The Art of Stealing Hearts

by Stella London

  Fred peeks his head out of the door. “Grace has a date?” he says. “With who?”

  I’m sure my face is turning red, I’m so embarrassed. I wish I could shrink into a little ball and avoid their questions.

  “So who is this young suitor?” Nona says. She nudges me. “Is he handsome?”

  “Of course he is, mother,” Carmella says from the doorway to the deli. She and Fred, like two peas in a pod. “How pretty is our Gracie?”

  “No way he’s hotter than me,” Cousin Eddie says, puffing out his chest.

  “Who is he?” Nona asks again, beaming.

  I don’t know what to say. I never dated much: I was always too busy with school to have a serious boyfriend, and then later, with my mom getting sick, dating wasn’t really a priority. “Tell us,” Nona urges again. “Give an old woman some vicarious fun.”

  I smile. “Fine, fine. It’s a guy I met through that art job.”

  “Fancy,” Carmella says as Fred demands, “Is he loaded?”

  I hesitate, not willing to say too much just yet. I have no idea where things are going with St. Clair. “Relax with the questions! It might just be one date, you guys.”

  Fred laughs his full bellied laugh. “So that’s a yes.”

  Nona puts her hand on my forearm. “Do you like him?”

  I look at the ground so they can’t see how much. “Yeah,” I say. “But I am worried about tonight. I think he’ll take me somewhere fancy, but I don’t have anything to wear.”

  “Is that it?” Nona cries. “I have just the thing. Come.” She tucks her arm through mine and steers me towards her apartment down the block.

  “But my shift—” I protest.

  Nona tuts. “Carmella will fix that, won’t you? Everybody else, back to work!”

  Her short, seventy year old legs are surprisingly swift, and soon we’re up in the di Fiore’s big, bright apartment that covers two floors, the one they bought back when North Beach was just a run-down immigrant neighborhood, and not the fashionable place it is now. They could get millions if they sold it, but Nona won’t hear of it: this is her home.

  “This trunk was my mother’s,” she says, fishing a trunk out of the closet. It looks like it’s at least as old as she is. “She died young, like yours, poor dears.” Nona opens the lid and reverently pulls out a dress swathed in plastic wrap, like the kind dry cleaners use. “This was a gift from her for my twenty-fifth birthday. I was in a new country, with a new husband, and I barely knew the language. Walking down the street, I felt like everyone could tell I was just a girl from a small village in the countryside. But this dress…this dress made me feel like I belonged.”

  I hold my breath as she unzips the plastic and ceremoniously reveals the contents: a timeless navy blue dress in thick luscious fabric, with detailed stitching.

  I almost gasp. “It’s so beautiful.”

  “Gucci,” she says. “Back when nobody knew who that was, of course. My mother got it for me in the fanciest store in Rome. She said I needed the best for my new life in America. It’ll be perfect on your trim figure.” She holds it out to me. “A bit shorter on your long legs, but I think you can stand to show off those gams.”

  “I can’t…” I pause. It’s so lovely – and it means so much to her. “This is yours.”

  “Why not?” Nona laughs and pats her belly. “Like I’ll be wearing it anytime soon. Too much pasta. It’s too late for my Carmella, too. But you, you still need a dress like this.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask, tears brimming behind my eyes.

  “You did tell me he was handsome, yes?” She digs around in the trunk and comes up with some dark heels that she sets on the floor, and then she walks over to her jewelry box and gives me a pearl brooch and pearl earrings. “You’ll look perfect.”

  She reaches up to pile my hair on top of my head. “Wear it up,” she says. “Let me help.”

  I let Nona dress me up. With a belt, the dress fits like a glove, and does indeed highlight the figure I inherited from my mom.

  Nona does my make-up too, fussing over my eyes in front of her antique vanity. “Your mom would be so proud of you, following your dreams like this.”

  The tears are back, and I try to keep them in since I don’t want to ruin all Nona’s hard work on my eyeliner. “Thanks,” I manage.

  “You’re looking more and more like her every day,” Nona says and my heart fills with bittersweet joy.

  “I wish she could see it,” I say, a lump in my throat.

