oliver moves in next to me. We’re all four wiping away tears. Stunned is too mild a word for how I feel. It’s hard to look away from each other’s faces. All we can do is smile. But questions and memories float between us, free of words and their limitations.
“Hold on. I don’t even know what I’m doing. I was on my way to the men’s room. I’ll be back,” Oliver says in a kind of mumbled stupor. He rises, turns, and looks me in the eyes. “Don’t run away.”
I nod my head. “I’ll be here.”
As he leaves I take in the view from behind.
Zarah taps my arm. “Hello?”
“I have so many questions,” I say taking a swig from her martini.
“Let me give you the condensed version. First off, you remember Fig, right?” She puts her arm around her handsome Italian. He kisses her neck.
“Oh God, I’m sorry. I didn’t even say hello. Fig it’s nice to see you again. You have to forgive me I’m completely thrown.”
“Only if you forgive us for surprising you like we did. This woman is pushy. She made me do it.”
Zarah jumps in. “I knew if I told you Oliver was coming you wouldn’t have agreed.”
“I don’t know what I would have done. I can’t think straight right now. And what’s the connection? Did you just happen to run into him?”
“No, no. We never lost contact,” says Fig.
“Oh.” I forgot that not everyone had my experience.
“Remember, they played basketball together? Maybe you’d already left school.”
Fig wags a finger at me and starts laughing. “I know what you’re thinking, but what I lack in height I make up for in determination.”
“No! I wasn’t thinking that at all. I’m just in a fog.”
Zarah takes my hand and gives it a squeeze of support. “When I found out they were still friends I hatched this plan. You two were so good together. I couldn’t help myself. But I didn’t want to risk telling either one of you.”
Oliver returns and Zarah points to the empty seat next to me. “Sit next to Stori,” she orders.
He shakes his head and slides in next to Fig. “No. I want to look at her face,” he says softly.
I feel the flush of blood to my cheeks and elsewhere. It’s obvious Fig and my conniving girlfriend are delighted at the evenings promise, and my body’s agreeing with them. But emotionally I have hesitations. It’s not wise to forget the past so quickly.
It took time to process how things fell apart all those years back. My father, friends, home, and boyfriend all taken from me in a matter of days. The ending was abrupt and it shaped me, a teenager with no control over the circumstances. Did Oliver even understand that? I told him we were moving to my grandmother’s and he seemed as upset as I was. I can’t fault him for not answering my naïve love letters. But it broke my young heart. What my father did marked me in the eyes of some, and in the end I had to assume Oliver was one of them. Because in all that time he never once communicated with me. Eventually I gave up trying.
The sins of my father were paid in part by my mother and me. We were forced to move in with my maternal grandmother, a woman the very opposite of the loving image the word represents. I can still hear her pinched voice telling me to quit my ridiculous crying over a boy who obviously didn’t care. My mother tried her best to muzzle her, but she knew her chances were slim. She’d heard the same thing said about my father. We were trapped though. Grandma’s house was the only option for a woman and a teenager without the means to support themselves. My mother’s minimum wage job didn’t cut it,
I didn’t drive yet, and now there was a hundred and fifty miles between Oliver and me. I wouldn’t have a cell phone for another two years. There was no Facebook or Twitter, no Instagram. And even if there had been, I wouldn’t have been able to afford to access them. I was finally able to convince myself my memories of being so happy were a young girl’s exaggeration of the facts. That’s how I got through it all.
Now my wounds have long ago healed and my anger evaporated. But the lesson isn’t forgotten. I suppose I’ll never understand how he let me go so easily. All I know is he’s here sitting across from me now. I’m not about to reopen old wounds, so I push the memories aside and decide just for tonight I’ll enjoy his company.
Fig signals the waiter who takes my drink order. I can hardly wait to calm what’s raging inside with a bit of alcohol. Zarah taps the knife against her glass and pulls our attention.
“Before we order dinner, there’s another surprise.”
“It won’t top this one.” Oliver says it so genuinely, and there’s nothing salacious about the statement. It’s hard to describe what makes a man’s voice sexy, but whatever it is he has. There’s no denying he’s dripping sex appeal. My teenage self thought the same, but that was before I really understood the heart of the words
Slow your roll, Stori, says the smart, cautious part of my brain.
Too late. Answers the horny woman who crowds the space.
“We’ve got an announcement,” beams Zarah. “Go ahead, babe, you tell them.”
Fig opens his mouth to speak, but she jumps back in. “We’re getting married!” she says loudly.
“Bella! You didn’t give me a chance!” Fig protests.
She kisses him on the lips and pretends she’s sorry. “I couldn’t help it! Forgive me.”
The smile on his face tells me he’d forgive her anything.
“I’m so happy for you both,” I say, shocked at the news. They just reunited.
“That’s great!” Oliver has the same look in his eyes.
