by Tara Brent
“My husband will try to join us, if he can,” Cici said. “But as usual, he said to go ahead and start without him.”
“Well, I look forward to meeting him, too,” I said. And I should have shut up and left it at that, but no I couldn’t help myself. “And how about Blake? Will he be joining us?”
Seb was just about to respond, when his mother gave him the look. Then she said “He has a date. In Las Vegas. I think he took the Gulfstream.”
That’s too much for Seb, who adds “He’s probably at the Caesar’s Sports Book, checking the odds on how many bridesmaids he can impregnate.”
“Seb!” Cici wanted to lay into him, but she couldn’t, not in front of the new in-laws. “I apologize,” she said to them.
“Oh, don’t bother,” James tells us. “Brothers. I used to fight with mine all the time.”
“You still fight with him,” Annette adds. And she gives Cici a sympathetic look. “You can’t believe it. Two grown men. It drives me crazy.”
Seb tries to smooth things over now, saying “Look, Mom. You know I love Blake. He’s always been a great brother. It’s just...” He stops, and Michelle takes his hand. “It’s just that he could be so much more. He’s capable of, I don’t know, anything he wants to do with his life, but he just... wastes it. I’m sorry, Mom. That’s just how I see it.”
I hate to admit it, but I was jealous, and angry at the same time. Who the fuck takes a Gulfstream Jet to Las Vegas, just to go on a date? I can’t even think about this, or this whole shit show is going right down the toilet. “Okay, so... I guess we’re all here. Shall we get started?”
“Please,” Cici said.
“As long as we’re on the subject of Bridesmaids, let’s talk about what they’re wearing, and discuss a color palette that will compliment that look.”
We spent the next hour going over flatware, linens, centerpieces, floral arrangements – the usual suspects. I wished Jimmy was here, because I’m lousy at taking notes, and don’t remember things as well as he does. I explained that we were still trying to make a final selection on a caterer. Which was a white lie. We were still trying to find one - even one - to select; but to take the focus off that, I suggested we talk about the menu. What choices did they want for dinner? What appetizers did they want. How long should the hors d’oeuvres circulate? I told them that in my experience, you don’t want to pass around shrimp cocktail and broiled skewers of chicken for more than thirty or forty minutes, or people (especially people drinking) are going to fill up before the main course.
Assuming, of course, there is a main course.
We’re just breaking up the meeting when Joseph Okoye arrives. He may be the most striking physical presence I have ever been near. Far darker than his mixed blood sons, he was a classic Nigerian. A Nigerian king, that is. His movements are so graceful, so regal, that I could just imagine a royal cape, a crown, all the trappings.
“Hello all, hello. I am so sorry to be late. A colleague asked me to sit in with him in court. Difficult case.”
“I didn’t know you practice law,” said James.
“Oh, I don’t, but this was a matter of mineral rights, very complex. And I’ve been through more of that sort of litigation than a human being should have to bear.”
With that voice, I think, you should either practice law, preach the gospel, or sell soft drinks on a television commercial. The timber of that bass tone reminded me of a low rider’s booming vibration. Like you could feel it when he spoke.
He comes over to his wife Cici, and she almost disappears into his massive arms. They way they look when they melt together, and the love they radiate for each other, is just amazing. I see Michelle beaming at the sight of them, and she reaches for Seb’s hand. It’s contagious.
Unless your heart’s desire happens to be on a date in Las fucking Vegas.
“Now,” Cici says when she breaks the clinch, “I think we’ve all earned a Manhattan.” I guess I missed the puff of smoke when Igor suddenly materialized by the bar and started mixing. I bet he’s great at it. Too bad I have to leave. I make my apology to Cici.
“No, no. I understand. I wouldn’t think of disturbing dinner plans with your mother. Go on. Go, go.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
“Oh, wait. I just had an idea. Would your mother enjoy coming to the wedding?”
“You want to invite my Mom? You don’t even know her.”