  “She can,” Nona says firmly. “Now, open your eyes.”

  I open my eyes and see…me, but a version of me I didn’t know I could be. Glamorous, but understated, just like my mom was. “Wow.” My hair is up in a loose bun with tendrils falling down to frame my face, my make-up tasteful, the dark shading around my eyes highlighting my hazel irises. “I look like Audrey Hepburn,” I say.

  “You’re just beautiful.” Nona beams. “Like your mother.”

  “Going to one of her art parties in the city,” I say, remembering watching her get ready, curling her hair, picking out a dress and shoes.

  “She always had handsome suitors, too,” Nona says and winks at me.

  “Thank you, Nona. You are my fairy godmother,” I say and hug her. “And not just tonight.” I kiss the top of her head. “Your mom is proud of you, too.”

  “You sweet girl,” she says and squeezes me closer. “And this man better not try any funny business or I’ll fold his bones like gnocchi.”

  CHAPTER 6

  I get to Hakkasan at 7:50. I don’t want to be early, in case he is and he thinks I’m desperate, so I wait outside. But then I decide that if he isn’t early and he arrives and sees me standing out here doing nothing, he’ll think that’s weird. Get it together, Grace. My hands are shaking and I have butterflies in my stomach. I’m so not equipped for this. When was the last time I was on a date?

  San Francisco evenings are always the coldest, as the ocean breeze comes inland and brings the fog and thick sea air. Union Square shoppers hurry by with their Neiman Marcus and Prada bags, and tourists take photos in the square. I didn’t have a jacket that went with Nona’s vintage dress, so I’m sleeveless and chilly.

  I go inside, taking the elevator all the way up to the top floor. The doors open and it’s like I’ve been transported into another universe. Moody blue lighting emanates from blue panels in the walls, overlaid with metal panes that have Eastern shapes cut out like stencils. The effect is stunning.

  “Can I help you?” The hostess wears a tiny little hat on half her head. She looks me up and down and doesn’t smile. “Do you have a reservation?”

  “St. Clair?” I ask and the hostess’s demeanor immediately changes.

  “Oh, of course!” She smiles broadly. “Right this way, please, watch your step.”

  She seats me at a table by the window with a gorgeous view of the twinkling lights of San Francisco. The tiered shadows of the city skyline and the darkness of the bay beyond spread out before me. It feels like I’m on top of the world. Not two seconds pass before a waiter is asking if I would like a cocktail. I pick something from the long list on the table, and he hurries away.

  I settle back, thinking how nice it is to not be the one running into the kitchen and bringing drinks. Though, this is a gorgeous restaurant to be working in. The moody blue lighting pools all around me. Deep brown oak wood beams show in the ceiling and the thick wooden tables look like slabs sliced right off redwoods. Leather seats, deep cushions. Recessed light above and tabletop candles complete the look: classy, romantic.

  “Your drink,” the waiter says. “Can I get you anything else while you wait for your companion?”

  “No thanks,” I say, impressed at all the attention I’m getting just because I used St. Clair’s name, but as soon as he’s gone I realize I haven’t eaten since my late breakfast. Beautifully composed trays of food pass by—dumplings in red, orange and white, plates of cooked veggies in sauces and dough balls an
d crispy fried pockets of goodness packed with things that smell like heaven…

  “I’m so sorry I’m late,” St. Clair says, appearing suddenly at my side. I bob out of my seat as he bends down to kiss my cheek.

  “Sorry!” I blurt, as I knock right into him.

  He smiles. “How about we try that again?”

  Resting one hand on my arm, he leans in and kisses my cheek. This time, I stay still, savoring the feel of his mouth brushing lightly against my skin.

  “I hope you’re not too hungry,” he says, moving to sit opposite. I drop back into my chair, my heart suddenly pounding.

  “I’m fine,” I say just as my stomach rumbles. I’m mortified, but he laughs, his dimples showing.

  He has dimples too?

  “Let’s get that seen to.” He only has to make eye contact before two waiters are hurrying to our table. “We’d like the chef’s sampler plate—he knows what I like—and I’ll have whatever fruity drink my date is enjoying.”

