Cocktail Hour

by McTiernan, Tara

  As if retaliating, the umbrella popped back open, scattering raindrops on the cluster of nearby snobs. One of them let out a little shriek, throwing her hands up.

  Chelsea felt her pride swell up. That was it. "It's just a little rain. You're not going to melt. Or are you? Witches melt. Maybe bitches do, too."

  The woman who had shrieked earlier gasped loudly and the others started tittering. The lone man rolled his eyes, sliding his jaw sideways in a sneer. This was not the impression Chelsea had imagined making at The Vault. Her outfit was ruined, who knew what her makeup and hair looked like from running in the rain, and now this. Composure gone, she battled openly with the umbrella, got it closed, and stalked past the still-tittering group and into the restaurant looking for the ladies room.

  Safely inside the bathroom, Chelsea observed the damage in the mirror. Her perfectly curled hair was wild and frizzy now. Her makeup was fine except for her mascara, which had run down under her eyes. The mascara was easy to fix with a little swab of Vaseline and some tissue, but her hair was beyond repair. She did her best to tidy it, twisting it with both hands to blend in the frizzy bits and make it wavy again, and then headed back toward the front of the restaurant where an elegant golden spiral staircase wound up to the upstairs bar.

  Mounting the stairs, she tried to enjoy herself. This was, after all, one of the most super-chic places in the area, and The Birdcage, as they called the upstairs golden bar that had been made to look like an ornate Victorian birdcage, was the place to see and be seen. Who knew who would be there this evening? Famous movie stars, sports legends, models, musicians, and every kind of mover and shaker had been sighted in this restaurant and the upstairs bar. She hoped that Kate would be first to arrive this evening, possibly already waiting for her. Chelsea would love pointing out the celebrities in the room and listening to Kate's gratifying oohs and ah's. If not, she still loved seeing Lucie or Sharon. She would just have to be more careful with them.

  At the top of the stairs she paused and looked around. The bar was full of men in expensive suits and beautiful women, though there were still empty tables here and there. Chelsea continued scanning the room, trying to see if any of the girls were already there before she picked an empty table and got her much-needed daiquiri. Then she saw that someone seated in the corner was waving in her direction.

  It was Bianca. Alone.

  Chelsea swallowed hard and waved back, a fake smile trembling on her lips, before forcing herself into motion. Bianca, who was never early, was there, waiting for her. Like a cat waiting for a mouse. She even looked feline, her dark hair pulled back in a sleek knot, her outfit all-black, which was remarkable in itself as Bianca always wore red, her favorite color. Bianca's heavy-lidded eyes regarding her from across the room were also like a cat's, reflecting that certain cunning. But no, it was all John's fault that Chelsea was thinking like this. The things he said couldn't be true. But wouldn't it be easier if they were? Wouldn't it absolve Chelsea from the wrong she was doing?

  She finally managed to traverse the floor of the bar and arrive at the table. "Hi," Chelsea said, sliding into one of the chairs and attempting to look composed. Just friends having drinks. No big deal.

  "What? No hug?" Bianca said.

  "Oh, uh...of course. C'mere!" Chelsea said, leaning over awkwardly and half-hugging Bianca. The strong electric energy that was always around her friend - one that usually felt buzzy and exciting - felt like a force field today, zapping her. Chelsea pulled away more quickly than she meant to, desperate to get away from the stinging shocks.

  To cover for her reticence, Chelsea said, "So, you're here early! Wow! I feel important!"

  Bianca leaned in and said, "You are. I need to talk to you."

  Chelsea felt a crackling go through her, as if Bianca's electricity had grabbed hold of her entire nervous system. "What...what about?"

  "It's John. Something's going on."

  Chardonnay

  "Oh, how fabulous!" Flo said, looking around the commercial kitchen Lucie and Erin had secured part-time and throwing out her arms with enthusiasm. "Just fabulous! This is where you'll become famous. I can feel it!"

  Lucie turned to look at her father who was less easily impressed. "Dad? What do you think?"

  Donald Scott shrugged, still glancing around. "It seems like a lot of money for so little. You're only getting this space part-time, right?"