“I know you, sweetheart. That’s good enough. Besides, I’m sure she will be so proud of this extravaganza you’re pulling together. It would make me happy just to see her enjoy her brilliant daughter’s work.”
“That is very gracious of you. Let me think about it.”
“Of course, of course.”
We are just starting to part ways, when she gets yet another thought. “Oh. Kira, I nearly forgot. We didn’t have a chance to go over a few other ideas.”
“Ah. The promised ‘wild’ ideas, I presume.”
“I didn’t want to embarrass myself with the others. Unless you think my crazy notions have any merit.”
“I understand. Maybe tomorrow?”
“Definitely. And keep an open mind.”
“It’s always open. That’s why everything is always spilling out.”
Chapter 6: The Others
Dinner with Mom gets off to a good start. Because she lives in the desert, I always try to take her out for good seafood. I get us a table at Oceanaire, best seafood in the Gaslamp District, and in my opinion, all of San Diego. Unfortunately, this is a month with no “R” in it, so we stay away from the superb fresh oyster menu, which will have up to twenty varieties. With the money I didn’t spend on oysters, I got a better bottle of wine. Neither of us had any complaints.
Until Mom slowed down on the chewing and began to speak. “Did you see the news on TMZ today?”
“News? That is a very generous characterization of the gossip they pedal.”
“Well, it was on ‘E Online’, too.”
“Oh, in that case, let’s alert the Pulitzer Committee.”
“Never mind, then. I just thought you’d be interested.”
“Me? Why?”
“Aren’t you working for the Okoye family?”
There was not a fish bone stuck in my throat, but it sure felt like it. “Okay, Ma. Spill it.”
“Well, it’s that son. Not the groom. That playboy. Brent, is it?”
“Blake.”
“Well. The story is that he snuck off to Vegas for a ‘secret rendezvous’.”
“As a matter of fact, I already know that.”
“Oh, well, excuse me.” Mom starts doing this tooth-sucking thing I hate, like there’s something stuck in her teeth. She does it not for dental hygiene, but for the dramatic pause. I wait her out. Finally, she goes on. “So you know all about who he was meeting, I guess.”
“He had a date. So what?”
“A date with Karen Keith.”
“Fine. He dates a movie star.” Shit. Karen Keith? Jesus wept.
“A married movie star, but that’s not all. She’s married to an Oscar- winning director, you know.”
“I don’t really bother to follow that stuff.”
“Well, he’s pretty well known as a hot head. Anger issues, and all that.”
“Is he the one who went after a paparazzi with a seven iron?”
“Well, this time he showed up at the Venetian. With a baseball bat.”
“Oh my God...”
“Luckily, Security stopped him, but there was quite a scene. Screaming. Tears. Hair pulling. Right there in public? Terrible. People have posted some great videos.” She pulls out her cell phone, as she continues “I think I put a bookmark on the best one... If I can find it... darn thing...”
“Mom, stop. I don’t want to see it. Really.”
“Here it is!” When she punches play, a blistering tirade of profanity booms out at full volume. Tables all around us are reacting. And not with pleasure.
“
Mom! Shut that off!”
“Look, here’s the bat. See it?”
I grabbed her phone and shut that damn thing off. “What is wrong with you? Jesus Christ, Ma.”
And here it comes. The pout. Oh, think how many years of practice have gone into this expression. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d be interested.” A Basset Hound couldn’t pull off this sad sack act.
“Well, I’m not.”
“Really? I don’t believe you.”
“Well then, get me a subscription to the National Enquirer for Christmas.”
“You can’t fool your mother. I know that look on your face. Don’t I?”
“No...” Yes. “What look?”
“You know what look.”
“Just drop it, will you?”
“I’m not saying a word.” The teeth again. I wish I had a toothpick. I’d stick it in her eye. That might stop her. Nah. I know it wouldn’t – nothing does. “This might be for the best, as far as you’re concerned,” she drops.
“...Meaning?”
“Well. I know you’ve spent time with him.”
“Professionally.”
“Oh, pish posh.” That again? Who says that? “Don’t tell me you’re not interested.”