  “Very good, sir,” the waiter says and leaves.

  St. Clair turns to me, gives me the full strength of his gaze. There’s a slight lift of one eyebrow and a playful upward tilt of his mouth that hints at a smile waiting to be unleashed. “So, Grace.” His blue eyes are penetrating. “Now that we have a chance to get to know each other…who are you?”

  My mind goes blank. “Uh, well, besides working at Carringer’s I’m also a waitress and an art student.”

  “Where do you attend school?”

  “Oh, well, I graduated last year from— uh, with an art degree.” I stop before I can tell him about my less than illustrious pedigree. I still remember the way Lydia sneered, so I turn the conversation around. “How about you?”

  “I studied at Oxford and Harvard, finance,” he says casually. “But my life experiences have always been more valuable to me.”

  I nod, unable to make my mouth move. What is wrong with me?! I take a sip of my drink and he glances out the window. Say something! “Pretty out there,” I manage and realize I sound like a four year old.

  “Did you grow up in the city?” he asks.

  “East Bay,” I manage to reply. “Oakland. It was kind of sketchy in our neighborhood, but Mom always said it made things more interesting. There was a lot of different art and culture—”

  “Charles St. Clair?” A gorgeous woman in a shimmering cocktail dress stands next to our table in four inch heels, towering over us.

  He looks surprised. “Have we met?”

  “No, I just had to come over and say hello,” she gushes. “You are so smart, and your piece in Newsweek was just so insightful.” Her face looks familiar and I search to place it.

  “Thank you.” St Clair is polite. “That’s nice of you to say.”

  The woman gives him a practiced sexy half smile and extends her hand. “Lori Sloane.”

  Seriously? I stare at her in disbelief. Now I recognize her, she’s a famous Hollywood actress. I’ve only ever seen her in the gossip magazines, but here she is, looking at St. Clair like she wants to eat him right up. She holds his hand for a beat too long before she lets go.

  “This is my friend, Grace,” St. Clair says, gesturing to me. I fake a smile and try to ignore the sting of his word choice. Of course we’re friends. How else would he introduce me?

  Lori glances my way for a split second. “You must come visit me in L.A. next month.” She bats her eyelashes and places her hand on his arm. “We can relax by the pool all day and drink all night.” She giggles and leans so he can make sure to see her cleavage.

  “My schedule is a little busy,” he says.

  “Oh, you’ll make time. It’ll be positively fabulous!” She flips her long blonde hair and squeezes Charles’ bicep. “I’ll see you—soon.” She winks and walks away and I am dumbfounded. A ten-foot tall goddess of a starlet just hit on my date.

  “I’m so sorry,” he apologizes, giving me a rueful look as soon as Lori is out of earshot.

  “It’s fine,” I lie, but now I really feel out of my league. “I’m sure that kind of thing happens to you all the time.”

  “Maybe we should have gone somewhere quieter.” He refolds his napkin, looking uncomfortable.

  “It’d be the same wherever we go,” I say, trying to make my voice light. “I mean, of course people are going to recognize you.”

  “You didn’t,” he points out, with a teasing grin.

  I flush. “Other people are much more in the know than I am,” I say.

  “Well,” he says, leaning back. “I want to know more about you.” His blue eyes are clear, honest, and I almost believe it’s not a line he’s used before.

  The food arrives in a whirlwind of dozens of trays, bamboo baskets and plates of all shapes and sizes until our table is covered with enough food to feed a small army. My mouth waters and my stomach growls again, loud enough that Charles laughs and I can tell this is his real laugh, the unguarded laugh, and it’s like a switch flips in my brain. So I’m not a Hollywood star, but he asked me out. Enough insecurity, I need to relax and start enjoying the night.

  “This looks amazing,” I sigh happily.

  “Dig in!” he says, lifting a steamer basket full of dumplings. “The shu mai here are out of this world.”

  They are. Like little pork pillows of joy, salty and savory and delicious. Everything is incredible. I wolf down a doughy bun filled with pork, several assorted dumplings, and some fried noodles before I realize I’m not being very ladylike. “Sorry,” I giggle, pausing with my chopsticks halfway to my mouth. “I guess I was hungrier than I thought.”

