Madame X - Wilder Jasinda - Страница 18
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- 18/58
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My expectations are dashed. Shattered.
No hushed chatter of a fine dining establishment in full evening swing. No clink of silverware on plates. No laughter.
Not one person in sight.
Not a server, not a patron, not a single chef.
The entire restaurant is empty.
I take a step forward, and immediately the doors slide closed between Len and me, leaving me alone. I feel my heart twist, hammer even faster. My heart rate is surely a medical risk, at this point. Table after table, empty. Two-tops, four-tops, six-tops, all round white-cloth-covered tables with chairs tucked in, napkins folded in elaborate origami shapes, silverware placed just so on either side of the flatware, wineglasses in the upper right corner. Not one light in the restaurant is lit, bathing me in golden shadows of falling dusk streaming in from the thirty-foot-tall panes of glass ringing the entire perimeter of the restaurant, which occupies the entire floor of the building. The kitchen sits at the center, open-plan, so the diners on three sides are able to see the chefs preparing the food, and the tables on the other side, a glimpse of the windows and the skyline. The elevator in front of which I am still standing is one of four forming the back wall of the kitchen, and there is a plaque above “my” elevator that proclaims it to be a private lift, with no public access—in place of a call button, there is a keyhole.
A thousand questions are bubbling in my brain. Clearly, my condo is only one of many in this building. Yet the foyer beyond my condo provides access only to the elevator and the emergency stairwell. The square footage of the condo, however, is not sufficient to take up the entire thirteenth floor. Why a private elevator that only goes to four places, and requires a key to access? Does each of my clients get a key? Or is there an elevator attendant?
Why is the restaurant empty?
What am I supposed to do?
A violin plays, soft high strains wavering quietly from off to my left. A cello joins it. Then a viola, and another violin.
I follow the music around the kitchen and discover a breathtaking vision: a single two-person table draped in white, set for two, a bottle of white wine on ice in a marble bucket on a stand beside the table, and a half dozen or so tables have been removed to clear a wide space around it, with thick white candles on five-foot-tall black wrought-iron stands forming a perimeter. The string quartet is off in the shadows a few feet away, two young men and two young women, black tuxedos and modest black dresses.
In the shadows just beyond the ring of candles stands a darker shadow. Tall, elegant, powerful. Hands stuffed casually in charcoal-gray trouser pockets. No tie, topmost button undone to reveal a sliver of flesh. Suit coat, middle button fastened. Crimson kerchief folded in a perfect triangle in the pocket of the coat. Thick black hair swept back and to one side, a single strand loose to drape across a temple. That ghost of amusement on thin lips.
I watch the Adam’s apple bob. “X. Thank you for joining me.” That voice, like boulders crashing down a canyon wall.
I didn’t have a choice, did I? But of course, these words remain lodged in my throat, alongside my heart and my breath. Careful steps in high heels across the wide room. Come to a halt beside the table. I watch long legs take a few short strides, and I’m staring up at a strong, clean-shaven jawline, glittering dark eyes.
“Caleb,” I breathe.
“Welcome to Rhapsody.”
“You rented out the entire restaurant?” I questioned.
“Not rented so much as ordered them to close it down for the evening.”
“You own it, then?”
A rare full smile. “I own the building, and everything in it.”
“Oh.”
A twitch of a finger, gesturing at my chair. “Sit, please.”
I sit, fold my hands on my lap. “Caleb, if I may ask—”
“You may not.” Strong fingers lift a butter knife, tap on the wineglass gently, the crystal ringing loudly in the silence. “Let’s have the food brought out and then we’ll discuss things.”
“Very well.” I duck my head. Focus on breathing, on slowing my heart rate.
I feel rather than see or hear the presence of someone else. Look up, a man of indeterminate age stands beside the table. He could be thirty-five, he could be fifty. Wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth, young and intelligent eyes, light brown hair, receding hairline.
“Sir, madam. Would you care to see a menu?”
“No, Gerald, that’s fine. We’ll start with the soup du jour, followed by the house salad. No onions on mine. The filet mignon for me, medium rare. Tell Jean-Luc just this side of rare. Not quite bloody. For the lady, she’ll have the salmon. Vegetables and mashed potatoes for the both of us.”
Apparently I’m having salmon. I’d have rather had the filet mignon as well, but I hadn’t been given a preference and I didn’t dare protest. This was abnormal in the extreme, and I wasn’t about to have anything else taken away.
“Very good, sir.” Gerald lifts the bottle of white wine. “Shall I present this, sir?”
“No, I did choose it myself, after all. Marcos should have set out a bottle of red for us as well. Have that opened to breathe, and serve it with the entrees.”
“Very good, sir. Will there be anything else I can do for you at this moment?”
“Yes. Have the quartet play the suite in G major instead of the B minor.”
“Of course, sir. Thank you.” Gerald bows at the waist, deeply.
He then scurries and weaves between the tables, whispers to the viola player, who holds up a hand, and the other three players let their instruments quaver into silence. A brief meeting of heads, and then they strike up again, a different melody this time. Returning, Gerald uncorks the wine with elaborate ceremony and pours a measure in each of our glasses, hands me mine first.
I shouldn’t be nervous to take a drink, but I am. I drink tea and water, exclusively. I have no memory of drinking anything but tea and water.
What will wine be like, I wonder?
It’s the little things; focus on the minor to keep one’s self from hyperventilating about the major.
I watch, mimic: forefinger, middle finger, and thumb on the middle of the stem, lift carefully. Take the tiniest of sips. Wet my lips with the cool liquid. Lick my lips. Shock ripples over me. The taste is . . . like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Not quite sweet, not quite sour, but a little of both of those things. An explosive flavor bursting on my tongue.
Dark eyes watch me carefully, following every move, following my tongue as I run it along my lips once more. Watch me as I take another sip, an actual sip, this time. A small mouthful. Roll it around my mouth, coolness on my tongue, a starburst of flavor, tingling, sparkling. Light, fruity.
It’s so good I could cry. The best thing I’ve ever tasted.
“Like it?” That deep, rumbling voice, following a long casual sip, the glass replaced on the table, adjusted precisely so.
“Yes,” I say, keeping eagerness from my voice. “It’s very good.”
“I thought you might. It’s a Pinot Grigio. Nothing overly fancy, but it will pair very well with the soup and salad.”
Obviously, I know nothing of this. Wine pairings, Pinot Grigio, string quartets . . . this is a foreign world into which I am being suddenly and inexplicably immersed.
“Pinot Grigio.” I nod. “It’s delicious.”
A crinkle around the eyes, a lift of one lip corner. “Don’t get too used to it, X; don’t want you developing any expensive or unhealthy habits. This is a special occasion, after all.”
“It is?” I have no clue what occasion it could be.
Gerald appears, then, bearing a round black tray. Two low, shallow, broad white china bowls, containing a red soup of some kind. “The soup du jour is a creamy gazpacho Andaluz, made using the traditional elements of cucumber, bell peppers, and onions. Fresh, house-baked bread was used to thicken the soup, and it is garnished with a diced medley of the aforementioned vegetables. Chef Jean-Luc is confident there is no gazpacho Andaluz so good this side of the Atlantic Ocean.” Gerald rotates my bowl a quarter turn, presents my soup spoon with a grandiose flourish and a bow—not so deep a bow as the one offered to my companion . . . host . . . lover . . . warden. . . .
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- 18/58
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