by Mia Caldwell
It was nearly eleven on a Friday, Celia would be in the gallery, getting ready to open. I considered calling a car, but knew that it’d be faster to run, plus I could pound the pavement to discharge some the anger that was building up. Celia is a selfish bitch, no doubt about it, but surely Rosa’s account wasn’t quite right. Even Celia wouldn’t make up a crazy story like that. Would she?
I tried to calm my thoughts as I jogged, enjoying the looks I got for trotting through Georgetown with shiny cookware in my hands. Really, I should thank Celia. Although she had no idea, she’s the one that introduced me to Andrea, in a way. She’d come by my office to see if I was free for lunch one day. In pulling out her phone, a small stack of business cards had fluttered out of her pocket. She scooped them all back up but one had slipped under my desk. When I found it later, out of curiosity, I’d looked up the website. And when I saw Andrea’s picture on the homepage, I…felt something stir and it wasn’t just in my pants. I can’t explain it, but I knew I had to meet her.
I have friends at The Post, of course, so I pulled a few strings to get Andrea featured in the “30 Under 30” issue of the Magazine. Then I pulled a few more to get me in there even though I’d just turned 30 (one line about “at the time of voting he was still 29” did the trick). My hope was that we’d both turn up at the awards gala, she’d see me in my tux, I’d be sure she was at my table…and clearly I’ve revealed my secret affection for romantic comedies.
Hey, we can’t all be lumberjacks.
Anyway, Andrea didn’t come to the gala and I got trapped next to a corporate lawyer that I’m pretty sure switched nametags to get next to me. Torture. I bailed as soon as I could.
That’s when Mother’s knee surgery gave me a second idea. Of course she was perfectly capable of getting food delivered. She did it all the time. God knows that kitchen seldom saw cooking. But I convinced Mother that the doctors wanted her eating lots of fresh food for healing. And I convinced Rosa that she had enough work without cooking too. And I convinced Andrea to come every day, twice a day instead of cooking ahead. She drove a hard bargain, I’ll give her that. But I am a man who is used to getting what he wants. And so I did. Or almost did. If Celia didn’t fuck it up.
By the time I got to Galleria Celia (yes, her vanity “job” has her own name on the sign) on Wisconsin, I had drenched through the shirt I’d put on at Mother’s. The door was locked, so I pounded on it until some wide-eyed assistant came out to find out what the commotion was.
“Get Celia!” I shouted through the glass. She scurried to the back, probably to report on the (devilishly handsome) sweat-soaked crazy person out front, brandishing a skillet. Most of the anger was left behind on the sidewalk. Now I just wanted answers.
Celia emerged from the back and swanned over to the front door to let me in. She had her big Society Hostess smile on, like seeing me was such a lovely surprise– last night was hardly the first time we’d fought. But like I said, she’s not stupid, and I could see the flicker of uncertainty in her crystal blue eyes.
“Walker! How lovely of you to drop by!” She moved as if to give me the standard grip-the-shoulders-air-kiss, but recoiled slightly when she saw how sweaty I was. “Ah,” she said, “I’ll save that for later. What brings you by?” Her eyes dropped to the pan in my hand. “Making me breakfast at last?”
“Hilarious. I’m pretty sure you know. Why did you come to Mother’s house this morning?”
“To pick up your father’s landscapes, like I told her, but I got a call and had to go before I was able to get them packed up. I’ll come later this week.” She was playing it cool. A professional liar.
“That call, did it happen to involve telling someone that you and I were getting married? That we’d had sex last night?”
Her eyes reflected her uncertainty. She thought she had it under control, but I’ve known her too long not to see when she’s looking for firm footing.
“What would make you say that?” she asked. She was trying to find out just how much I knew, just how much she could deny.
“Oh, just the fact that Rosa was in the room and heard it all. And how could she not, since you were shouting so that Andrea could hear you too.”
Celia’s face darkened. She looked like an evil Disney queen, beautiful and dangerous. But most definitely the bad guy. See what happens when you forget that servants are people, too? People who can hear the shit you say?
