Let's Stay Together

by J. J. Murray

  “So it’s a rendezvous?” Phil asked.

  It’s a date! Lauren shook her head and continued toward baggage claim.

  While waiting for her luggage, Lauren signed several autographs and posed for a dozen pictures.

  Phil sidled up to her. “Many restaurants are closing because of the weather, Miss Short.”

  Sneaky man. “And I suppose you’ll call the restaurant for me to check, huh?”

  “Something like that,” Phil said.

  “I’m not stupid, Phil,” Lauren whispered. “If they’re closed, they’re closed.” In a way, I hope they’re closed. That will give me more time with Patrick at the hotel. I wish my stomach would stop growling, though. We’ll have to get room service.

  “How long will you be in town?” Phil asked.

  Lauren spied her first suitcase and maneuvered through the crowd to snag it. “I’m not sure, Phil.”

  “Why are you meeting here?” Phil asked.

  “Truthfully, so we could get some alone time away from the media,” Lauren said. She saw her other two bags and grabbed them. “So if you don’t mind.”

  Phil stepped back. “Where are you staying?”

  Lauren looked outside at a line of snow-covered cabs. “Are you going to follow me, Phil?”

  Phil didn’t answer.

  “Don’t follow me, please,” Lauren said. She opened her biggest suitcase and pulled out her black overcoat. “Don’t you already have enough for your story?” She closed her suitcase and put on her overcoat, buttoning it to the top.

  “One more question,” Phil said. “Did you know that kid back there?”

  “Sure,” Lauren said. “That was Jamie, and he is my biggest fan. Now I have a question for you. How did you know I’d be on that plane?”

  “I can’t reveal my sources, Miss Short,” he said.

  “How about if I guess, then?” The cabdriver, the skycap, the ticket agent in LA, or Wendy? “Was her name Wendy?”

  Phil nodded slightly.

  “Please don’t quote me here, Phil,” Lauren said, “but Wendy is an evil heifer. What do you owe her for the tip?”

  Phil sighed. “Hockey tickets.”

  “Really? That’s all?”

  “Wendy is nuts about the St. Louis Blues,” Phil said. “I have no idea why. They’re not even that good this year.”

  “Well, that woman gave me the blues the entire flight,” Lauren said. “She likes to hover. You don’t have to go with her, do you?”

  Phil nodded.

  “Does she coo at you, too?” Lauren asked.

  Phil grimaced. “All the damn time.” He smiled. “Thank you for talking to me.”

  “I’d say anytime, Phil, but I have a date,” Lauren said.

  “And it’s a date, Phil, not a rendezvous.”

  “If you say so, Miss Short,” Phil said.

  While snowflakes as big as pancakes bludgeoned her hair, Lauren rolled her luggage out to the curb beside a cab. The cabdriver didn’t move from his seat.

  Lauren tapped on the passenger window, and the window descended. “I need some help here.”

  The driver rolled his eyes. “Where you headed?”

  “The Millennium Hotel downtown,” Lauren said, batting snow from her hair.

  “Ah, lady, that’s at least an hour ride in this weather,” the driver said. “I-Seventy is closed, and they’re about to close Sixty-Four.”

  “I’m sure there are other ways to get there,” Lauren said.

  He sighed. “Get in. I’ll have to take Natural Bridge Road, but the whole world is taking Natural Bridge Road now. We’ll get there in about ninety minutes.”

  Lauren opened the back door, threw in her soaked suitcases, and slid onto the seat. “As long as we get there.” She handed him a fifty-dollar bill. “Fifty more if you get me there in less than an hour.”

  The driver peered back at her. “You famous or something?”

  “Not anymore,” Lauren said. She fastened her seat belt.

  “Let’s roll, man.”

  “All right, all right,” the driver said.

  In just under an hour, after some nifty driving and a series of harrowing detours, Lauren arrived at the Millennium Hotel, a tall cylinder rising into the snowy sky with the Gateway Arch looming behind. She handed the driver another fifty.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You drive safely the rest of the night, okay?”

  The driver got out, opened the back door, took out Lauren’s suitcases, and carried them to the curb where a bellhop stacked them on a cart and rolled the cart inside.

