answering machine comes on, his own voice asking him to leave a message. Suddenly Mark is tired of talking to himself. He disconnects the call before the beep and slips his phone into his pocket.
Back inside, Vivian holds up a martini and gives Mark a conspiratorial grin. “Cheers,” she says.
He picks up his glass from the table and holds the thin stem between his fingers. “Cheers.” They clink glasses and take a sip, their eyes meeting over the rims.
It’s a damn good martini, and Mark would ask for another if they weren’t here on business. “Tell me again how you pulled this off. How do you know Bruno Lemelin?”
Vivian shakes her head. “I don’t,” she says. “Just call me lucky. I called to make a reservation and he picked up. Said he was waiting for a call and the hostess was on break. I talked him up, of course, once I realized it was him.”
“Of course,” Mark says with a grin. Vivian only offers a nonchalant shrug in response, confirming what Mark already knows. However lucky Vivian may be, she knows how to spot an opportunity and is not the kind of girl to let it pass her by.
A waiter brings out a full tray of appetizers: foie-gras-and-onion soufflé with Armagnac-soaked prunes, ravioli stuffed with braised celery root and goat cheese, a marvelous crispy soft-shell-crab tempura. Mark orders a bottle of chardonnay. Vivian starts telling him about her suggestions for the Cherry Hill project, and Mark finds himself enthralled by her ideas, by her use of found objects coupled with new materials, the overall depth of her knowledge. She confesses she had been looking for opportunities in Chicago or New York when she stumbled across their website, saw Mark and Victor grinning at her from cyberspace, and thought, Why not?
“Why not?” Mark repeats as he watches her cut a sliver of ravioli and slip it into her mouth. He finds himself staring at her lips, still glossy with color, and he forces himself to think of other things. Bruno. Gracie. Architecture. The balding guy in the corner who’s obviouslyon a blind date. “Because we probably don’t pay as well. And we don’t have any of the glitz or glamour.”
Vivian gives a gentle shake of the head. “Trust me—been there, done that. That’s not what I’m looking for.”
He wants to ask her more, ask her how it is that she’s been there and done that, whatever that means. What exactly is she looking for? He wants to know even though he knows he might regret it later. But before he can say anything Vivian changes the subject and he finds himself regaled by her tales of travel and misadventure, marveling at how tenacious and smart a woman she is.
When they’re brought to a table, the food starts coming out almost immediately: roast breast of duck with more foie gras, hazelnut risotto with sweetbreads, quail with a yellow-raisin sabayon and semolina gnocchi. It’s a far cry from takeout pizza and Chef Boyardee.
By the time they’re finished with dinner, Mark feels alive. He has just eaten one of the best meals of his entire life. And then Lemelin is there and they’re discussing a time to meet—will next Thursday work? They’ll meet here, at the restaurant. Mark can’t wait to come back.
“Wow,” says Vivian as they walk to the parking lot. “That was certainly productive. Business meeting, amazing meal, new client.”
“He’s not a client yet,” Mark corrects, laughing. The food and alcohol have made him giddy, but he’s also just happy.
“He will be,” Vivian says confidently. She reaches into her purse and pulls out a small key fob with the unmistakable Porsche insignia.
“You drive a Porsche?” Mark stares at the 911 coupe in front of them, cherry red with glossy black detailing and alloy wheels. How much are they paying her?
“I lease,” she says. She points the key fob at the car and the doors instantly unlock. Mark’s not sure if he’s filled with admiration or envy. “I trade up every five years. Everything
Back inside, Vivian holds up a martini and gives Mark a conspiratorial grin. “Cheers,” she says.
He picks up his glass from the table and holds the thin stem between his fingers. “Cheers.” They clink glasses and take a sip, their eyes meeting over the rims.
It’s a damn good martini, and Mark would ask for another if they weren’t here on business. “Tell me again how you pulled this off. How do you know Bruno Lemelin?”
Vivian shakes her head. “I don’t,” she says. “Just call me lucky. I called to make a reservation and he picked up. Said he was waiting for a call and the hostess was on break. I talked him up, of course, once I realized it was him.”
“Of course,” Mark says with a grin. Vivian only offers a nonchalant shrug in response, confirming what Mark already knows. However lucky Vivian may be, she knows how to spot an opportunity and is not the kind of girl to let it pass her by.
A waiter brings out a full tray of appetizers: foie-gras-and-onion soufflé with Armagnac-soaked prunes, ravioli stuffed with braised celery root and goat cheese, a marvelous crispy soft-shell-crab tempura. Mark orders a bottle of chardonnay. Vivian starts telling him about her suggestions for the Cherry Hill project, and Mark finds himself enthralled by her ideas, by her use of found objects coupled with new materials, the overall depth of her knowledge. She confesses she had been looking for opportunities in Chicago or New York when she stumbled across their website, saw Mark and Victor grinning at her from cyberspace, and thought, Why not?
“Why not?” Mark repeats as he watches her cut a sliver of ravioli and slip it into her mouth. He finds himself staring at her lips, still glossy with color, and he forces himself to think of other things. Bruno. Gracie. Architecture. The balding guy in the corner who’s obviouslyon a blind date. “Because we probably don’t pay as well. And we don’t have any of the glitz or glamour.”
Vivian gives a gentle shake of the head. “Trust me—been there, done that. That’s not what I’m looking for.”
He wants to ask her more, ask her how it is that she’s been there and done that, whatever that means. What exactly is she looking for? He wants to know even though he knows he might regret it later. But before he can say anything Vivian changes the subject and he finds himself regaled by her tales of travel and misadventure, marveling at how tenacious and smart a woman she is.
When they’re brought to a table, the food starts coming out almost immediately: roast breast of duck with more foie gras, hazelnut risotto with sweetbreads, quail with a yellow-raisin sabayon and semolina gnocchi. It’s a far cry from takeout pizza and Chef Boyardee.
By the time they’re finished with dinner, Mark feels alive. He has just eaten one of the best meals of his entire life. And then Lemelin is there and they’re discussing a time to meet—will next Thursday work? They’ll meet here, at the restaurant. Mark can’t wait to come back.
“Wow,” says Vivian as they walk to the parking lot. “That was certainly productive. Business meeting, amazing meal, new client.”
“He’s not a client yet,” Mark corrects, laughing. The food and alcohol have made him giddy, but he’s also just happy.
“He will be,” Vivian says confidently. She reaches into her purse and pulls out a small key fob with the unmistakable Porsche insignia.
“You drive a Porsche?” Mark stares at the 911 coupe in front of them, cherry red with glossy black detailing and alloy wheels. How much are they paying her?
“I lease,” she says. She points the key fob at the car and the doors instantly unlock. Mark’s not sure if he’s filled with admiration or envy. “I trade up every five years. Everything
Similar Books