“That Rosa,” she tried, “I’m sure she just misunderstood. English isn’t her first language.”
“She’s lived here for twenty years, you know she heard you correctly.” I stepped closer to loom over her a bit. “Why did you do it, Celia? Tell me.”
She sighed and turned away, waving her hands dismissively. “Your little crush is after your money, Walker. You’re being stupid and I was trying to help you. You know, I hired her once and I found her totally dishonest. She made my friends very uncomfortable.”
I had to hand it to her, Celia was selling it. I wasn’t surprised; after all, her little gallery was fairly successful. She was able to talk people into buying the most hideous paintings, so surely a little lie to save her own skin was like second nature.
"I’m touched by your concern, Celia dear, but I’m a grown man capable of handling my own love life."
“Love life. Don’t be ridiculous, Walker. You are a very powerful, very rich man. You’ve been protected your whole life. You have no idea how to tell if a woman is just after your money because you’ve seldom seen anything else.”
I looked at her pointedly. “That’s true of one of them, at least.”
She gave me a look of disgust. "As if. I have my own money. The only true thing is that you and I make a terrific team. How will you take a woman like that to stockholders’ meetings? If you go to the Club, she’ll be uncomfortable. Did you think of that? If you’re so in love, did you think of how it would be for her to enter your life?"
“This isn’t Georgia in 1958, Celia. She’d be fine. Don’t think I’ve forgotten your little ‘jungle fever’ dig from last night.”
She ignored that and went on. “It’s just science, Walker. Marriages between people of very different backgrounds seldom succeed. You just don’t have enough shared experiences, innate understanding.”
I realized my mouth was hanging open and closed it. I gave myself a moment before speaking so I could keep my voice level. It’s a trick you learn if you have to deal with adversarial clients.
"Okay. So you have gone from ‘she’s a gold-digger,’ to being my protector, to being her protector, and now to science? Is that it? Would you like to pick one and stick with it?"
“Oh Walker,” she said with infinite elementary school teacher-like patience, "don’t you see that there are just so many different reasons why this won’t work? I’m your friend."
I’m a little ashamed of how badly I wanted to hit her with the heavy pan in my hands. But only a little.
Luckily for Celia, I’m not a violent guy, and I simply said, “Not anymore” and walked out.
Get home, get a shower, get to the office. I needed to get to Aruba as soon as possible.
Andrea
If you’re going to “wash that man right outta your hair,” you could do worse than using the Carribean ocean. Kiera had booked a hotel right on the beach on the western side of the island, white sand leading down to water of an almost unbelievable turquoise blue. Sure, I’d seen pictures, but when your only real frame of reference is the Chesapeake Bay and the Atlantic Ocean, there’s a part of you that doesn’t really believe it’s true.
But it was. Blue-green water and I could see my feet, even in water to my shoulders. In Ocean City? You’re lucky to see your feet in water to your ankles. Also, on this side of the island, the waves were gentle, so for the past two mornings, we’d gone out with our inner tubes and just bobbed along, enjoying the swells when a boat’s wake rippled toward the beach. Yeah, the hotel had a pool, but I can get in a pool in Washington.
; “Hey,” Kiera called from a few feet away. I looked over to see her head draped back on the tube, face toward the sun. The first day, she’d worn a swim cap to protect her hair, but I convinced her a good rinse would be just as effective. I swim at the Y all the time and I haven’t gone bald yet. And if a cap looks dumb with my sporty cut bathing suit, it looked ridiculous with her string bikini. “Want to try snorkeling today?”
"Sure, I’ve got no plans. Mrs. Alex–a client told me to try Baby Beach."
Kiera lowered her sunglasses to the tip of her nose and looked at me over them. I’d been warned–no more talk about Walker Alexander. I was never going to get over him if I kept bringing him up. But while not speaking a name might work at keeping Voldemort or Beetlejuice away, it wasn’t doing much to keep those green gold eyes and boyish smile out of my mind.