  Lauren stepped out and smiled, shielding her hair from the snow with her hands. “Thank you.”

  The driver shrugged. “I finally figured out who you are,” he said. “You’re that actress.”

  “Is that the only reason you took out my suitcases?” Lauren asked.

  The driver didn’t answer.

  Lauren backed toward the hotel’s entrance. “You need to work on your customer service skills, man. You should have done that for anyone in your cab, especially on a night like tonight.”

  As soon as she whisked the snow off her coat in the lobby, she headed straight to the reception desk.

  “Lauren Short?” a woman cried. “Oh, my God! It’s Lauren Short!”

  Lauren read her name tag. Calm down, Penny. I’m as human as you are, only I’m much calmer. “Hi, Penny. I’m meeting someone who already has a reservation. Patrick Esposito. Has he checked in yet?” And maybe we can skip dinner and go right to dessert.

  Penny fumbled with her hands. “What’s his name again?”

  “Patrick Esposito.”

  Penny’s fingers banged some keys on her keyboard. “He hasn’t checked in yet.”

  Lauren checked her phone. It’s a little past six, and he’s left no messages.

  “Is he flying in?” Penny asked. “He might be delayed. They’re canceling flights left and right.”

  You can’t cancel a bus, Penny. “May I leave my suitcases here?”

  Penny smiled broadly. “I can put them in the manager’s office for you.”

  “That’d be great.”

  Penny squinted at the computer screen. “Oh, that’s right. I talked to Mr. Esposito. I gave you one of our nicest rooms. It’s a riverside room with excellent views of the Arch.”

  I’m not interested in that kind of view, Penny. I’m here to see a man. “Great.” She looked through the lobby at the front doors. “How far is it to Tony’s?”

  Penny snapped up a phone receiver. “I can call you a cab.”

  That’s not what I asked. “Isn’t it close by?”

  “Yes, but look at the snow, Miss Short,” Penny said. “Think of your hair.”

  My hair will dry, Penny. Hair does dry. “I like snow.”

  “Do you want a hat or something?” Penny asked.

  “I’ll be fine, Penny,” Lauren said.

  Penny leaned across the counter and whispered, “But I thought you were supposed to be incognito.”

  They knew I was coming. How? “I’ll be fine,” Lauren said. “The snow will keep me hidden. Now, do I turn right or left out of here?”

  “I’ll draw you a map,” Penny said. She wrote a single line on a Post-it. “Turn right when you leave us and walk to Market Street. It’s only a little ways. Tony’s is on the corner.” She handed Lauren the map. “You won’t get lost.”

  Not with an excellent “map” like this. “Thank you.”

  Lauren shot her hands deeply into her pockets and left the Millennium, turned right, and walked through a wall of falling snow on what she hoped was the sidewalk. This coat isn’t nearly warm enough, and this snow is entirely too wet. I used to like snow. I guess I’ll have to get used to eastern weather all over again.

  She crossed Fourth Street when she got to Market Street, walked up some steps, and entered Tony’s, shaking off her coat just inside the door.

  “May I help you?”

  Is that Joe Pesci’s father? He looks j
ust like him! Nice dark jacket, white oxford shirt, no tie, and even Joe Pesci’s squint from—what was that movie?—Casino.

  Lauren smiled broadly. “Hello. I’m a little early. Reservation for Esposito.”

  The man smiled. “We’ve been expecting you, Miss Short.”

  “Yes,” Lauren said. “But Patrick Esposito made the reservation.”

  “Oh, yes, he did,” the man said. “I talked to him the other night. A fine gentleman. I am Vincent Bommarito. Please call me Vincent.”

  “Hello, Vincent.”

  “Are we going incognito tonight, Miss Short?” Vincent asked.

  Lauren took off her coat and folded it over her arm. “No.” “But you’re wearing . . .” His eyes danced. “I mean, most women who eat here wear . . .”

  “Clothes?” Lauren said.

  Vincent nodded and smiled. “That they do. And it is a snowy night, isn’t it?”

  “If I didn’t keep moving out there, I would have been buried,” Lauren said. “I take it there’s a dress code here.” Patrick didn’t tell me that.

