Stori
THREE DAYS PASSED before Oliver called and asked if we could meet. That gave me a twenty-four-hour advance to listen to an inner dialogue, wherein I gave myself stern lectures on the importance of sticking to my life plan. Time spent putting locks on my heart. I couldn’t help fantasize what would happen if we found ourselves alone. I even rehearsed my witty responses to his imagined advances. I’d let him down easy and guide him towards platonic friendship. Sounds straightforward really.
He’s coming here to Whiskey River. Any other night and I’d be interested in who my father’s been talking with for the last hour. I’ve never seen him in here before, but there’s a certain familiarity about him. The white beard and mustache are perfectly groomed. The coat is expensive, and he hasn’t removed his hat or the scarf around his neck. They sit at the furthest table from the door, and whatever they’re quietly discussing has their full attention. At one point the man touches my father’s hand. I don’t care. The door holds my interest. I’ve looked at it ten times in the last five minutes.
I expect Oliver’s timing has everything to do with Fig and Zarah’s invitation. Who knows if he even plans on going, or for that matter if I do. It all depends on . . . Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, there he is! My pulse quickens in response. He catches my gaze and walks toward where I stand at the bar. My brain has slowed to absorb all I see, slim fitting black jeans, grey long sleeved soft top, good shoes. Clothes that speak success, but do a poor job of hiding the tight body underneath. Those chiseled abs can’t be cloaked by a thin piece of fabric. Too bad his jeans are made of sturdier stuff. Stop it! Get ahold of yourself!
“Hi.” He leans in for a kiss on the cheek, and I smell the soap and freshly washed hair. I imagine he’s not a guy stocking up on the latest celebrity cologne. Why would he when his own natural scent is so spectacular?
“Welcome to Whiskey River,” I say faking composure. A wave of my fingers signals him to follow me to my preferred table away from the bar.
“It’s a great looking place, Stori. It looks just like you.”
My eyes question his meaning.
“It’s elegant,” he says taking a seat.
I feel the flush on my cheeks. Maybe it’s dark enough in here for him to miss.
“How long have you been open?”
“Five years. A lifetime in the bar business.”
“It doesn’t surprise me. You always had your head on straight.”
I laugh. “Well, I don’t know about that. I’ve been known to make a misstep here and there.”
“Was this in your ten-year plan? Do you still do that?”
His grin is as appealing as ever. “Of course, five, ten, life, I haven’t changed. The plans have just become more detailed.” I signal to the bartender, holding up two fingers, then turn back to Oliver. “What about you? “
“I’m more of a today and maybe this week planner. But that’s an occupational hazard.”
“How so?”
“For an artist, there’s no blueprint to follow. Sometimes it feels as if it’s all luck.”
“I remember how beautiful your drawings and paintings were, Oliver. Even at sixteen you had talent. I’m glad you stayed with your passion.”
“It’s the only thing I’m good at,” he shrugs.
“Being good at something so inspiring must be a gift from the gods.”
For a moment I see the teenage boy in his face.
“You always knew the right thing to say, Stori.”
“What about your family? Do they still live in Manhattan?” I ask completely ignoring his last statement. Thankfully it doesn’t require a response.
“No, Brooklyn.”
Our glasses of Bourbon are delivered.
“Please give your sister a hello from me. How is Grace?”
There’s a hesitation in his answer, as he weighs his words.
“She’s had a lot of challenges. It’s a story for another time. How about your parents?”
“My mother died three years ago. It’s still difficult to say that sentence.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
It’s genuine. I see it in his eyes because he knows how much I loved her.
“But my dad’s sitting right over there.” I point in the direction and Oliver takes a long look. It lights his face.
“Henry. He looks good. I’ll say hello before I leave.”
“So, let’s talk about the wedding cruise. Are you going?” I blurt. The question comes from left field, flying out before my good sense can stop it. Hoping not to seem desperate, I add, “I’m not sure I’ll be able to.” Oh Lord, I hope he bought that.
He pauses for a beat before answering. “I don’t see how we can get out of it. It’s a bad time for me too. I’m moving, starting a new business venture . . .”
I shrug my shoulders to sell my indifference. “And I’m not much for vacations. This place runs best when I’m here. I’m practically in withdrawal when I’m away.”
We stay silent for a full five seconds, just staring at each other. Both waiting for the other to speak first. Slowly smiles break out on our faces.
