by Annie Jocoby
“This is your car?” I said, pointing to the beautiful and sleek Jaguar in candy apple red.
“Yep,” he said, opening the door for me. “Get in.”
I got in, and we were soon off.
Chapter 8
We drove in heavy traffic to Wolfgang’s Steakhouse in Times Square. Nick had the car valet parked, and we made our way into the restaurant. It was a beautiful space, with high ceilings, wood paneling and white table cloths. I had actually never been in a restaurant like this, even when I lived with the Wall Street trader and his family. That guy might have been a millionaire, but he was also a cheap bastard.
“Do you like wine?” he asked, as he looked at the menu.
“Sure,” I said.
“Good,” he said, as the waiter approached. Turning to the waiter, Nick ordered a bottle of Brunello Di Montalcino. I gasped when I saw that this bottle of wine sold for $450.
“Uh, that’s kinda expensive,” I said.
He just looked at me with a look on his face that made me feel humiliated for making a fuss. Then his expression softened and he smiled. “Don’t worry about it,” he said.
I examined the menu, seeing that most main courses were $45 and up, and everything else was sold separately.
“So, what are you getting?” he asked me.
“Um, I’m looking at a Caesar Salad.”
“Great. What else are you going to get?”
“I’m not that hungry,” I said. I didn’t want him to have to spend money on me, so I gravitated towards the least expensive item on the menu.
Nick seemed to understand. “Do you prefer seafood or steak?” he asked me.
“Well, I like fish, but-“
“Good,” he said, looking at the menu. “That’s all I needed to know.”
When the waiter came around, he ordered a filet mignon with mashed potatoes, spinach and Caesar Salad for himself, and ordered a Chilean Sea Bass, Caesar Salad, asparagus and Jumbo Baked Potato for me. I added it up, and quickly calculated that my meal was costing around $70, as everything was al a carte.
$70 was more than I spent on groceries in a two-week period.
The bottle of wine came around, and Nick poured me a glass. I nervously brought it to my lips. It was delicious – full-bodied and fruity. I knew very little about wine, but I knew what I liked, and I loved this.
Nick was watching me carefully, while he sipped his wine. Finally, he spoke. “I wanted to take you out here so that you can relax a little. Because we need to talk more about the position that I am still trying to get you to take.”
I felt disappointed. There was a very big part of me that was imagining that this was a date that we were on. But he still was only interested in me as a possible intern. Stop dreaming. I felt like a silly girl, pining away for somebody who was way beyond my reach.
“Professor O’Hara,” I began.
“Nick,” he countered.
“Nick,” I started over. “I would love to take this position, but I don’t feel qualified.”
He just stared at me for a second. “You remind me of somebody,” he said.
“I do? Who?”
“My best friend’s wife. She’s like you. Guileless, a little innocent. She’s kinda a nut, but she’s pretty cool.”
I took another sip. I was really a lightweight, so I was feeling it. Nick was still staring at me, but then he shook his head.
“I’m not giving up on this,” he said. “This is an opportunity of a lifetime for you, and I really think that you need to take it.”
“Why do you want me so much?”
“You’re wickedly talented. Or did you not know that?”
“I guess I didn’t really think about that. I just thought that I was average.”
“No, you’re far above average. You have an unbelievable aesthetic taste, and your designs are some of the most sophisticated I have ever seen in a student. You can really grow with our firm. You need to take this position.”
I shook my head, my mother’s voice ringing in my ears, as she ripped up the rudimentary drawings that I made when I was a little kid and still living with her. Scotty Marie, you are a dumbshit. You’re a fucking worthless piece of shit. You take after your sperm donor. You think you can draw? A two-year-old can do this well. Better, in fact. My “sperm donor” was apparently a rando, same as Aaron’s “sperm donor,” same as the other six children who were taken away from her and adopted by other families. I was never able to be adopted. My foster families never wanted me for long. Why, I don’t know. I always figured there was something wrong with me. I stayed with the Wall Street trader and his wife the longest, and, by that point, I was so desperate to stay with a permanent family that I allowed him to do what he did to me for a year before I started telling people about it.
I was frantic to change the subject. “I heard you talking about liking eel. I never could get into eel too much. Too strong-tasting for me.” I gravitated towards the milder fish, so I knew that the Chilean Sea Bass would be perfect for me.
“Yeah, I like it ok. But you’re avoiding the subject.” He poured me another glass of wine, seeing that I was out. “Tell me what’s really going on.”
I had to think of something fast. I never told people how I really felt inside. It would make me vulnerable, and, worse than that, it would make me feel like an absolute freak.
“I just don’t think that I’m ready, that’s all. Maybe next semester.”
“This offer may not be available next semester. We’re looking for somebody right now.” He sipped his wine and broke some of the bread that had newly arrived on the table. “Now, I’m going to sit here all night with you until you tell me what’s really on your mind.”
How was I going to avoid this? There was a part of me that wanted just to take the position to get out of further questioning. Because there was no way that I could tell him the truth – that I not only didn’t feel worthy, but I was feeling an uncomfortable amount of magnetic attraction to him, and I didn’t want that. I spent my life running from that. I couldn’t tell him that being nightly raped when I was 13 had made me not want to get close to any man, and that I always had to run from my feelings.
