Choose option A, honey. Bye.”
He’d been at Great Grapes, his favorite wine store, the day after learning Inside The Box had passed one million units, to make a celebratory purchase: two cases of Dom Ruinart champagne; one case for him, the other twelve bottles as gifts. Although the vessels came packed in sturdy, individual black and gold presentation boxes, he needed to have six of them properly packed for shipping so he could ferry them over to UPS before that day’s cutoff time.
“This is a grape undertaking to fulfill on such short notice,” Bernice warned with an exaggerated shake of her head. “But if you’ll come back in an hour…make that 90 minutes…you should be good to go, and so should the bubbles.”
“Thanks, Bernie.”
“You know we wouldn’t let you down, Mr. Spotswood. You’re one of our grapest customers!”
He felt a gentle tap on his shoulder and turned. “Yes?”
The woman smiled shyly. “I… I don’t mean to intrude, but I overheard… are you Jonathan Spotswood? The writer?”
He nodded. “I’ve been accused of that, but never convicted.”
She extended her hand. Though the gesture and the expected reply usually made him queasy, for some reason it didn’t this time. Probably not because she was drop-dead gorgeous, because she wasn’t. In fact, she was fairly plain. Short dark hair, average looks, not much of a figure. But her eyes conveyed a sharp inquisitiveness he found appealing, and her chuckle demonstrated she got the joke. So he shook it.
“How many times have you been tried for the offense…or both of them?”
And her voice was beautiful—low and soft, like the purring of a contented tabby.
“I’m sure the indictment’ll come down any day.”
“And I’m sure you’ll be found guilty.” She looked away. “I’ve read the evidence.” She looked back. “You’ll probably get a few years tacked on for excellence.”
“Very kind of you to say Ms…..”
“Chase. Cassandra Chase.”
“Always a pleasure to meet a satisfied customer.”
“That champagne you ordered? Not familiar with it.”
“The Ruinart? Great stuff. Made by the same folks who bring us Dom Perignon.”
“Ah. Not a big fan. Always tastes a little brittle to me.”
Brittle, he thought. Exactly.
“You know, you’re absolutely right. Never heard that word applied to wine, but it fits. That’s why I get the Ruinart. Much smoother, and a tad sweeter.”
“Really? Well then I’d better give it a try.”
“Kinda expensive, this vintage.” He thought a beat. Couldn’t hurt. He turned to the counter. “Bernie? You got any on ice?”
She checked her screen. “Mr. Inventory says there’s a pair in the back reefer. Would you like me to grape you one?”
He looked to Cassie. “Care to join me for a light lunch of hors d’oeuvres and Mr. Ruinart?”
She blushed, her eyes growing wide. “Oh, Mr. Spotswood! I’d be absolutely delighted. And I know just the place. And I’ll treat.”
“Well if we’re going to have a first lunch, I think you ought’a call me Jip.”
She nodded, then pulled her trans from her purse and after a shake requested, “William? Great Grapes, please. And call Chat Éclair for…” She raised an eyebrow to him. “Private or would you prefer the main room?”
Chateau Éclair was the hottest ticket for the noontime crowd in the City, reservations booked weeks ahead often difficult to secure.
“At the Lightning?” He decided to call the bluff. “Uh, never seen one of the private rooms. How ’bout that?”
She nodded again. “William? Private room, please. The one closest to the action would be fine.”
After Bernice fetched the bottle and Spotswood instructed her to swap out a match from the opened case, they stepped outside. In a moment, a black, tricked out Tesla Arrow minilim pulled up and after the chauffer popped open the two rear doors, he exited the driver’s seat and gestured them to climb aboard.
When they arrived at Chat Éclair there was a group of maybe a dozen people seated in the sidewalk area hoping for no-shows, and he thought he heard one of them groan due to at least one couple lessening her chance. Cassie took his hand as the doorman ushered them in, and halfway to the reception podium, the hostess smiled broadly, saying “Good afternoon, Ms. Chase. We’ll have you seated in just a…” She glanced at her screen. “It’s ready. Follow me, s’il vous plais.”