  “There is,” Vincent said, “but we always make exceptions, especially for you, Miss Short.”

  You had better, Lauren thought. I just flew two thousand miles with a flight attendant’s sour breath in my ear. “Thank you, Vincent.”

  “We have our best table ready for you,” he said.

  The best table is usually the most visible table, and I want to be invisible. “I prefer something out of the way,” Lauren said. “We’d like our privacy.”

  “Oh, but of course,” he said. “We’re short on staff tonight. You understand. This unexpected snowstorm. Please follow me.”

  Lauren followed Vincent to a table in a far corner that was shielded from view somewhat by a frosted-glass partition. As she moved past other diners, she smiled and tried not to make eye contact.

  I am seriously underdressed! There’s more bling in here than in some bistros in LA. And here I am, wearing boots, real boots, while these other women are wearing insensible high heels. Don’t they know it’s snowing outside?

  After Vincent pulled out her chair and Lauren sat, he asked, “Will your date be joining you soon?”

  “I’m really early,” Lauren said. “If the snow lets him, he should be here by seven.”

  “I will bring him here to you as soon as he arrives.” Vincent smiled. “I have to tell you, Miss Short, that I have followed your career. I would love to have your picture join Sammy Davis and Frank Sinatra on our wall.”

  Little old Lauren from D.C. on the wall with those icons? “I’d be honored.”

  Vincent whisked a single crumb on the table into his hand. “Enjoy your evening.” He returned to the front.

  Now that’s service with some style, Lauren thought. Patrick chose this restaurant well. I already feel like royalty.

  A young man wearing all black rushed by. “I’ll be with you in a—” He stopped.

  “Hi,” Lauren said.

  The man blinked.

  “What’s your name?” Lauren asked.

  “Donnie,” the man whispered.

  He doesn’t sound too sure. “Take your time, Donnie. My date isn’t here yet. Take care of your other guests first. I know you’re understaffed tonight because of the snow.”

  “Okay.” Donnie swallowed. “What may I get you to drink?”

  “Water will be fine,” Lauren said. “But there’s no rush.”

  “Okay.” Donnie sped away.

  It’s nice to know I still have that effect on people, but it’s really creepy to have strangers look at you like deer frozen in headlights.

  “Miss Short, hi,” a smiling man said as he approached.

  I know what he’s after, Lauren thought. They say my name first and then throw in a “hi” or a “hello.” How nice. The man still has his napkin tucked into his shirt.

  “Could I trouble you for an autograph and maybe a picture ?” He pointed behind him. “My wife is a big fan.”

  For the next half hour, nearly every diner at Tony’s made his or her well-dressed way to Lauren’s table for an autograph, a picture, or both, and Lauren obliged them because she had nothing better to do.

  After Vincent took her picture for the “wall of fame,” Donnie brought her a glass of ice water. “Is your date running late?” he asked.

  “The snow must be holding him up,” Lauren said.

  “They just closed Lambert,” Donnie said. “When was his flight?”

  “He’ll be here,” Lauren said.

  “But it’s a little after seven,” Donnie said.

  Do they need this table? This place isn’t at full capacity. What’s the rush? “I would be more surprised if he were on time in this weather. Don’t worry, Donnie.”

  “I’m not worried,” Donnie said. “I’m just . . .” He shook his head. “It’s just that with all that’s happened to you recently, I’d hate to see you get stood up.”

  Why are perfect strangers so interested in my dysfunctional love life? They should be working on their own dysfunctional love lives! “Patrick is not going to stand me up,” Lauren said. “But thank you for your concern.”

  She took out her cell phone and called him. Once again, her call went straight to voice mail. “I’m here at the restaurant, Patrick, and it is very nice. Please hurry.” She closed her phone. “I’m sure he’s on his way.”

  “I hope so, Miss Short,” Donnie said. “Are you sure you don’t want to order something? Some bread, an antipasto, or osetra caviar perhaps?”

  I’m starving, and it smells so good in here! “I’m fine, Donnie,” Lauren said.

  But I’m not fine.

  It’s ten after seven.

  My man won’t answer his phone.

  These Timberlands aren’t as waterproof as I thought they’d be. My toes will not thaw out.