  "But prime time for catering! Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. Plus we get refrigerator space full-time. Over here," Lucie said, realizing that he'd given voice to the same doubt she'd expressed to Erin, one Erin had steamrolled with her usual bullheadedness. And Lucie had given in. As usual.

  Trying to shake the return of her unease about the excessive expense, she moved forward with her tour, leading them into the room filled with huge stainless steel refrigerators. Some had chains with combination locks on them like bicycles in a public bike rack.

  Her father walked over and took one of the dangling locks in his hand. "What's this?"

  "Oh," Lucie said. "Some people that rent here are paranoid. They lock up their food. Like someone's going to steal it." She almost wanted to do her silly impression of a food robber she had done for Ryan when she had shown him the space over a week ago and he'd asked the same question. That was back when they were still speaking. Before she said what she said. What couldn't be unsaid.

  It had all gone downhill after a seemingly routine Sunday brunch at the Greenwich Hyatt with her father, Flo, and Erin. Donald Scott loved brunches at the Hyatt. The soaring space of the hotel's atrium filled with full-size trees, flowers, waterfall sounds, and birdsong was embellished on Sundays by a live jazz pianist tickling the ivories and champagne flowed freely for those who paid the astronomical per-person charge for the hotel's lavish buffet. At every brunch they enjoyed there together, Lucie's father leaned back in his chair, smiled in the direction of the pianist, took a contented sip of his champagne, and declared in a hearty voice, "Now, this is living."

  As was routine at their get-togethers, Flo quizzed Erin on her career, but this time Erin was evasive rather than forthcoming. Lucie and she had agreed to hide the truth from their parents until Erin had made a few "wins", as both Flo and Donald liked to call them, on one of the fronts where Lucie and Erin were trying to make some headway with the business: either something on television or a cookbook. Gaining clientele, Erin's original goal for Petite Soiree, had turned out not to be a problem. Ever since Lucie secured her first few jobs, the referrals from them had started coming in like clockwork. Evidently, word of mouth really was the key.

  "I'm....still figuring it out," Erin said, reaching for her mimosa before realizing she'd already drained it. She glanced at Lucie furtively before plastering a nonchalant look on her face and turning back to her mother. "I will. Don't worry."

  "But I do worry, sweetheart. You've got to find a direction! All this job hopping! It has to stop."

  "Hear, hear," her father murmured, shaking his head slightly and reaching for one of the oysters on the half-shell he had piled on his plate.

  "I have. I will," Erin said, lips turning down in frustration.

  Ryan piped up, "Leave the kid alone. She's only twenty five."

  Her father, putting down the oyster he had been holding, flicked his eyes at Ryan. "It'll do her good to have some direction. That's what she needs. To wise up. Get real. Stop living in a fantasy land. You know what you should do, Erin?" He said, turning to his stepdaughter.

  Erin said, leaning forward, "What?"

  "Take a page from Lucie here. She's got it together. It took her a while, but she's on the right track now."

  Lucie wanted to smile at her father with gratitude, it had been such a long time since he'd been proud of her, but she felt Erin turning to glare at her, and looked down at her plate. Why did it always have to be a battle? Why couldn't they all just get along? Wasn't that what family was supposed to be: a haven from trouble? She didn't mind fighting the rest of the world, bu
t fighting her own family seemed unnatural.

  Erin turned back to Donald, "But you're helping her. You're both helping her. Why can't I have my own catering business? Why won't you back that?"

  Her father only snorted.

  Flo said, "Honey, how many times have we helped you? One hundred? Two? It's time for you to do it on your own. And don't go running to Lucie, either. Promise?"

  Lucie continued to stare at her plate, willing the conversation to return to safer waters. She could feel Erin's desperation, her urge to burst out and tell them the truth. Lucie also knew what the reaction would be. Then they would both be in trouble. But the worst feeling was Ryan's eyes on her, his mounting frustration with her, with Erin, and with her father. And it all exploded afterward in the parking lot once they were in the car and out of earshot.

  Ryan put the key in the ignition, but then dropped his hand away without turning on the car and looked at her. "Why? Why do you take that from him?"

  "What? He's proud?"