After weaving through the tightly packed open area, they continued on past the bar, some offset cubby-holed tables and then seven of the privates, finally arriving at the last single, a half-walled space a few steps distant from the bustling kitchen. The hostess called in “An ice bucket, please” then got them seated. In a moment a waiter arrived with it, two Renoir flutes and a pair of silver champagne pliers. Having removed the cork, he poured a bit into her glass and following her nod of approval, said “Chef Louise will join you momentarily.” And shortly, she did.
“Cassandra? I’d thought you’d already left,” she said in the slightest of French accents, then looked to Spotswood. “And I have the pleasure of meeting Monsieur…?”
“Louise, this is Jonathan Spotswood.”
“Ah. Tres agreable. You are the writer of auriculaire doigt?”
He squinted as the two women shared a laugh.
“Francais for pinkie finger, Jip,” Cassie put in.
“Oh. Yes, I be he.”
“I keep hoping you would come in for a visit, to compose one of your delightful reviews. Is today that day?”
“Well, I sort of like to just sneak in. You know, no special treatment.”
“Ah,” the chef shrugged. “Then today is not that day, oui?” She cocked her head, examining the bucket. “Dom Ruinart? Tres bien. I believe I may just have some tasteful accoutrements…nice compliments…perhaps an additional wine or two?” She thought a moment then looked to Cassie. “Will you and your guest be able to stay for, peut-etre, deux heures?”
“Can you put up with me for two hours with an option to leave if you don’t like the food…or the company?” she asked him.
He checked his watch. “I think… auriculerie was it?” He nodded. “They can live without me.”
“Merveilleux,” Louise whispered contentedly. “And I’ll serve the courses.” She winked at him. “I know just a bit more about the preparation and ingredients than the staff.”
She returned in a few moments with large matching plates, each containing what looked to be a miniature chicken’s leg beside a dollop of sauce sparkled with a few tiny toadstools. “Voila. This is braised Normandy faisan… pheasant… complimented with a cream sauce avec vermouth, garlic and mushrooms. Bon appétit.”
He couldn’t recall ever tasting something as delicious and intricately seasoned, each ingredient seemingly able to locate just the right spot on his tongue to separate then blend with the competition.
This delight was followed by another, no more than three spoonfuls of a creamy, incredibly light potato soup garnished with shallots and parsley.
Third up was seared Atlantic salmon, after which the empty bottle of Dom Ruinart and its bucket were taken away.
“So far so good?” Cassie asked.
“I think over in gay Pair-ee they’d call it… magnifique?”
“Tres bien, Monsieur.”
“And the conversation ain’t bad either.”
She was a trust fund baby, the granddaughter of one of the first dot-com billionaires whose identity, despite his teasing, she demurred to reveal. She’d been born and raised in Wichita, Kansas, staying through undergrad and earning a BFA from Wichita State University. After moving to Paris to continue her studies at the Pantheon-Sorbonne and adding dual degrees to her CV, she decided she really liked urban living but missed the Midwest, so moved to the City to pursue a career as a decorative consultant focusing on 20th century Euro-French furnishings and art. To celebrate her 27th birthday
, she’d opted out of her Near North townhouse in favor of an upper-floor condo at Wilson Towers that “I picked up for a song from another single lady who was relocating,” resigned her position at the tony Continental Design Associates and started making plans for “a special trip to Paris” that had now been postponed twice but would finally commence the week after next.
The fourth course was an exquisitely prepared three inch long rack of lamb tidbit along with two sips worth of a delightful white burgundy, followed by an apple sorbet. Course six was a small mixed greens salad followed by a selection of five imported cheeses and an adult-size portion of a vintage Chateau Laffite Rothschild which they agreed ought to be refreshed as the peaches and cashews arrived.