So, I decided just to drink some more wine. There was one thing about alcohol – it made me relax and stop overthinking everything. I wanted to relax, but I didn’t want to lose control. I never lost control over anything anymore.
Nick apparently felt that pressing me further was doing more harm than good, so he backed off. “So, tell me, Scotty. When did you figure out that you wanted to be an architect?”
“Oh, that’s easy. I’ve always known it. Ever since I’ve known what an architect does. Buildings and design have always been fascinating for me. Always. What about you?”
“The same, really,” he said, popping a piece of bread in his mouth. “Although I will have to say that seeing the Notre Dame in Paris was really a turning point. I think that I was only four. To say that this was the most magnificent building would really be an understatement. I knew then that I wanted to design beautiful buildings like that. And, lucky me, I had the talent to fulfill that dream.”
I nodded my head. “Oh, that is a beautiful church. I mean, I have only seen it in books and such, but that would be a great inspiration. For me, I think it was just the Empire State Building. Same thing.”
He smiled, and broke some bread and buttered it.
“Uh, I know that you uh, lived in the Midwest all your life. What brings you to New York?” I asked him.
“I fell in love with the wrong woman.”
I was a bit stunned that he was so open like that with me. “Why was she the wrong woman?”
“Well, it’s a long story, but suffice to say that she’s married to my best friend.”
“Oh.”
“It’s not what you’re thinking. Nothing happened. But I had to get away from that situation, so I sought out this job and got it. It’s a step up, anyhow. The firm I work for here is more internati
onal in scope than my previous firm.”
“Wait. Is that the same woman who reminds you of me?”
“The same one.” At that, he looked sad. He stared at his wine glass. “It was a mess. I haven’t seen either of them since. I’ve talked to Ryan, though.”
I wondered if it was a good thing or a bad thing that I reminded him of this mystery woman.
Dinner arrived, and I put my napkin on my lap. I tried to keep myself from attacking the food, but it was difficult. It had been so long since I’d had an actual meal, I’d forgotten what one looked like.
However, it seemed like I couldn’t really hide it too much. Nick was looking at me with a sympathetic look in his eyes as I dug into my potatoes and fish. I could tell that he was very well-bred, because his manners were impeccable.
Mine, not so much, but I was really trying.
As the evening wore on, I somehow felt that he was looking into me, seeing how damaged I was. I didn’t know why I was thinking that, but there was something in his eyes that told me that he was seeing me like no other man had ever seen me. And I was also seeing in his eyes some of the same pain that I was carrying around with me.
I wondered if I was accurate about that, or it was just something that I was imagining.
“Uh, Scotty,” he began. “I don’t want to pry, but…”
“But what?”
“Are you doing ok financially?”
“Of course,” I lied. “Why would you ask that?”
“I don’t want you to be offended, but it seems like this is the first good meal that you’ve had in awhile.”
I then became self-conscious that it was so obvious that I was attacking the food like a lioness who hadn’t hunted game in weeks.
“Well, I am kinda living on the edge, and I often have to give money to my mother. She tries to get by, but…”
“I know. I understand about family dysfunction.” He didn’t elaborate on this, though.
“You do? Do you have a family like mine?”
“No. My parents are great. But my best friend – his family was a piece of work. Poor guy.” He shook his head. “But because we were so close, his problems became mine too. So, trust, whatever is going on with your family, I’ve seen it all and worse.”
I smiled. The waiter was back, and Nick ordered dessert for both of us. I tried to protest, but he silenced me with a look.
“Trust, you could use a dessert,” he said.
It was then that I realized, perhaps for the first time, that Nick was not inappropriately leering at me like most men did. He wasn’t staring at my cleavage like virtually every man, ever, had done. His eyes never even wandered there. So, I started to feel more comfortable. It didn’t seem that he would be like the other men, especially Mr. Lucas.
The night wore on, and I drank more and more wine, and found myself relaxing more and more as well. I tried to make sure that I didn’t let my guard down, though.
But I found myself having a nice time, perhaps the first good time I have ever had with a man.
Yet, I still hadn’t committed to interning for him.
Finally, it was time to leave. We ended up drinking two entire bottles of wine, and I felt a bit leery about Nick getting behind the wheel.
But it turned out that Nick didn’t have to drive. He had called his driver, the one who took my mom home that night, and he picked us up.
The two of us sat in the back seat, and I was tipsy. I could feel the heat between us. I hoped that I wasn’t imagining it. My defenses were down, and I was feeling like I wanted him to touch me like I had never been willingly touched by anyone. But even then, I couldn’t come out and say it. I didn’t know for sure that he was feeling the same way, but my intuition said that he did. And the alcohol had dimmed the voice in my head that was telling me that a guy like him would never go for a girl like me.
“Uh, Scotty,” he said. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but..”
“But yeah? Yeah, yeah, yeah?” I was vaguely aware that I was acting a fool, but, at the same time, I couldn’t really help myself.