They can tell we’re both pretending to ignore the fast track they’ve chosen.
“Wipe that look off your faces! We’re in love, damn you both!” Zarah says.
Fig thinks she’s funny and adds his voice to the protest. “That’s right. No doubt. This is the real thing.”
We exchange kisses and hugs. My drink’s delivered just in time for a toast and Oliver does the honors.
“Then here’s to the unexpected.” He looks at me for a beat then to the future bride and groom. “Congratulations,” he says lifting his glass to the couple.
“And if you two accept, we’d love for you to be our best man and maid of honor,” Fig says.
“Oh! Of course! I’m honored,” I say, pulling Zarah close for a congratulatory embrace and kiss.
“Same for me. Yes!” Adds Oliver.
The men hug it out and Fig plants a big one on Oliver’s cheek. “Mi Testimoni!!”
“When’s the big day?” I ask.
“July 22nd. Let me show you my ring. I took it off so you wouldn’t guess our news.”
She opens her clutch and takes out an exquisite diamond ring.
“It’s gorgeous. You’ve got great taste, Fig,” I say.
“It’s a family heirloom. Luca got one for Caroline, and now my Zarah has hers. You knew Caroline married my brother, right?”
“Caroline Watson?”
“They married after college. They’ve got two bambinos.”
“I saw her at Fig’s grandmother’s house in Positano. She’s beautiful as ever,” Zarah says.
“Did she remember you?”
“Yes. She seemed nice.”
I read the pointed look my friend’s giving me, and it’s contradicting what’s she’s saying.
“And Luca’s exactly like he was in high school,” says Fig.
“It’s amazing that you four ended up together,” says Oliver.
“You went out with her, didn’t you? Fig says.
“Not really. Well, we had a few dates, but that was it. She wasn’t my type.”
He looks at me and smiles, then momentarily lowers his long dark lashes. Oh Lord. I remember that. It was foreplay for unfulfilled desire, and it melted my Victoria Secret’s every time.
“I’m certain I wasn’t her type either,” he adds gallantly.
For the next three hours we float in a sea of memories. I haven’t laughed this much in years. It’s nice for an evening to forget the bad times and just remember the good. Zarah, Oliver and I went to the same grammar school. But our shared history with Figaro and Luca starts in high school, when the Dragoni family came to New York, and the twins entered Mater Dei in Manhattan. They were popular. The boys liked them because they were so good at sports. The girls were interested for other reasons. It was 1998 and they had boy band hair and Italian accents. It didn’t hurt their cause that their father’s family owned one of the most successful tire companies in Europe. And now they were expanding to the United States.
By the beginning of our freshman year puberty had hit hard. Oliver and I were a couple. It began in eighth grade when we used to make out behind the gym. It seemed as true as anything I’ve felt since. More. For my sixteenth birthday he gave me a drawing of our hands clasped together. I’m sure he’d be surprised to know it still hangs in my bedroom. No man who’s been there has ever figured out it’s my hand in the picture.
Caroline went to Mater Dei too, but I hardly knew her. She was a cheerleader, two years ahead of us, and dating college boys. I know Luca lusted after her. He’d stare at her like a lit puppy dog, and she wouldn’t give him the time of day. She’d strut her stuff in front of him though, just to torture him I think, acutely aware of his adoration. He’d watch her boobs bounce with every step and utter something in Italian. I never knew what it was, but it sounded like a plea to the gods. I guess somewhere between now and then his prayers were answered.
Zarah was the wild child, beyond her years in independence and confidence. No boy tied her down. She’d do anything on a dare and challenge any teacher she didn’t agree with. I loved her because of that fearlessness. She was the person who showed me misbehaving could be fun. Even as a kid, she knew exactly what she wanted out of life. She’d collect pictures of places she wanted to travel to one day. As soon as she graduated from high school her wandering began. I’d get postcards and letters from exotic locales describing her latest find. It’s no wonder she ended up writing a successful travel blog Zarah’s Way.
The only person I’m in the dark about is Oliver, and his conversation hasn’t offered any clues. He was always quiet, except when he’d get pissed at someone. Then he had a bit of a short fuse. And he wasn’t one to talk much about himself. But tonight, his strong hands tell the story. They’re rough looking and I see charcoal stains engrained on the pad of his thumb and forefinger. I wonder if that’s what he’s chosen for his life’s work. It was always his dream.
“Zarah tells me you own a speakeasy here in Manhattan,” says Fig, breaking my focus.
Oliver cocks his head and smiles. “Really?” He looks impressed and surprised.
“Yes. It’s my baby.”
A serious expression passes over his face. “What about real babies? You have any?”
“No. No babies. You?”
He shakes his head. “No. It’s just me and Louise.”
My stomach turns with the news. But I act perfectly collected when I ask, “Your wife?”
“She thinks she is. But she’s my dog,” he grins.