  Donnie is about to have a fit.

  Some of the people around me seem to be getting ready for another round of pictures.

  Come on, man.

  Let’s get this date started.

  42

  At 7:25 p.m. a weary bus full of cranky people arrived over two hours late at the Greyhound bus terminal in St. Louis. After getting directions to Tony’s from the man behind the ticket counter, Patrick snatched his duffel bag as soon as the driver opened the luggage hatches and took off running through Triangle Park to Clark Avenue. The thick snow confused him momentarily until he saw the colossal outline of Busch Stadium.

  North to Market . . . and Lauren, he thought as he panted, his boots throwing clusters of heavy, wet snow behind him. He turned on his phone and grimaced at the flashing battery sign. After listening to Lauren’s messages, he turned it off. She’s there safely, he thought. That’s a blessing. I’m only a half hour late for dinner. I hope she’s not too angry.

  Once he hit Market Street, he slowed to a fast walk to catch his breath, and once inside Tony’s, he assessed his condition.

  I have some serious body odor, a mixture of funk and diesel fumes. My jeans are soaked up to my knees, my boots have changed from light brown to dark brown, and it looks as if I’ve just gotten out of the shower.

  I am officially a mess.

  Let the date begin.

  Patrick looked into the dining room. He saw flashes around a crowd of people in the corner. Unless there’s a birthday party going on, Lauren Short is definitely here.

  An elderly gentleman wearing a dark dinner jacket appeared in front of him. “I am Vincent Bommarito. May I help you, sir?”

  He looks just like a taller, older Joe Pesci. He’s even wearing a pinkie ring. “I am really late,” Patrick said. “Reservation for Esposito.”

  Vincent raised his eyebrows. “Esposito?”

  “Right, Patrick Esposito,” Patrick said. “I was supposed to be here at seven. I’m sure Lauren Short is already here. She’s my date.” Patrick noticed that every man inside was wearing a dinner jacket or a suit. Oops. I suppose I could wear my belt as a tie.

  “Mis
s Lauren Short is your date,” Vincent said.

  “Yes.”

  “The actress Lauren Short,” Vincent said.

  Patrick stared down at Vincent’s bushy gray eyebrows. “Yes, Lauren Short, the actress.”

  “Forgive me, but I am going to need to see some identification,” Vincent said. “I hope you understand. Miss Short is an important guest.”

  Patrick pulled out his wallet and removed a Salthead ID badge, one he rarely wore. He handed it to Vincent. “I don’t drive, so I don’t have a license.”

  Vincent stared at the ID. “I knew an Esposito who came over here from Salerno, in Campania.” He looked into Patrick’s eyes. “You could be his twin.” He handed back the ID. “You have kept Miss Short waiting, Mr. Esposito.”

  Patrick straightened to his full height. “I know. I’ve just spent over thirty hours on a bus from Brooklyn, I’m soaking wet, and this is our first date.”

  Vincent smiled. “I am sorry I doubted who you were, Mr. Esposito. It would be my honor for you to wear one of my dinner jackets.”

  Patrick sighed. “I’m soaking wet.”

  Vincent nodded. “The jacket will warm you up.”

  “I’m now forty minutes late,” Patrick said. “Why can’t I just go in?”

  “We have a dress code, Mr. Esposito,” Vincent said.

  “Business casual on weekdays.”

  Patrick sighed again. “My business is buildings maintenance. If I had worn my coveralls, would you have let me go in?”

  Vincent laughed. “I think I would have, especially on a night like this.” He nodded. “Forgive me for hindering you. Allow me to escort you to your table, Mr. Esposito.”

  “I can manage,” Patrick said.

  Vincent shook his head. “I may have to block for you. Follow me.”

  Patrick followed Vincent carefully around several tables toward the crowd around Lauren. They’re all so well dressed, and I am not. They all smell nice. I do not. I am at least forty-five minutes late now, and I’m carrying a soaked duffel bag full of soaked clothes. I need to shave, my hair will dry in all directions, and I am not wearing a tie or a dinner jacket.

  So far, so good.

  Patrick waited beside Vincent while the last few groups of people took pictures with Lauren.