“I’d like for you to come home with me. I don’t want to try anything, but I really don’t want this evening to end, either.”
“I want to come home with you, too,” I said. This was something that I would never, ever say in my sober state, but my inhibitions were way down by then.
So, we ended up in his loft in Tribeca, which was on the top floor of the building. I was stunned by the size and beauty of the place. The ceilings were about 40’ tall, and I had only heard of places that big in the middle of the city. I didn’t think that I would actually be in one. His taste in décor and furniture was as modern as in his office. He had more Kadinsky paintings in here – that apparently was his favorite artist. But I also recognized paintings by Gustav Klimt, Egon Schiele and Francis Bacon. And there were some gorgeous and colorful paintings by an artist that I didn’t recognize.
He also had a terrace that wrapped around his loft. The terrace was paved in granite, and there were modern art sculptures out there, as well as tables, chairs and a fire pit. A sunken hot tub that would easily seat 10 bubbled in a corner. I walked out, admiring the floor the ceiling walls of windows that looked out onto the terrace, and drank in the breathtaking view of the city.
Then I came back in and looked around, feeling more than a little awed at the place. Even the Wall Street trader, Mr. Lucas, didn’t make enough money to afford a place like this. Or, perhaps he did, but his apartment wasn’t this lavish, at any rate. And those paintings! Any one of them was worth millions, some of them hundreds of millions. So, I went around and admired each of them individually.
He saw me looking at one of the paintings. It was a painting by somebody that I didn’t recognize, but it showed a rare talent, in my own estimation. It was painted by an artist that evidently was involved in the impressionist movement, so it was different from the other paintings, which favored the surrealists and the abstract artists.
As I was staring at the stunning painting of a woman and her two children on a hotel balcony, Nick came up and said “My best friend painted this,” he said.
“It’s exquisite,” I said, touching it. “He’s very talented.”
“That he is. He’s into the impressionists, as you can probably tell.”
“Yes, definitely.”
It was then that I noticed the gorgeous baby grand piano that was on one end of the enormous living area. I went over to it and sat down on the bench, and plinked my fingers over the keys a little. “Do you play?” I asked him.
“Yeah, a little. Do you want to hear some?”
“Of course, silly. Let’s hear you play something.”
At that, he joined me on the bench. “What would you like to hear?” he asked.
I looked out the window. It was still only October but I was looking forward to Christmas all the same. I loved Christmas in New York more than anything in the world. It was always so…magical. Even when I was growing up with my mother, and there was never any money for anything, therefore I didn’t get any presents at all, I still loved the season. This was before I started to be removed from the home because of her drunkenness. Of course, with the Wall Street Trader, there were always plenty of presents for me, but I much preferred the present-less Christmases to the ones with him. For obvious reasons.
But there was something about the bustling of the streets during the busy season, and the enormous Christmas tree outside Rockefeller Center that made me smile. I loved the Christmas specials on television, and the carolers outside on the streets. I loved that we usually always had a white Christmas. Miracle on 34th Street was my favorite movie of all time, and I read A Christmas Carol about 100 times growing up.
So I knew what I wanted him to play. “O Holy Night. Play O Holy Night.”
He smiled, and cracked his knuckles. Then he launched into a gorgeous and nuanced rendition of the song, which was my all-time favorite. He smiled at me as he sang.
“
O Holy Night, the stars are brightly shining. It is the night of our dear savior’s birth,” we sang. I knew that my voice was off key, but, at that moment, I really didn’t care. His voice was imperfect as well, but better than mine, and he sang in a deep baritone that was deeper than his actual talking voice.
After that song, he looked at me. “So, you like Christmas music, huh?”
“I do, I do,” I said with a smile. “Don’t you?”
“Sure,” he said, then started playing The River, another of my favorite Christmas songs.
“Now, how did you know that I loved that song?” I asked him.
“I had a feeling,” he said. “Do you want to hear Christmas music all night, or do you want to hear something else?”
“Surprise me.”
So his next song was Rhapsody in Blue by George Gershwin, a familiar standard. I was amazed at how expert he was in playing this piece. There was not a single wrong note, yet he also did a slightly different interpretation from the piece that I knew. Then the next piece was Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 2 in C Minor. He looked at me and smiled.
“Oh, I do love this piece,” I said.
“Really. Do you know what it is?”
“Of course. It’s the music from All By Myself.” And it was, for Eric Carmen sampled this particular piece in his classic song.
His face immediately fell.
“Just kidding. Rachmaninoff is one of my favorite composers, actually. His Second Piano Concerto is pure genius from start to finish, dontcha think?”
His smile was back.
And there was something else in his eyes at that moment.
I once again felt that his eyes were penetrating my soul, and I thought, for just a moment, that I was starting to see that he was having feelings for me. And this scared me to death. So I immediately started to feel uncomfortable. I got up off the bench and went to stare at his Kadinsky. It was a mesmerizing mélange of colors and shapes. It was like a dreamscape in a way, or like seeing into the mind of a mad genius. I could stand there and stare at it for hours and see different things the entire time I looked at it.