It was stupid. In spite of his apparently being a hotshot billionaire and local celebrity, I’d never even heard of Walker until last week. When he talked me into cooking for his mother every day, twice a day, I just figured he was some spoiled rich man, used to getting his way. I tried to shake him off by doubling my usual fee, but he hadn’t even tried to bargain. Now I knew it was just a pocket change to him, but at the time, I’d been impressed enough to make it work with my schedule. You want to build up a clientele of big spenders.
But, of course, it hadn’t been that simple. Walker was gorgeous, sure, but that wasn’t it. There’d been something…electric between us. In spite of my fondness for romantic comedies, I don’t believe in love at first sight. But there was something.
That’s what made this whole thing so awful, so hard to just forget. There had been some undeniable attraction between us. Even before he took my shirt off on the couch, before he rolled my nipples in his mouth…
Shit. Sorry.
I tried to convince myself that what I’d overheard–if I can use that word for Celia’s shouting into the phone–was a misunderstanding. But I couldn’t spin it no matter how I tried. She was clearly talking about Walker–making a booty call after he left me, and agreeing to marry her. The booty call I could maybe work my way past. Maybe not. But marriage is still kind of a big deal, you know? Makes me think that what I’d seen as so meaningful, so emotional, had just been a game to him.
He’s a man used to getting what he wants and apparently he wanted the chef, if only for a little while. So first he used money, and then he used charm. But I’m not willing to be that girl.
I’ll just forget about him. Him and his poison-cakes.
No problem, right?
As we walked back up the beach to our hotel, Kiera put her arm around my shoulders. “Dre, I brought you here to have fun. I wanted you with me because you make me laugh and because you deserve to just mess around for a while. We’re in the islands! We’re young and hot! Let’s act like it!”
She steered me toward the poolside bar. “Two pina coladas, please, charge it to Room 1650.”
“Is drinking and snorkeling really the best idea?”
"It’s one drink and by the time we get there, even that will have worn off. They are not pouring with a heavy hand. Lighten up, Doc."
I rolled my eyes and took a sip. Mmm…artificial flavors and cheap rum. “Delish! like frozen hair oil!”
“Shut up and drink your medicine. This is a week free of Walker Alexander AND food snobbery. Let’s go.”
So I faked it. Kiera was paying my way, which was very generous. She made good money to only be three years out of law school, but money still mattered to her. The least I could do was be a good friend. And it’s not like it’s hard to be happy in Aruba–sun warm but not too hot, breezy but not windy, and a whole island dedicated to keeping tourists coming back. All I had to do was pretend like the emptiness I felt was just hunger and keep filling it with food and frozen drinks.
When we got back from snorkeling late that afternoon, I was nearly desperate for a nap, but Kiera was in go-go-go mode.
“You can sleep in Washington. Tonight, we are going to Lambada Joe’s.”
“Sounds classy, what is it?”
“Just what it sounds like, a touristy dance club full of strong drinks and loud reggae. With luck, it will also be full of hot men. It’s time to get you liquored up and laid.”
“Maybe I can just be your designated driver?”
“Walking distance from the hotel. Nice try, Doc. Look, meaningless sex with a man you’ll never see again will do you a world of good. Would I prescribe a treatment I wouldn’t take myself?”
I laughed. “Okay, okay, let’s do it.”
“Good girl. Here, wear this.” Kiera fished a dress out of the closet, a white sheath that looked way too small.
“Girl, that will fit you, but not me. I’m flattered, but no.”
"It has spandex, it stretches, you will look fine in this."
"Can’t I wear something that suggests a man might have to at least try?"
"Andrea," she pronounced it like my mom, onDRAYuh, but shoved the dress back into the stuffed closet and pulled out another. It was a jersey knit maxi–certain to also hug my curves, but at least bigger than a cocktail napkin.
“Fine,” I said taking it, “but I’m not wearing heels.”
She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Of course not, Dre, this isn’t Miami.”
When I put on the dress, the mirror reflected a lot more curve than I was quite ready to display. The chevron stripes seemed to be saying “Here are her big ol’ titties! Here is her waist! Here’s dat ass!” I’m generally a Netflix-on-the-couch partier, but when I do go out, I tend toward more…coverage. The neckline on the dress was deep and wide and had the urge to pull it together in front. But, I had to admit, I did look good.
