by Carla Ryan
"What a lovely surprise!" Tristao, dressed in a sharp crimson suit, comes up beside you.
The ass-grabbing goon is now completely out of sight, so you give up and shake Tristao's hand. "It's a pleasure."
"I thought I heard something about Spare creeping into my back yard," he says jovially. "I guess the rumors are true. Is this something that's been in the works for a while?"
As nice as Tristao is, after your slip up at your first meeting, you're always nervous you're going to say the wrong thing around him. Plus he's a giant in the industry. No matter how much progress Spare is making, seeing him always reminds you of how far you have to go. And then there's the small matter that he might be your boss someday soon.
So you take a page from his book. "This is a place of leisure," you say. "No shop talk allowed."
"Understood," he says with a laugh and a small bow.
He follows you to the bar as you make some small talk, but when the bartender brings your drink over, Tristao insists on paying for it.
"You don't have to do that," you say.
"It's the least I can do," he says, giving you a warm smile. "After all, you're the one who brought us together."
Huh?
"I'm not sure I follow," you say. "Are you talking about the fundraiser? Because I didn't have anything to do with this."
"No, no, I mean your mother and me."
Did he just punch you in the face? Because it feels like he just punched you in the face.
"I'm sorry, I still don't... What do you mean I brought you together? All I did was introduce you."
"And I pity the man I would have been without that introduction. Your mother is an enthralling woman -- so vibrant, and full of life, just like her hats! Oh, forgive me, chapeaus." He chuckles, smiling into his own drink before taking a sip.
Okay. Maybe you need to punch him in the face. How else are you supposed to snap him out of this? It's a good thing you made your mother reject his advances that day; if he's acting like a lovesick schoolboy after only spending a few hours with her almost three months ago, imagine what he'd be like if... they'd...
"With work being so crazy, I haven't actually talked to my mother much lately." You're calm. Totally calm. Just making casual conversation with a man who could hold your future in his hands. "Have you... talked to her recently?"
"I have -- this afternoon, in fact. She does love her FaceTime, though it's no substitute for the genuine article. I haven't seen her in person since Tuesday and her absence looms large. Of course when I told her that, she did not appreciate the implication and directed me to be more selective in my phraseology." His eyes sparkle as he laughs again. "Mi amore is one of a kind."
Mi amore? This is worse than you thought.
"That she is." You drain your drink and slap the glass on the bar. "If you'll excuse me, I have to make a quick phone call."
"Not work-related, I hope?"
You hope so too.
The event hall opens up to a terrace with a stunning view of the water and Golden Gate Bridge. There are far less people out here, so even though the music is louder -- Marigold's trio is set up in the corner -- overall it's not as noisy as inside. Marigold is in the middle of a solo, eyes closed and fingers zipping over the keyboard, so you wave to Willa and Annette and find a quiet corner to murder your mother.
Oops. Did you say murder? You meant MURDER.
The phone rings several times before you remember that she's three hours ahead. Your mother isn't much of a night owl, and you worry she's already asleep, but right before the voicemail's about to pick up, she answers.
"Babykins?" she asks groggily. "What's the --"
"Are you seeing Tristao Cassatt?"
"What? Tristao? No."
"He seems to think you are."
"You saw him?"
That perked her right up.
She clears her throat, sounding sleepy again. "I can't be held responsible for what he thinks."
"He said that you two spoke earlier today, and that he saw you in person on Tuesday. What happened to staying away from him?"
"It's almost midnight. Do we really need to have this conversation now? You know how puffy I get when I don't sleep enough."
Oh no. She is not getting out of this.
"How many times have you seen him?" you ask.
"I take that as a yes." The blankets rustle, and you can picture her settling back in her canopy bed. "About a month ago T.C. was in town --"
"T.C.? You're not calling him 'mi amore' too?"
"Mi amore? Did he call me that?"
She is way too happy about this.
"You know what that means, right?" you say.
"Oh, I'm sure he doesn't really mean it," she says. "I think I've even heard him call the waitress that before. He's a very open-hearted man, the big softy."
This cannot be happening!
Marigold's group finishes the song, and you see Annette say something to her, pointing to you. Marigold grins and waves, and you worry she's going to come over, but then she calls another tune. Oh good. That means you've got a few minutes. Or a half-hour. You never know with jazz.
"Anyway," your mother continues, "he was in town and asked to meet for lunch. What was I supposed to do?"
"Say no."
She scoffs. "We can't all be anti-social hermits like you. Besides, I had a new chapeau that needed to be shown off."
"Of course you did."
"Speaking of, Ziti just finished the most resplendent creation. It's inspired by a recent trip she took to the zoo and --"
"Can we stay on topic? You had lunch with Tristao a month ago. That doesn't explain why he saw you Tuesday, or why he talked to you today."
"Well, I knew your concerns were for your work, so during that first lunch I made him vow never to discuss his enterprise in my presence. He agreed, and we had a wonderful time. When it was over he asked if he could call me from time to time, and I thought there wouldn't be any harm in that. We've chatted once or twice, and when he's in town we get together. I don't see why you're making such a fuss."