“So then, you’re definitely going?” he says.
That mouth is driving me crazy.
“I’m considering it,” I return his enthusiasm in equal measure.
His whiskey colored eyes look in my soul. “I’ll go if you do.”
In the background a sexy version of “Temptation” begins to play. And I can’t come up with one witty response to his advance.
“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” I say softly.
“I think it’s a great idea.”
When I called Zarah the next day she was thrilled to hear I’d be joining the wedding festivities. Then I apologized for having hesitated with my answer. Oliver had confirmed earlier. We laughed about the fact that the best man and maid of honor had to be talked into the gift of a lifetime. But it wasn’t anything the bride and groom hadn’t expected. She revved into full Cupid mode when I told her about our Whiskey River meeting. Apparently, Fig’s as delusional as she is. He said he’d like it if Oliver and I got back together because then our children would grow up together. My God. I asked that she tell her fiancé not to hope for, push, insinuate or read anything into the casual relationship we have. She promised to talk with him. But I could tell it was a half-hearted vow at best.
There’s still ten weeks before we board the SS Temptation, as I’ve secretly rechristened it. Enough time to get past old hurts and take steps toward a more comfortable connection. My priority is to be able to be in the same room and not have my genitalia wrestling with my brain for control. It’s just muscle memory. I fought the same battle when I was sixteen, and it was only fate that intervened on my behalf. I was so close to giving up the fight and had no more will to struggle. Oliver never knew he was just a breath away from victory
As I ring the doorbell to my dad’s apartment my mind turns back to the present. Our Sunday breakfast has become a constant. This is where we work out our dreams and plot our way.
“Morning, Cookie,” he says opening the door.
His place always looks effortlessly chic, just like him. His narrow view of the Park quintessential New York.
“Morning. You’re looking good,” I say admiring his electric blue sweater and grey dress pants.
“I’ve got a reputation to maintain, you know.”
The score from Breakfast At Tiffany’s plays on his vintage record player. His rich voice hums the opening notes. Every week it’s another Broadway score chosen from his extensive vinyl collection. I remember when he was in prison my mother used to write telling him about the latest musicals she’s read about in the paper. She told me it kept him looking forward.
We exchange kisses and I pull up a barstool to the wide granite counter dividing the kitchen from the living room. He’s laid out a delicious looking spread of croissants and pastries, berries, slices of melon and assorted cheeses.
“Yum.” I begin loading my plate. He pours our mimosas and takes a seat next to me.
“I got your email. No one could accuse you of being disorganized,” he says.
“What do you think?”
“It looks a bit too optimistic to me. Is it absolutely necessary we pay off this place and purchase Whiskey River in the same year?”
“Not necessary, but wise I think. If we free up your mortgage, we can concentrate on the bar. It’s a bigger write-off. And no matter what happens in the future, we won’t have to think about your bills. But the whole thing rests on my selling a big chunk of the stock.”
“Certain you want to do that? Didn’t David say to hold?”
“This is what we’ve aimed for. At some point, we need to use the money to make our lives easier, and more than that secure. If I own Whiskey River, it won’t matter if it eventually loses its popularity. I’ll still have a piece of New York to lease, sell, start a new business. And it’ll increase in value. And if I can hold onto a quarter of David’s shares that’ll grow too.”
“The mortgage is going to be a big nut.”
“I’ve got it figured out.”
“Are you sure the owner’s ready to sell?”
“She told me last month she’s selling at the end of the year if I don’t buy between now and then. And she promised me first right of refusal.”
“Well, you’re the brains of the operation. You haven’t failed us yet.”
“Thanks, Dad.” We clink glasses to seal the agreement.
“So, that was a surprise last night,” he says grinning and raising an eyebrow.
“You mean Oliver?” I pretend to be unsure of what he’s talking about.
“Uh, yeah. When did that happen?”
“A few nights ago. We’re going to be in Zarah’s wedding. He’s the best man.”
“Wedding? I seem to have missed a few important developments.”
“Do you remember Figaro and Luca, the Italian twins I went to high school with?”
“Their father was kind of a tight-assed prick,” he says.
“That’s the ones. Well, Zarah went to Italy last month and came back engaged to Fig.”
“Impulsive.”
“She’s a smart one though. I wouldn’t bet against her.”
“When’s the wedding?”