“Ooo, girl!” exclaimed Kiera when I came out of my room into our sitting area. “I just knew there was a sexy thing in there! Come here and let me braid your hair, you aren’t going to waste this look on an old ponytail.”
I sat on the floor while Kiera pulled my hair into braids that wrapped around my head. It’s funny how something like that can make you feel all peaceful. By the time she was done, my scalp was tender (it had been a long time since my own Mama fought my hair into braids for school), but I felt calm and ready to face the evening.
Bring it on.
As we walked up the beach, I could hear the music thudding out of Lambada Joe’s. There were people all around outside, drinking and talking in the light of the tiki torches. My calm started to recede, but I decided I could just pretend to be the sort of girl that goes to nightclubs. Good old Andrea could just rest comfortably. I’d send Drea into the noisy crowd.
Kiera took my hand as we wove through the room to get to the bar. While she ordered, I looked around. It was packed with people, mostly around our age. A lot of blonde girls in bikini tops and sarongs. I thought of Celia in her sports bra and my stomach tightened up. No, Drea is not going to be thinking of some rich boy. Drea is here to find a new man.
Kiera handed me a drink. “Mojito!” she shouted over the music. “Drink up!”
I downed it in just a few drinks. It was strong, but I was a woman on a mission. It was just going to take more than one rum drink to get me ready.
I was on my third when a tall muscular man came up to me. I assumed he was coming up to Kiera–all the others had been–but when I glanced her way, I saw that she was gone. Off on the dance floor.
“Hey there, beautiful, why are you all alone?” He had a deep, rumbly voice that carried well, he didn’t need to shout.
“My friend is out there, dancing,” I said, pointing toward Kiera, currently grinding against her partner.
“Are you here to dance, too? C’mon,” he said, without waiting for a reply, taking my drink and setting it aside.
I let him take my hand and lead me onto the floor. He was good looking, like the evil preppy from a 1980s movie–sandy hair cut so that a sun-bleached lock kept falling over grey eye. When he smiled, his teeth were perfect and white. And he was built like
a football player. I’m not going to lie, he looked good. His Hawaiian print shirt was open in front, revealing a smooth chest with perfect definition, the kind you only get if you really work at it. Andrea thought it probably meant he was vain and shallow, but Drea? She wanted to run her fingers along those ridges, trace that six pack. What the hell, right? It’s vacation.
“I’m Dylan,” he said, “what’s your name?”
“Drea,” I told him.
Dylan danced closer. He wasn’t a very good dancer, but you don’t need to be when you look like that. He didn’t quite have the beat and mostly kept his feet planted, swaying his hips and arms, but I wasn’t looking for a partner for “So You Think You Can Dance.” I came in close, too, close enough that I could smell his sunscreen-shampoo-and-cigarettes scent.
Maybe it was just the rum talking, or the constant Bob Marley, but I thought, “Everything’s gonna be alright.”
When the band took a break, we sat down at a table.
“So, how long have you been here?” asked Dylan.
“Two days,” I said. My ears felt like there was cotton in them, but it was certainly easier to hear than when the band was playing. “You?”
“I live here.” He smiled.
“Wow, that must be nice.”
“Oh, it is. I’m a chef, so Sunday and Monday are my only free nights. Lucky I caught you.”
Something in his tone or his eyes suggested that maybe he meant that I was the lucky one. But maybe I was being too quick to judge. And really, who cares? It’s vacation!
“Hey, I’m a chef, too! But back in Washington, D.C.”
“How’s the kitchen going to get on without you?” he asked with that really, really cute smile.
“Well, I’m a personal chef, so it’s a bunch of kitchens that will have to get on without me. For my regular clients, I cooked extra last week, they’ll just have frozen dinners. Really good ones.”
“Cooking for the rich and famous, huh? How’s that work out? A lot of assholes?”
I stirred my drink and took a sip. “Not like in the kitchens. I went into business for myself so that I didn’t have to take orders from a bunch of arrogant jerks.”