"A fuss?!?" No one's close enough to hear, but you lower your voice anyway. "I didn't tell you this before, and you have to swear not to tell anyone, but Tristao approached me a few months ago about possibly buying Spare."
"That would be magnificent! He is a remarkably astute businessman. Nothing like Noel. The advice he gave me about the foundation was spot on — I’m feeling much better about all this business… business. Did you know that T.C. built Won’t Waste from the ground up? He even drove his own truck when he first started out. There's a man who isn't afraid to get his hands dirty."
"I thought you didn't talk about his work?"
"Oh, well, it may have come up, once or twice."
"Like how you two have spoken on the phone 'once or twice'?"
"You would learn so much from him," she says quickly. "If he's interested in Spare, that means you're doing something right -- which we all knew already, of course."
"Look, it might not even happen, so you cannot, under any circumstances say or do anything about it. I don't want you -- or me -- to get arrested for insider trading."
"Oh I know all about that from Noel. Don't worry. Why don't you think it will happen? Doesn't Jabir think it's a good idea?"
"Well he --" You catch yourself getting pulled off topic. "I didn't call you to talk about the merger."
"I thought it was an acquisition."
"Whatever! The board meeting is in a couple weeks, and if we vote to explore his offer, you two dating could be a huge liability."
"We are not dating. We haven't even kissed."
"Have you done anything else?" you ask, making your meaning clear.
"No," she says in a huff, "not that it's any of your business."
"It is my business. Literally. My business could be screwed if you screw him."
"Then it's a good thing I'm not," she snaps. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get my beauty sleep, and surprisingl
y, arguing with my daughter about my sex life isn't helping."
She hangs up, and you consider calling her back to make her swear she won't see Tristao again, but decide against it. Even if she answered the phone, which is unlikely, your mother would never agree to something like that. All you can do is move on and hope for the best. And maybe invest in a voodoo doll.
Chapter Nineteen
"Are you serious?" you ask, your stomach sore from laughter.
"Oh yeah," says Willa, taking another bite of her pizza. "Next thing I know, all my clothes are gone and I've got to get back inside for the next set in five minutes. So I call Mary and calmly tell her what happened --"
"No you did not," Marigold interjects. She covers her full mouth and says to you, "All she did was repeat, 'My ex stole my clothes! My ex stole my clothes!' over and over. I didn't get the full story until after the gig ended."
"So you guys had to play the rest of the night without a drummer?" you ask.
"Excuse me," Willa says, "I am a professional. When I say I'm going to play for three hours, I play for three hours."
"You were just worried you wouldn't get paid," Annette teases.
"You weren't even there," Willa dismisses. "You were off losing your virginity in the tropics or something."
"I was on my honeymoon," Annette corrects, "but if I'd known I was going to miss you in a --"
"Don't spoil it!" Marigold cries.
"Excuse me," a woman hisses, poking her head outside. "Can you please keep it down? We're trying to listen to the keynote and all we can hear is you through the glass."
"Sorry," Annette whispers. The rest of you quickly do the same, but when the woman closes the door to the event room, the four of you burst into a bad case of church giggles.
"So what happened?" You may be risking another scolding, but there's no way you're leaving without the punchline to this story.
"Okay." Willa polishes off her pizza and starts cleaning her greasy fingers. If you'd eaten inside, you would have had your choice of high-class local cuisine, but instead you're out on the terrace with the band, eating what the event planners ordered from the closest pizza joint. You'd rather be out here anyway, enjoying the view.
Marigold steals one of the fries off of your plate, then winks as she pops it in her mouth.
Yup, that's one great view alright.
"Well Mary didn't have any extra clothes," Willa says, "and the sax player was this thin rail of a guy who was probably wearing the same clothes he wore in middle school, so that was a dead end."
"Then she remembered something," says Marigold, already laughing.
"Shh!" Annette says, barely containing her own giggles.
"Then I remembered," says Willa, "that I never took my Halloween costume out of the back of the Jeep."
"Oh no!" you cry. "What was it?"
"My nieces wanted us all to match since we were going trick-or-treating together," she says, keeping you in suspense. "They wanted to be Tinkerbell and Wendy, so --"
"You were Peter Pan?" you ask, already laughing at the thought of Willa in green tights.
"Worse," she says, starting to lose it. "I was the crocodile!"
The entire table erupts in laughter, only made worse by your attempts to muffle it.
"She had this huge crocodile head," Marigold says, crying with laughter. "I could barely see her face!"
"I played the rest of the night in a crocodile suit," Willa says, trying to catch her breath. "The worst part is, not only was I completely buck naked underneath, when we went trick-or-treating I wore green leggings to go with it. But for the gig, I did not have said leggings."
"The sax player's face...!" Marigold says, trailing into hysterics.
"No wonder he never returned my calls!" Willa says.
The event hall door opens and all of you look up, certain it's the angry lady again, but this time it's a man with a headset. "The keynote will be over any minute," he says.
Marigold waves in acknowledgment. "We'll be ready," she says between giggles. "Thanks."
"Back to my spot by the railing, I guess," you say.
"You don't have to stay," Marigold says.