“Not till July. But here’s the thing. It’s going to take place in Italy, and I’m going to go.”
He takes in the surprising news. “Wonderful! I’m glad you’re taking time off for yourself. What can I do?”
“Just watch over things. It’s only for a week, so you and Julie can handle it all.”
“Oliver going?” he asks as if it’s just a thought and not a loaded question.
“Maybe. But it has nothing to do with my decision to go,” I say like it’s true.
He stares at me expressionless. I look back with the same blank face. Then we both bust out laughing. I’ve never been good at fooling my father.
“Okay, maybe it’s one tenth of one percent why. I won’t deny that, not to you anyway.”
“I always liked that kid. I don’t remember why you two broke up.”
“It’s a long story.” And one he need not hear. I stuff my mouth with a buttered pastry so I won’t have to tell it.
“Who was that man you were talking with last night?” I mumble through my bite.
“Just an old friend,” he says succinctly. Then he takes a mouthful of berries to end the discussion.
And now I see exactly where I learned that trick.
After a morning spent with my father, I walk to Zarah and Fig’s new place across from Central Park. It’s a perfect May day. For New Yorkers it’s that small window of time between the biting cold of March and the sweltering heat of July, when the trees and flowering bushes are at their most beautiful.
I knew Dragoni money would buy something grand, and this townhouse is it. It’s a Prewar with high ceilings and large windows. After a tour, we end up in her huge master closet.
“What in the frickin flap am I going to put in here?” she says.
Zarah’s wardrobe previously fit in a two hundred square foot studio.
“You’ll fill it up. I’d die for this space.”
We look at her five pairs of shoes lining one quarter of one shelf. That leaves six and three quarters shelves to fill. A bag of flip flops and tennis shoes sits on the floor. she kicks it in the corner out of sight.
“Fig’s a hanger whore,” she says à propos of nothing.
I laugh at the thought.
“He is! See?” She points to his side of the walk-in. everything’s perfectly spaced and color coordinated. The hangers are made of rich dark wood, and there’s no variation.
“I’ve got to say he’s neater than you. I see trouble,” I joke. “I don’t want to call my girl a slob . . .”
“But I am! Fortunately, he’s more interested in my other strong suits.”
We both laugh.
“Hey, what was the look you gave me at dinner the other night, when you were talking about Caroline?”
“OMG! I knew you’d catch my drift. So, we go to Fig’s Nonna’s house. That’s grandmother in Italian. It’s where we’ll be married. Anyway, we’re all sitting there getting to know each other. Fig’s parents, grandmother and even his great-grandmother is there. It couldn’t have been more beautiful. The home is on a hill in Positano, overlooking the sea. The flowers were in bloom, birds singing. Then her majesty and her court arrived.
“Caroline?”
“Yeah. First Luca comes through the house with his two bambinos in tow. The kids were dressed like they were going to the coronation. Little Lord Fauntleroy and Lady Pissy Pants. You could tell they hated being dressed like that, and it made them both cranky. Poor things. It isn’t their fault. Luca’s practically begging them to kiss their grandmother, but they weren’t in the mood.”
“Where’s Caroline all this time?”
“I’m going to act it out for you. And I’m not exaggerating, god strike me dead.”
She grabs a sunhat, removes her sweats, and changes her flats to her highest heels.
“Okay, pretend my T-shirt is a little longer. Her dress was up to her ass. Now stay there,” she commands.
She walks out of the closet then reenters, but slowly as if she knows all eyes are on her, admiring her beauty.
“Ciao, all.” She does a little queen wave to me.
“Oh Lord,” I say.
“First she barely acknowledged me. I mean we haven’t seen each other in forever, and I’m about to be her sister-in-law.”
“What about Luca?”
“That’s the rub I think. He’s a little to handsy. He came right over and welcomed me to the family, picked me up and twirled me around. Then he gushed about how great I look, which completely pissed Caroline off.”
“Ridiculous.”
“Maybe. I haven’t decided yet. Fig says they’re a shit show, but it can be funny. One minute they’re hanging all over each other and the next they’re threatening divorce. Apparently, she hasn’t been able to rein in his touchy-feely habits. He’s supposed to be totally faithful to her though, according to Fig. I guess they get into these screaming matches and it doesn’t matter who’s there to witness it, family, strangers, the Pope.”
“That’s messed up,” I say.
“That’s our shipmates. Should be interesting.”