“He’s not my type.”
“Well, at least you’re being realistic about it.”
“Why realistic? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Sweetheart. Don’t tell me you think you could be his type.”
And I know exactly what she is saying. Or not saying aloud. Why would a gorgeous billionaire playboy be interested in... Well, in any Curvy Girl. When he has his pick of models and movie stars? Mom’s a nosey busybody, but she loves me. And I get it. She doesn’t want me nursing an impossible crush. And I have to face it. That’s just what I’ve been doing. Who am I kidding?
“Honey?” she asks with love in her voice, “Are you okay?”
“Fine. I’m great. Where’s that waiter? Let’s order some dessert!”
Chapter 7: The Cheerleaders
The next morning starts with crap news from Jimmy. There’s still no caterer. I might as well face it now. We are going to fuck the goat. I’m going to have to call Domino’s if I’m going to feed these people anything besides wedding cake.
And what’s worse, I’m meeting Cici Okoye in an hour. What the hell am I going to do? It’s bad enough I have professional pride to worry about. This will drive a stake through the heart of my reputation. And the worst part is – I really like Cici. And her whole family. I hate the idea of letting her down. Not only that, if I do mess this up, I’ll probably end up driving deliveries for Domino’s myself.
Jimmy now stops sandbagging, and gets to the point. “Don’t you want the good news now?”
“What? My condo burned down, but my mother was in it?
“The good news is I nailed down Otto Stein.”
“Really? No shit?” Otto Stein is probably the best portrait photographer in New York. He’s up there with Avadon and Diane Arbus. And he sure as hell doesn’t do weddings! “Seriously. How did you pull that off?”
“Easy. One: I tripled his outrageous fee.”
“Yeah? And what’s ‘Two’?”
“Two? I said he could save on lodging expenses.”
“Lodging?”
He gives me a seductive crook of the lip. “I said he could stay with me.”
“Why would he want to...” The penny drops. I never knew Otto’s gay. I’d bet almost nobody does, but nothing ever gets past Jimmy. “No way.”
“Way, sweetie. Way.”
“How did you know?”
“When has my Gay-dar ever been wrong?”
“You know this is huge, right? I mean, this guy turned down Tom Cruise.”
“Ech. So would I.”
“He turned down Bradley Cooper.”
“Now him, I’d fuck with your dick.”
“I’m not sure how that would work,” I said. “But I might not turn it down either.”
“And I wouldn’t come after you with a baseball bat.” When he sees how flat that one falls with me, he says “Sorry, Kir. I didn’t mean to—”
“Oh, shut up. I really don’t care what that idiot does.”
“Good.”
“Yeah. It’s good.”
Of course I’m lying. Of course Jimmy knows I’m lying.
“...So. Back to catering.”
“Yes, let’s make sure to find someone with plenty of salt. For rubbing to wounds.”
“So, I’m talking to a new guy on the scene. Antonio.”
“Antonio who?” Then I get it. Just Antonio. “Oh, no. Not the one name thing. What’s next, the chef formerly known as Antonio?”
“Word is, he’s supposed to be the next great up and coming caterer.”
“He’s here, in San Diego?”
“Very close.”
“Orange County? I hear they have some...” I stop. I can read his face. Mostly because I can’t see it. When he hides his face, it means he’s hiding something else. “Okay. What?”
“He’s in T.J.”
“Tijuana?”
“But his reputation is excellent.”
With whom? The cartel? Then again, considering the alternatives... Oh, hell. Am I just being a bigot here? Yes. The Goddamn Caesar Salad was invented in Tijuana. By a guy with one name. Julius. I’ll bet this guy will be brilliant. “Set it up. I’ll meet him.”
“Okay.”
“At least I can tell Cici we have a good lead. I have to meet her. In fact, I better get going.”
I get over the bridge easy this time. Igor greets me at the door and leads me to that large, nameless whatever room. The one that overlooks the swimming pool. I think they used to store the Spruce Goose in here. Cici is up on her feet, moving gracefully across the room with a genuine smile on her face. “Kira, darling. You always brighten my day.”