  "He bullies you. He bullies Erin. He's rude to me. Why don't you stand up to him? You're so strong all the rest of the time. I've seen you. You fight for what's right. You're polite and deferential at first, but if you have to get tough, you're not afraid to do it. Except when it comes to your father."

  Lucie, stung from the truth of what he was saying, only shrugged, turning her head away.

  "Why, Lucie?"

  "He's my father!" Lucie said, bugging her eyes out at the windshield before looking back at Ryan. "What am I supposed to do? Defy him?"

  "No, just stand up to him. Just be honest. Stop lying about Erin working for you. His money is paying her salary. You owe him the truth."

  "If he hears the truth, it's over. He'll pull out."

  "No, he won't."

  "Yes, he will!" Lucie shouted and then lowered her voice. "He will. I know. He's pulled his support before. In college, after the accident."

  "What?"

  "He said I wasn't trying hard enough. When my grades started to slip, he pulled his part of my tuition. It was only one semester, I was so close to graduation, but...it happened."

  "Holy shit. After your accident? What the hell was he-"

  "Don't start! He was doing what he thought was right. He was trying to make me strong!"

  "No. He makes you weak. Criticism is abuse. It's destructive. It breaks people down, Lucie. It's broken you."

  Burned, she turned on Ryan, "No. He only speaks the truth. I haven't pushed myself. Erin is a big baby. You aren't going anywhere."

  A flash of heat rushed through her, hearing her last words. Ryan's eyes opened wide and he became very still. A moment ticked by while damp sadness flooded Lucie, her earlier fire quenched. Why had she said that? She could think it, but to say it?

  Finally, Ryan said in a husky voice. "I can't believe I just heard you say that. I thought you believed in me."

  She rushed to take back her words, saying everything she could to try to convince him that, yes, she believed in him. But the echo of them reverberated in the air ever since. The yawning desert was back between them, their lovingly-tended garden curling and brown under a merciless sun. Ryan took extra shifts at the bar every night this week, tiptoed in the bedroom in the early morning hours long after the bar had closed and was still sleeping when Lucie left mid-morning. When she called him later in the day, the call always went to voicemail and, instead of calling her back, he left brief handwritten notes on the kitchen counter signed without the usual "love". Each note was picked up off of the counter and read, Lucie's eyes traveling to the far wall afterward while she puzzled at what to do, how to breach the barrier.

  Looking at her father still holding the combination lock on one of the refrigerators in the new rental space, she knew that the barrier had a great deal to do with the strong handsome man in front of her, a man whose blessing and approval was so important to her. And he did not approve of Ryan. Was her father right? Was Ryan a loser? But, no, she knew Ryan, she did believe in him. And he believed in her.

  Her father was speaking. "No, these locks are a good idea. You should have them, too."

  "No one's going to steal my food, Dad. The only people who have access to this kitchen are the cleaning people and the other caterers who rent it."

  "That's not the reason they have locks on these refrigerators. It's protection."

  "Protection?" Flo said, her forehead wrinkling. "What from?"

  "Sabotage," Donald said and turned back to Lucie. "Anyone could come in, get to your food. What's the number one fear most caterers have? Lucie? Come on. I've done my homework; I assume you've done yours. What's the number one fear?"

  Lucie froze. She hated tests. Her father loved them. What was the answer? Number one fear? "People will hate my food? Tell other people it's bad?"

  "Close. But wrong. Only one word of your answer was right: bad. Bad food, rotten. As in food poisoning."

  Lucie relaxed and laughed. "Oh, no problem! I test all my food. Date it. Refuse to take anything but the best freshest supplies. Even if they're discount, I won't take ingredients that may be iffy, on the edge of turning. Only the best for Petite Soiree!"

  Donald narrowed his eyes and shook his head slowly. "You'll never learn, will you? Just like your mother. Stupidly trusting. Of course you only accept the best ingredients and are careful. If you weren't responsible, we wouldn't be helping you. If you were anything like Erin. Anyway, I'm talking about sabotage. People messing with your food."

  Lucie flushed hot, embarrassed and hurt. "Why? Why would anyone do that?"

  "Competition!" Flo announced. "You're right, Don. Exactly. Trust me, people have tussled with me, too. Of course, they came out worse for wear." She chuckled a little at the last.