“Coffee, tea?” Louise asked, then not waiting for a reply added, “or may I recommend a puissant Jamaican Blue Mountain espresso with just a touch of Delafee chocolate?”
“I’ll have a double,” Cassie responded.
“Make it two,” he concurred.
Any late-lunch grogginess disappeared as he took the final sip of the cafe.”I don’t know if it’s the chocolate part of the Jamaican part, but I’ll probably be awake for the next 48 hours.”
“It was good. I’ve got the recipe over at…” She looked away then back to him. “Sorry. Just a little star-struck, I guess.”
“Well, I am too. I just wish I could have come here…like a civilian. Louise is going to make a really big name for herself.”
She cocked her head slightly, then smiled softly, then extended a hand across to him. After an instinctive hesitation, he took it.
“Not her, Jip. I meant with you.”
He felt his cheeks tingle, always embarrassed when he received one of these compliments, even though they’d be coming more and more since the successes of Wheels Up and Inside The Box. The attention also usually made him uncomfortable; but not this time. She seemed genuinely sincere, not projecting herself in a tangential beam to form a connection with Laura Loveland or the rest of the Pandora’s Obsession crew.
“Never really think of myself as a star. I just have the pleasure of observing the real ones without a telescope.”
“That’s not the way your reviewers tell it. Between the CCBBA book…which is my favorite of the two…you’re one of the best writers around.”
“I don’t actually read them. I mean…when it comes down to it, I’m a reviewer myself, and I know how my personal, ah…”
“Predilections shade your observations?” she finished for him.
“Exactly.”
Louise stepped in, placing her hands behind her back and bowing ever so slightly. “I trust you both enjoyed ma petit nine course traditional French meal?”
“It was wonderful, Louise,” Cassie smiled.
“Gotta add my five stars,” he added.
“Monsieur Spotswood? Might I ask of you seven favors?”
He laughed.
“If it has anything to do with the check, Cassie said she was treating.”
Now the women laughed.
“These would be personal favors.”
“Could you give me a little more info before I commit?”
“Certainement. My brother in San Francisco and my niece in Prague are both great admirers of yours and if you would, perhaps sign books for them?”
“I’d be happy to.”
“And perhaps for me also?”
“That’d be even easier.”
“Tres bien. And perhaps a photograph of the three of us?”
He couldn’t resist. “How quick can your brother and niece get here?”
The women laughed again, harder than before.
“Excusez-moi,” the chef nodded as she stepped to the kitchen.
“You are such a sweetheart,” Cassie grinned.
“On my good days, sometimes.”
Louise returned with one of the cooks, her trans in one hand and a brown Barnes and Noble shopping bag in the other which she gently set on the table. “Voila!”
Outside, as William opened the Tesla’s door wider, he again passed on a lift back to the office, wanting to walk off a few of the calories he’d added.
“Thank you so very much for accepting my impromptu invitation, Jip. I’ll never forget this afternoon.” She paused. “Maybe I could get you to sign my copies sometime?”
“Sure.”
“I’d like that,” she added, kissing his cheek then turning to the car.
“Say, Cassie?”
She looked over her shoulder but said nothing.
“How about I give you my number and…we could get together again?”
“I’d like that even more.”
He was positive she’d phone that night or no later than the following day, but the call never came. By the third day without a communiqué, he was thinking more and more about her; especially her voice that he couldn’t shake from his memory. He wrote it off to his on again, mostly off again mild OCD, but by the fifth day he’d had enough, so he phoned her as he was about to head home. She sounded almost thrilled when he’d asked, “Is this my favorite nine course lunch companion?” and then ran through a list of excuses, all centered around the fact that her “special trip “departure had been moved up and that she had “a few thousand tons of stuff” to undertake before leaving. She passed on his invitation to meet for dinner that night, but offered she’d be free the next.