“Why, thank you.”
“You remind me of someone. I can’t quite figure out who...”
“Well, I have some better news. It might even be good news.”
“God knows I could use that,” she says. I see her glance out at the pool. There he is. Blake. Churning up a wake as he swims the kind of workout that shows how he earned those abs. “I don’t know, sometimes, I really wonder about that... jackass. And in public? Why does he do these things in public?”
“Ever hear of ‘Ambush Journalism’?” Why am I defending him, anyway?
“Oh, pish posh. A jackass. That’s what he is. A Goddamn jackass.”
“I don’t know, maybe he’ll grow up someday.”
“He could... with the right woman.” And she reaches out to take my hand. “If he wasn’t such a fool, he could see what’s right in front of him.”
I wish I had some kind of valve I could dial down, to keep blood from rushing to my cheeks and turning me into a crimson-faced teenager. The best I can do is to quickly change the subject. “Anyway, back to semi-good news. Jimmy has found a very talented young caterer. He’s going to set up a meeting; I can arrange for a tasting if he checks out.”
“...Really. Oh. That’s nice.”
What? She actually seems disappointed. I’m on the verge of solving our last big problem, and she’s looking like I shot her puppy. “Is something wrong?”
“Oh, no. No. I just...” She shrugs. “Never mind. It was crazy.”
“What? You mean those ideas you want to go over? This is a great time. Let’s do it. I’m all ears.”
“Okay, well, this will sound very... I don’t know. I think it would be avant guarde. Maybe. Unique, anyway.” Then, she clouds over. “Or, maybe it’s just stupid, anyway. Never mind.”
“Hey, come on. We’re just kicking some ideas around. No such thing as a dumb idea. Come on, try me.”
“Okay. Have you ever stopped at one of those food trucks? Like the ones that park at construction sites, or the beach, or... anywhere.”
“...Food trucks? Yeah, go on.”
“When
I was a girl. Or a teen, really. Anyway, I was mad for them. I didn’t like junk food. I hated those burger chains and pizza franchises, but I used to cruise all over town, me and this kooky friend of mine. Trying to find the best ‘Roach Coach’. Some of them are awful, of course, but there are always a few, if you look for them hard enough, that are just... heavenly. Amazing. Creative. Daring. Inventive. And fucking delicious, pardon my French.”
I almost laugh. Not because it’s a dumb idea – but because it was my stupid idea, too. Which I had rejected as impossible. “You know what? I think that is a very brave idea.”
“But crazy, right?”
“Not that crazy. I love food trucks. And I know some really amazing ones. As a matter of fact, it’s kind of a ritual when my Mom is visiting. We always hunt down at least one new lunch wagon. She loves it. In fact, she used to do the same thing you did when she was in high school.”
“Really?”
“That’s what she says. She did it with her best friend. They were cheerleaders together. And they got up to all kinds of wild stunts.”
“Ha! No wonder I like you. You know, I think that’s what you remind me of. My best friend in high school. We were cheerleaders too.”
“No kidding. That is wild.”
“Oh, yeah. We found every roach coach in Philly!”
What was that? “Did you say ‘Philly’?”
“Yep. Millard Filmore High, class of 1983.”
No way. This is impossible. “Are you...? Wait. Your friend? What was her name?”
“Cookie. Well, not her real name. That was...”
“Bridgette,” I say. “Bridgette O’Hara.”
“Yes, that’s... wait. How did you know that?”
“Because I know she moved out of Philly and went to San Diego. Where she met a sailor who just got out of the Navy. She married him. Paul Ricci. And had me.”
Her mouth is hanging open. “Cookie...? You’re...”
“My mother. Bridgette O’Hara Ricci.”
There was a beat where it hung in the air. And then she let out a whooping scream of joy. “Aaaaaaah! Cookie? Your Mom? No, it can’t be, that’s just too... incredible. Wonderful.”