  “Don’t apologize for enjoying yourself,” he smiles, digging into his own food. “It’s nice to see a woman who actually eats her food instead of making it dance around the plate.”

  I laugh. “Well I’m sure those women look better than I do.”

  “You look great,” he says, and the look in his eyes tells me it’s not just a line.

  I flush. You too. I take a sip of water to cool down. “So you’re a business mogul?”

  St. Clair laughs. “You could put it like that. I run the financial services company my dad started—high level banking, essentially. But I took the firm global, hired some people smarter than me, and now the business basically runs itself.”

  “I doubt that.” I smile. “You’re just being modest.”

  He chuckles. “Is it working?”

  “Hmmm,” I pretend to think. “We’ll have to see.”

  “What about you?” St. Clair asks. “What made you fall in love with art in the first place?”

  “My mom was an artist,” I reply, smiling. “She used to take me to the city all the time, to museums and galleries. She’s the one who taught me how to paint.”

  St. Clair raises an eyebrow. “So you’re an artist too.”

  “No,” I say quickly. “Just for fun. I’m not as talented as my mom. I love to see the masterpieces up close. That Rubens yesterday…” I trail off, thinking about the beauty of that canvas.

  “I can’t agree more,” he says. “It’s going in my permanent collection. Thank you again,” he adds. “I’m glad you didn’t let it get away.”

  “I still can’t believe I bid that high!” I shake my head.

  “I had an instinct about you,” St. Clair grins. “I knew you’d come through.”

  “I heard the other bidder talking about how he just wanted the art for its investment value,” I admit. “He didn’t care about the work itself. It seemed wrong to let him take it.”

  “Andrew Tate?” I nod. St. Clair grimaces. “I’m usually not one to speak ill of anyone, but that guy is an asshole.”

  I laugh. “I called him Asshole Andrew in my head all night.”

  Charles laughs. “I’ve said it to his face many times. He always tries to beat me out at the auctions. I got to see the Rubens collection in Paris a few years ago,” he adds. “Actually, it was an entire Baroque exhibit. You would have loved it.”

  “Don’t make me swoon
,” I say and he laughs again, the genuine laugh that’s full of the kind of joy that’s so sweet and innocent it makes you laugh too. “I would love to go to Paris.”

  “You haven’t been?”

  I shake my head. “I haven’t been anywhere. I was planning to study abroad in college, but…that didn’t work out. I’ve never left the country.” I stop, wondering if that makes me sound unsophisticated, but St. Clair is still looking interested.

  “Where would you go if you had the chance?”

  “Where wouldn’t I?” I laugh. “Italy, Spain, Greece…just think of the art. Renaissance paintings and classical sculpture…”

  “A true romantic,” he says, and the lights dim suddenly, casting the room in deeper blue shadows.

  I squint at him. “Did you plan that?”

  He smiles, dimples appearing in his sculpted cheeks. “You’ll never know.”

  “A man of mystery,” I say, hoping that won’t be true for too long. This is fun, getting to talk and joke about art with someone else who cares as much as I do. Now that I’m relaxing, I realize I haven’t laughed this much in years.

  “What happened to your plans?” he asks, sipping his drink. “You said you were set to travel. What changed? If you don’t mind me asking,” he adds.

  I pause, deliberating. “My mom got sick,” I finally tell him. “I dropped out of college and came home to take care of her.”

  “That’s an incredible sacrifice,” he says, reaching across the table to take my hand. The weight of it is comforting, even as the touch sends electricity racing across my skin.

  I shrug, uncomfortable. “It wasn’t a choice. You would have done the same for your parents.”

  St. Clair gives a wry smile. “Perhaps. You must love her very much.”

  My heart aches. “She didn’t make it,” I admit quietly. “She passed last year.”

  Charles is silent for a moment as he squeezes my hand. “I am so sorry. I lost my brother when I was sixteen,” he says gently. “I know it sounds trite, but I understand how hard it can be, going through something like this. If you ever need to talk…” He looks at me with openness, like we share something, just the two of us. “I’m here for you if you want me to be. I mean it.”