"It's only another hour." You put your head on her shoulder. "I can deal with being alone for another hour."
"You guys are so cute!" Annette says, then she elbows Willa playfully in the arm. "See? If I hadn't told her how to find Marigold, they never would have gotten together."
"And if we don't get back to our instruments," Willa says, picking up her plate, "we're never going to get paid."
As you all clean up the table, the event planner comes back out and scurries over. "Can you do a ballad?" he asks in a panic. "It's the fiftieth wedding anniversary of some key donors and their daughter wants to surprise them with their wedding song. It's called..." He looks at his tablet. "...As Time Goes By. Do you know it?"
Willa and Annette start chuckling, casting knowing glances at Marigold, who's wearing a forced smile.
"We know it," Marigold says.
"Oh thank goodness," the planner says. "I'll give you the signal when to start." He goes back in and stands right inside the door where the band can see him.
"What's the joke?" you ask.
"Marigold hates that song," Annette says.
"I don't hate it."
"She loathes it," says Willa.
"It's just so played out," Marigold says, "and if it was their wedding song we can't even make it interesting by playing it up or in five or something."
Playing it up? Even though you've been hanging out with Marigold for months now, you have yet to understand all of her music jargon.
"Why don't you sit this one out?" Willa suggests, getting comfortable behind her drum set. "Annette can play it. She loves that song."
"The words are so sweet!" Annette's face lights up with a new thought. Gesturing at you and Marigold, she adds, "You two could dance to it out here! That would be so romantic!"
"I don't know," Marigold says. Turning to you, she asks, "Do you like that song?"
"I have no idea what song you're talking about."
"It's from Casablanca. You'd recognize it if --"
"We're getting the signal," Willa says. She uses her drumstick to point at the event planner, who's waving frantically at you.
Annette uses Marigold's indecision to jump behind -- the piano?
"She can play piano?" you ask.
"Yeah," says Marigold. "She's really good, but she likes the bass better."
Annette plays the first few notes of the song, and even though you've never even seen Casablanca, you do recognize the tune.
"May I have this dance?" you ask, offering your hand to Marigold.
She winces, although her eyes are smiling. "Our first dance ever would be to As Time Goes By," she mutters, but she accepts, and you slide your arm around her back, bringing your bodies together. Her breath tickles your shoulder as you slowly rock back and forth. As usual, she's not wearing any makeup or perfume, but you breathe in her natural fragrance, a sweet scent that's more intoxicating than anything you can find at the store.
The doors to the event hall are open, and as Willa begins a slow and gentle rhythm to accompany Annette's surprisingly good piano, couples start streaming out to join you and Marigold. Although the terrace felt huge when it was only the two of you out here, soon the space is so full of dancers that you can't even see Annette and Willa.
"Can I ask you something?" you ask.
"Mm-hmm." Marigold starts rubbing her thumb on the back of your neck. Currents of pleasure zip down your spine, making it hard to concentrate.
"I want you to be totally honest with me," you say, your lips grazing her ear.
"Mm-hmm?"
"That night at the bar, when I hit on you... was there any part of you that wanted to say yes?"
There's a hitch in her movement, a pause that only lasts a moment. By the time the next beat of the song comes, you're both already rocking in time, but she still doesn't an
swer. Maybe reminding her of the day she was heartbroken isn't such a good idea. But it's been driving you crazy for so long -- you have to know the truth.
"I'd had an awful day," she finally says. "I almost didn't go in. When you asked me that, it was the first time all day that I forgot how miserable and stupid I felt."
Hearing her describe herself that way, so contrary to her usual steadfast self-confidence, makes something in your chest pinch. You hold her tighter, promising yourself that if you ever run into her airhead of an ex, you'll make it a point to kick her in the twat.
"It was such a relief," she continues, her voice heavy and solemn in your ear, "that I didn't want it to end." She rests her head against yours and falls silent.
So she did want to say yes, but it had almost nothing to do with you.
Well that blows.
"And you were kind of cute," she adds.
"Kind of?" You pull back and meet her mischievous smile. "I looked smoking that night, thank you very much."
"Not as good as tonight," she says. She lightly traces your hairline, running her finger over your ear, past the curve of your neck, and all the way down to the base of your throat. Goosebumps prickle across your bare arms and shoulders, and your nipples suddenly chafe against your dress.
"I'm nothing compared to you," you say, and you mean it. She's wearing the same empire-waist dress she wore the night you saw her playing in the club, but with her elegant updo showing off her natural beauty, she looks like a princess.
"I think," you say, kissing the spot beneath her ear, "that this is the most perfect moment I've ever had."
She takes a long breath, her chest heaving against yours, then pulls away just enough for you to see the hunger in her eyes as she says, "Not me."
Uh... what? That's harsh.
But then her lips are on yours, with a kiss so long and so sweet that you find yourself leaning on her for support as your knees threaten to give way.
When she pulls back, with that bright, impish grin, your chest almost explodes with happiness.
"Oh," you say, breathless. "Okay. That tops it."
Cocking her head to the side, she narrows her eyes and makes a show of pondering something. Then she shakes her head. "Nope. Still not there."