  "Exactly," Don said, and pointed a finger at Lucie. "You're getting locks. Tonight."

  Lucie glanced out the window at the darkening afternoon. Where had the sun gone? She checked her watch. Almost six-thirty. She was supposed to be at The Vault now. She was late. "But, it's late. I'll do it tomorrow. Actually, I have to go. I have plans with-"

  "Tonight. You can't be too careful. And speaking of careful, how's the hiring going?"

  Lucie looked at her father. He wanted the best for her, she knew that. But why couldn't he want what she wanted: a little catering company with maybe a cookbook or two in bookstores? Not some huge megacorp, some Omnimedia, Lucie Scott Living. "I haven't had time," she said, bending the truth.

  "Make time. This is your future. Only you can make it happen," her father said, repeating his favorite mantra - a mantra that had made him very wealthy.

  "You're going to be famous!" Flo exclaimed and wrapped an arm around Lucie, squeezing her shoulder.

  Lucie grinned. Maybe she would be, maybe her star would rise. Would that be so bad? Seeing the respect in her father's eyes was like having a warm light shine on her soul. If she was a huge success, that light would be like the sun on her, bathing the landscape of her life, making everything right with the world. The battles would be over and peace would reign in the Scott family. Erin, too, would be in that fold, productive and happy, working for Lucie. Maybe Erin could have her own spin-off then!

  "You know," her father said, looking around. "This is good. It's a good first step. I'm proud of you. You're doing great. All right. We've got to go. Dinner at the club tonight."

  Lucie walked them out to their car, large raindrops starting to fall from dark low clouds that had amassed above. As her father folded his tall lean body into his Mercedes, he looked over at her and said, "And don't forget to call Adrienne. Your limp is worse than ever. You'll need to fix that before we seriously pursue television."

  "Dad," Lucie said, shaking her head. "Please? It can't be fixed."

  "How will you know unless you try? Just call her. She's the best per everyone. Have her send me the bill. I'll take care of it. I want to see you strong. Got it?" he said, pointing his finger at her again.

  The sky above opened at that moment, pouring down b
uckets of rain and saving her from a reply. She waved and hobbled quickly inside. Just inside the door, she turned and watched her father's car pull away, red taillights winking and disappearing through the sheets of rain. The air smelled green and wet and a little of engine oil, the pavement of the parking lot steaming as it filled with puddles. Lucie put her hand on her bad hip. It was worse, had stayed bad for the last month, ever since her night out dancing with the girls. Would this woman her father had found, a physical therapist that supposedly had the magic touch, be able to help? Lucie's instincts told her it was hopeless. But she would try. For her father.

  Lucie heard her phone ringing in her work bag. One of the girls wondering where she was? No, she wasn't that late. Ryan! She spun and ran for it, picking it up before she realized it couldn't be Ryan. Ryan's ringtone was "Can't Buy Me Love", not the default ring. But maybe - maybe he was calling from the bar?

  "Petite Soiree at your service! Lucie Scott speaking?"

  "Lucie! I'm so glad I caught you. It's Margot Simsbury. I'm calling about Lillian's sweet sixteen party?"

  "Yes, yes! We're all set for the ninth," Lucie said, crossing her fingers. She still needed to hire some servers; the party, with nearly fifty attendees, was the largest she had catered and she would need extra hands. "Or did you want to make changes to the menu you selected? You're welcome to make as many as you want up until seven days prior? Would Lillian prefer to meet with me?"

  Lucie squatted next to her work tote and started digging through it looking for her pen and notepad. There had to be changes; the menu Margot had selected for her daughter's party was far too sophisticated for a bunch of teenagers. They wanted pizza and hot wings, not petite lamb chops with mint rosemary sauce and caviar-lobster napoleons.

  "No, um, it's not that. We're...," Margot said and sighed before continuing. "We're going to have to cancel."

  "Oh, no! Is everything all right?"

  "Yes..."

  Lucie sat back on her heels. Something was up. "What's going on? Doesn't Lillian like the menu? I'm very willing to accommodate, make whatever she wants. It could be very simple - pizza, mini burgers, nachos. Or wait, let me guess, she's on a diet and wants all low-cal or low carb. I can do that."