Love You to Death

by Grant Michaels

  Laurett continued, “That’s why I’m always saying to her Miss-Lisa-this and Miss-Lisa-that.” A delicate laugh trickled out after her words, then she thrust the platter of smoked seafood toward me, pretending to serve one of the snooty guests. “Would you like some fish, sir?” Then she laughed more heartily, knowing my intimate predilections lay elsewhere. But foodwise I’m less particular, and I eagerly took one sizeable morsel of each—salmon, oyster, and eel.

  Nicole clucked, “Diet.”

  “It’s all protein,” I replied as I gobbled the oyster.

  Laurett offered the seafood more politely to Nicole, who shook her head and said she’d wait for the paté. Laurett said, “I send it by here,” then she departed and moved on through the crowd.

  “It’s a lousy turn for her to have to work the party tonight,” said Nicole.

  “Not from Liz Carlini’s business point of view,” I replied.

  Nicole returned her gaze to the three guests of honor—Prentiss Kingsley, his wife Liz Carlini, and their friend Dan Doherty. Liz was now conversing seriously with another guest who’d joined them, a crusty old gent who looked as if he’d been dusted off and rolled down from a Beacon Hill attic just for the occasion. “Look at her go,” Nicole remarked. “She’s almost attacking that poor old man.”

  “It’s called networking, doll, and Liz does it with religious fervor.”

  Nicole watched as Liz Carlini insinuated herself onto the older man, who was cowering under her social assault. With one eyebrow slightly raised, she said, “This might be a good time for me to introduce myself to the distinguished, wealthy, and handsome Mr. Kingsley.”

  “Ah, now that’s called schmoozing, which is more to your taste, Nikki, with all its effluvial connotations. Just remember, they’re married.”

  “Stanley, don’t project your parochial school morality onto me. I’m simply going to introduce myself to the man and congratulate him on his lovely wife’s success.”

  “Nikki, you don’t do anything simply.”

  She set off toward the trio of honored guests, while my eyes followed her distinctive strut across the room. Nicole’s posture and gait was like that of a high-strung show horse prancing before the judges’ stand, a holdover from her days on the Paris runways.

  At that moment though, at least for my eyes, she was outdone by someone else—a dark-haired and dark-eyed stranger emerging from the kitchen. Except for the nose, he could have been movie-star material from the days of romance and mystique, when a smoldering glance stirred the heart more than an exposed crotch ever could. He’d slicked back his hair, but I could still discern a natural, barbaric curl under the gel. And there was nothing shy about the nose either, reminiscent of an eagle in profile. He’d just let go of the swinging door when he looked my way and caught my admiring glance. He smiled openly, then waved to me, as though he recognized me. He motioned for me to join him as he made his way toward Danny and Prentiss and the others. I headed that way too, and saw him get there just when Nicole did, still in her pursuit of Prentiss Kingsley. The handsome stranger and Nicole actually bumped, but he smiled and nodded politely to her. Then he took firm hold of Danny’s shoulders and pulled him away from the small group toward another part of the hall. Nicole, meanwhile, sidled up to Prentiss Kingsley, while Liz Carlini seemed a bit distracted by all the sudden intrusions. Seeing his chance, Liz’s elderly victim took advantage of the lapse in her attention and quietly escaped. With Danny and the handsome stranger out of reach for the moment, I decided to go talk with Liz and steer her attention away from Nicole, whom I knew would flirt brazenly with Prentiss Kingsley. Nothing was intended by it, except perhaps to upset Liz, the cool, ambitious, asexual businesswoman, the very kind Nicole detests.

  Liz seemed almost relieved to see me. It probably comforted her to have someone to latch onto and overpower. She threw a cold glance toward Nicole, who was already maneuvering Prentiss Kingsley toward a large table where the entire Le Jardin product line was lavishly displayed.

  Liz said to me, “I’m surprised that manicurist from your salon is here tonight.”

  I answered frankly. “When you and Danny invited me, you said I could bring a guest. I didn’t think it was conditional.”