They met at Calico around 7:30. She was more spruced up than she’d been at their first encounter —more makeup, a stylish blouse/skirt and some subtly elegant jewelry raising her attractiveness quotient a bit. Her Coach backpack didn’t fit with the rest of her outfit, though it made more sense after they’d ordered cocktails when she removed worn copies of the two books along with the boxed bottles of Dom Ruinart and Dom Perignon she said would be used for an official oenophile taste test. By 9:00 they’d finished most of both of them off.
The conversation was even better than the one at Lightning, bouncing easily from their backgrounds to current events to music to art to movies and landing briefly on their current romantic involvements. When he asked for the bill, then added “Nobody in particular right now,” she set her elbows on the table, steepled her hands to form a pyramid, then looked around them playfully.
“I know you probably get this all the time,” she said softly, “but would you like to come back to my place for a nightcap?”
When they exited the elevator at Wilson Towers, he noticed the plaque on the wall informing Smith could be found to the left and Chase to the right.
“Please excuse the clutter,” she said as she placed the key in the lock. “Still a work in progress.”
The lights automatically came up as they stepped in, displaying an apartment that could have been a spread in Luxury Magazine. The Scandinavian furnishings were coordinated perfectly and the view of the City through the opposite glass wall was spectacular. The only odd aspect was the lack of any art on the high walls which would have tied the whole package together like a gift wrapping bow. The only clutter visible were six cases of Dom Ruinart stacked haphazardly near the entrance of the kitchen.
“This place is gorgeous.”
“It’ll do for now. She left everything behind except some paintings and personal effects…she said, well, her attorney said I could keep them until I got settled in and did some remodeling.” She glanced around. “I’m thinking deco, maybe post-modern.” She paused. “Probably a mix? What’cha think?”
“I’m the wrong guy to ask.”
“Then what’cha think about that nightcap?” she asked as she made her way to the ornate bar in the far corner of the great room. “She also left behind quite an assortment of liqueurs…real high-end…do you like Scotch?”
“I’d have one straight up, please.”
He followed, then watched as she chose a jewel-encrusted bottle and poured generous amounts into a pair of squat tumblers. After clinking them together, he took a sip, then nodded his appreciation as she sipped twice and let out a satis
fied breath. “Yummy.”
She took his hand and led him to a pair of facing loveseats, gesturing for him to sit in the one looking to the skyline, then went across to the entertainment installation. “Anything in particular you’d prefer?” she called, not turning.
“Whatever you’d like.”
After dialing in a jazzy 30’s-sounding selection, she stepped toward the front door, dimmed the overheads by half and eased back, snuggling in to the opposite couch. Then as an afterthought, she leaned in to light the grouping of three candles in the center of the tiled table between them. Lifting her glass and taking a sip, she exclaimed “Wow!”
“It is a very nice blend.”
“No!” She set the Scotch down and spread her arms, her hands resting on the cushions as far as they could reach. “This is déjà vu!”
He couldn’t let it pass. “All over again?”
She chuckled. “Has that ever happened to you?”
“Sure. I mean not yours. My own.”
She looked about briefly, cocking her head a bit as if to concentrate on the music. “This is all…it’s like I did this before or imagined I did before or fantasized about…this is amazing.” She paused. “Maybe it was at the wine shop, or at Chat Éclair or…No, wait. I remember. It was when I finished Wheels Up and I saw your photo on the dust cover and I thought ‘Gee, I’d really like to meet this guy someday’.”
He chuckled. “Took over a hundred frames to get a usable one.”
She swung her legs up to the cushions, extending them as far as space would allow.
Man! Why didn’t I notice those before?
“You’ve got…very nice legs.”
“Thank you velly much.” She sighed. “Some girls get pretty faces, some girls have nice breasts, some girls get luxurious hair or perfect teeth. Me?” She shook her head.
“I think you’re very attractive.”
This seemed to surprise her. “Honestly? You’d be in the minority on that.”
What he didn’t say was that he meant her mind and...
“And you’ve got a beautiful voice.”
She didn’t respond.
“And you’re really, really smart.”
Weekend at Prism Page 5