  She blinked nervously as Nicole and Prentiss disappeared into the crowd. She seemed worried that Nicole might corner her husband and expose herself, or something equally outrageous. Then again, knowing Nikki …

  I said quickly, “Nicole loves to meet new people.” I should have added honestly, “especially men,” but I already noticed a defensive tone creeping into my voice.

  Liz sipped nervously at her drink—undoubtedly pure imported mineral water—and spoke again before she’d completely swallowed the last bit, which caused her to cough and sputter a moment. It seemed to embarrass her, as though real professional people didn’t have the same visceral functions as ordinary mortals. Even simple things like coughing or sneezing were undesirable. She looked out over the crowd as she tried to explain the coughing away. “Excuse me, please. I seem to be so excited by this whole event, I’m afraid I’m forgetting myself.”

  Whoever that is, I thought.

  The errant droplets lingered in her throat, teetering between trachea and esophagus, while Liz waited impatiently for their decision. I wanted to tell her to relax her throat, which would help the water go where it belonged. Instead, I remained silent and watched the tears well up in her eyes as she resisted the urge to cough. Finally, after a hyper-controlled clearing of her throat, she spoke again.

  “Vannos, there were moments in the past year when I wondered if this business would ever get off the ground. You have no idea of some of the difficulties.” She sipped at her water again, as if to prove that she was unafraid of another cough. Meanwhile, I prepared myself to administer the Heimlich Remover, just in case her swallowing reflex was still faulty. But she merely smiled and continued talking. “Now we’re finally home free, and we can start making some money.”

  “I didn’t know you had any problems at all, Liz,” I said, thinking of the relative ease with which a new business can be launched when money is an unlimited resource. “Was it labor trouble then?” I asked.

  Liz turned her head sharply toward me. “Did Danny say anything to you?”

  “No, I was just curious.”

  She looked at me suspiciously.

  I continued, “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  I was always a bit hurt by Liz Carlini’s haughtiness. Most clients want to share at least one deep, dark, serious secret with their hair stylist, especially after they’ve known each other a while. Liz was strange that way. I’d been doing her hair for two years, and I still didn’t know much about the woman under the head of lustrous, dense black hair.

  Liz shook her head forcefully, as though trying to cancel our exchange, as though our words were on a computer screen and she could push the “clear” button to make the conversation go away, as though the past had never happened.

  From within the crowd, Laurett reappeared before us with the seafood platter, which was less than half full now. Liz spoke sharply to her. “Finish with that, Laurett, then make sure everything is ready in the kitchen for the final presentation.”

  “Already?” said Laurett. “Miss Lisa, there is much more food to serve.” Her good speech had been activated.

  “Don’t talk back,” said Liz. “Just finish that platter and get back to the kitchen.”

  I leapt to action and rescued the platter from Laurett’s arms. “I can help with that,” I said. I nudged her with my shoulder, aiming her back into the crowd where I wanted to be too, away from Liz Carlini. I turned my head back toward Liz and called out, “See you later!” I was surprised to see her look forlorn. Had my sudden desertion caused it?

  As I pushed Laurett along through the crowd, she asked, “What are you doing? You want to feed these hungry rats too?”

  “This platter gives me a good excuse to walk around and meet people.” I cocked my head towar
d Danny and his handsome friend. “Especially him,” I said.

  Laurett shook her head and wagged a finger at me. “You bad, Vannos,” she said, and headed back toward the kitchen.

  I continued on my way toward Dan Doherty and the exotic young man who had waved to me earlier. The two of them were standing in a quiet alcove, and they seemed to be arguing. Nothing like a good fight to show a person’s mettle, I say; so I strolled over to them with the platter of smoked seafood, as though they were exactly in my intended path. They both looked up as I approached. Danny frowned, but the other man, my obscure object of desire, smiled that charming smile again.

  “Hey, Christian!” he called out to me with a heavy accent. French, I thought, and no wonder he’s so friendly—he thinks I’m someone else, probably somebody influential. I saw Danny say something to him, but the handsome stranger didn’t respond. He was too busy smiling at me.

  When I got to them, I offered the platter. “This is the last of the seafood.”

  Danny seemed surprised. “The food is gone already?”

  “No, but Liz wants to stop serving now and start the dessert soon.”

  Danny said, “It’s too early for that. I’ll go talk to her.” He turned to leave, then said curtly to his friend, “Well finish with this later. Then he walked brusquely away back into the crowd in search of Liz Carlini, leaving me alone with the handsome stranger. I couldn’t have choreographed it better.

  “How you been, Christian?” he asked with suave broken English.

  “My name is Stan,” I answered. “I think you have me confused with someone else.”

  “Mebbee. But I see your hair. Is short and copper, just like Christian.” He pronounced the word “copair.”

  “I had it cut yesterday.”

  He gave a blase shrug. “So, you are not Christian, but you are nice.” His dark eyes danced and flirted, taking in me, the party, and the world all at once.

  “Well, you seem nice too,” I said.

  “I am Rafik,” he said, and extended his hand. His name rhymed with technique.

  I juggled the platter onto my left arm, and shook his hand. He held onto mine even after I released the pressure of the handshake. He squeezed it strongly a few times. Then, as he let go, he pressed his fingers against my palm. I felt a little shiver of pleasure, since his message was clear. Hell, Valentine’s Day was in two weeks, and I was, as usual, single. My last romance with a young Balinese had ended abruptly when he returned to California to pursue a degree in Fashion Administration. And since most of my friends own wash-and-wear bridal gowns, I often wonder when it will be my turn for romance, with the flowers and candy and kisses, and whatever physical gymnastics might follow the sweet, sloppy, sentimental part of courtship. In fact, I was ready for some deep and dirty loving.

  “Are you French?” I asked.

  “Yes, non,” he said with that killer smile. “I am born in Paris, but I grow up in Montreal. My parents … is very complicated.”

  “But you live here now?”

  “Oh yes,” he said with a nod—a sexy, inviting nod.

  A brief silence followed, and I became slightly flustered, as I often do when a desirable man has touched me. He asked, “How you know Danny?” He pronounced it “Dunny.”

  “I do his hair.”

  “You are hairdresser?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you are so masculeen!”

  Why did the word sound more convincing with a French accent? And what was causing this unlikely admiration? Was it my coppery hair, freshly cut in a faux-butch style? Perhaps it was the reddish mustache hovering over my full lips, which tend to grin easily. Or the green eyes? My guess is that it’s my big square jaw that appeals to people. Though my face is a bit fleshy, it’s also blessed with the strong, angular kind of bones usually reserved for television sports reporters or lumberjacks, though rumor has it that some of those he-men trip rather lightly too. So, okay, my jaw is big and manly. Once you know me, though, you’ll find it’s just a home for tongue and teeth and sass.

  “I’m one of the new breed,” I replied. “No more limp wrists. We’re all brawny brutes now, yanking hair out by the roots.”

  He chuckled and said, “You are funny man.”

  I let the remark slip and asked, “How do you know Danny?” in my turn of tit-for-tat.

  His eyes looked down for a moment, as if to recall a poignant memory. Then he said, “We meet at the cafe.”

  “Here in Boston?”

  “En Montreal.”

  “So, you’re lovers?”

  Rafik shifted slightly on his long legs. “We are friends. I help with business.”

  “Then you have a job?” Always important to know, especially with charming, good-looking men.

  He hesitated. “Yes …” Then he switched on the bedroom gaze. “I like to see you.”

  “Already? You must need a green card.”

  “Eh?” he replied, puzzled.

  “Are you a U.S. citizen?”

  “No …” he answered cautiously.

  “You must want to get married then.”

  “Go to bed?”

  “That too, probably,” I said with a shrug.

  “I like that,” he said, showing all his white teeth.

  “I’m not sure Danny would, though.”

  From behind me I heard, “Not sure I’d like what?”

  It was Danny. Of course he’d overhear. This is me and my timing we’re talking about. I explained sheepishly that Rafik and I were just kidding around.

  “Take him, Vannos. I’ve had enough. No deposit, no return. He’s all yours.”

  “Danny, I didn’t mean—”

  “We were just breaking up when you came over with that tray, Vannos, so your timing was perfect.”

  I let out a heavy sigh. My playfulness had been misconstrued, and now Danny was having a queen attack. Why didn’t Rafik say something to clear the air, to calm Danny down?

  I gave a resigned sigh and looked down at the tray. “I guess I’ll finish serving this stuff.” But as I turned to go, Rafik held my arm.

  “Excuse me?” he said, asking it like a question.

  I looked across my shoulder into his eyes.

  He said, “Your name is Stan, or Vannos?”

  “In the shop it’s Vannos, in real life it’s Stan.”

  “So,” he said with that ever-inviting gleam in his eye, “I am real life for you, eh?”

  Danny interrupted our lingering tango. “You’d better hurry up with that fish. Liz is in the kitchen burning her rotors to get the dessert served. I couldn’t change her mind about it.”

  On the way back to the kitchen, I noticed Prentiss Kingsley being corralled by another man—a stocky, broad-shouldered guy in his forties, wearing a plain brown suit. He looked like a former preppy jock gone slightly paunchy. The man was annoyed about something, as though the refined Prentiss Kingsley had just snatched an overnight parking space from him. Neither Liz nor Nicole was anywhere near them. The guy was pushing Prentiss Kingsley into a narrow, empty service pantry that was remote from the main part of the floor. I skirted around the crowd and went to stand near the opening to the pantry. I trained my ears on their conversation, and I caught a good part of it.

  “Prentiss, this party is decadent. You have no right—”

  “I have every right, John. I always have.”

  “You got your mother’s money on a fluke, not a right.”

  “But I did get it, John.”

  “And now you’re squandering it on frivolities.”

  “This business venture is not frivolous. In fact, Van Gumpfe of Switzerland has already made a generous bid for Le Jardin. I don’t meddle in your sordid affairs, dear brother, so please keep your petty complaints and your tiresome envy in check.”

  “Half brother, Prentiss. We’re half brothers.”

  “That’s right, John. You’ve finally accepted the fact that the Kingsley name and fortune are mine and mine alone. You can keep the
Lough surname all to yourself, along with everything and everyone connected to it.”

  The name rhymed with tough … or fluff. At the moment I couldn’t tell which.

  “You and your dead mother’s name,” said John Lough. “Don’t forget your young wife and her young friends, Prentiss. They seem to be enjoying the Kingsley money too.”

  “I will not have you insult Elizabeth and Daniel.”

  Their argument seemed to be getting out of hand, and the next thing I knew, Prentiss Kingsley and John Lough came out from the service pantry and were facing me directly. I was caught. I looked down at the tray I was carrying. The seafood was beginning to look a little tired, but it still looked worthy to offer to Prentiss Kingsley and his sparring partner. With my best service-industry persona, I asked, “Would either of you two gentlemen like some seafood?”

  Mr. Lough’s eyes narrowed in rage. “Leave us alone.”

  Mr. Kingsley said, “I must find my wife now,” and he walked away without even acknowledging me.

  But John Lough said, “Get back to work.”

  Thoroughly humiliated by the ruling class, I wandered back into the party crowd, where Nicole intercepted me. “What was that all about?”

  “You saw?”

  She nodded. “Everything.”

  “The estimable Mr. Kingsley seems to have family problems. He was arguing with his brother about money and property—the usual party banter.”

  “But you also struck paydirt, Stanley. Who was that dark-eyed beauty hanging around Danny?”

  “You don’t miss much, Nikki.”

  “Not men like him.”

  “Dark-eyes is Danny’s lover, and he’s got a great pair of round heels too.”

  “Are you going to spin him then?”

  “Nikki, the next time my ovaries start clacking over a handsome man, just hog-tie me and throw me into the ice bin.”

  “With pleasure, darling. But I must insist that you be gagged first.”

  “Sure, have your way with me. Anything for a pal.”

  She put her arm around me and hugged me, slightly upsetting the serving platter.