Read Online Night Watch by Linda Fairstein - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Linda Fairstein
Ads: Link
your back.”
NINE
It was eight-fifteen when Luc called from his office to ask me to meet him at Le Relais. After brooding for a couple of hours, I showered and changed into a navy-blue sweaterdress with white piping that showed off my newly acquired tan.
I pulled my suitcase from the back of the closet and—despite my promise to Luc—took out my BlackBerry. I felt too disconnected from events in the office to ignore Mike completely. The phone had gone dead, of course, so I plugged it in to charge during the time we were at dinner.
I left the house for the short walk to the restaurant, intending to bypass the main entrance and go directly into the bar. I hadn’t counted on the mild night to have attracted a crowd to the outdoor tables on the terrace.
As I got closer, a woman called out and waved to me. “Alex! Come join us.”
It was Gretchen Adkins, a Wellesley classmate married to a Parisian, who’d been at the party the night before. I walked to the short hedge that separated the terrace from the cobblestone street and greeted the couple.
“I can’t sit, Gretchen. I’m late to meet Luc.”
“He’s got his hands full inside. Just have a drink with us. We’re waiting on another couple.” She was kind and warm, and loved to gossip. It was comforting to see someone from home, and I would have liked to catch up with her, but I learned months ago that Luc had a reason for me not to sit with his clients.
“They buy you a drink,” he chided me gently one night last fall, “and I end up buying them dinner. People mean well when they invite you to sit with them, but when the bill finally comes, most of them figure they deserve something for entertaining you while I was hard at work.”
“Let’s plan lunch before I leave next week. I’m really running late,” I said. “Did you enjoy Luc’s bash?”
“Wasn’t it just divine?” Gretchen said. “Of course I paid for that good time today. Wicked hangover, and I didn’t get out of bed until two. The phone rang all day with people dying to know how to get on the list for next year.”
I blew kisses to her and kept on my way, interested that she hadn’t heard anything about a corpse dressed in white or the scandalous news from New York.
The bartender must have seen me approaching and alerted Luc, who opened the door and bowed his head to me, taking my hand to kiss it and welcome me inside.
This was the showmanship that Luc Rouget thrived on. He looked dashing in the crisp white chef’s coat with his name embroidered in green thread that was exactly the same shade as the paint trim in the dining room. He wore clogs as his father had decades earlier, long before Mario Batali popularized them as the celebrity chef footwear of choice. Regulars and first-time diners seemed to watch all his movements, curious to see who he favored and whether any glimpse of his mercurial temper would flash.
Every table in the bar, except for the four-top in the far corner, was occupied. The crowd was more youthful and hip, on most nights, than the guests interested in the full experience of the haute cuisine served next door.
Luc escorted me to the table, and I slid into the brown leather banquette against the wall. He called to the bartender, asking for
deux coupes
, and within seconds there were two glasses of champagne on our table.
“Are the kids okay?” I asked.
Luc hovered over me, leaning one arm on the door frame between the rooms, but he had his eyes set on the action in the restaurant. He would lavish most of his attention on the high rollers who were paying through the nose for the hard-to-get reservation.
“They’re fine. They don’t know anything yet.”
“And Brigitte?”
“What’s to say? She hasn’t seen Lisette in years and doesn’t want to be part of any investigation involving her death. She’s taken the boys out of school for two weeks while she goes to Normandy tomorrow, where her mother is.”
“I take it you’re not happy about
NINE
It was eight-fifteen when Luc called from his office to ask me to meet him at Le Relais. After brooding for a couple of hours, I showered and changed into a navy-blue sweaterdress with white piping that showed off my newly acquired tan.
I pulled my suitcase from the back of the closet and—despite my promise to Luc—took out my BlackBerry. I felt too disconnected from events in the office to ignore Mike completely. The phone had gone dead, of course, so I plugged it in to charge during the time we were at dinner.
I left the house for the short walk to the restaurant, intending to bypass the main entrance and go directly into the bar. I hadn’t counted on the mild night to have attracted a crowd to the outdoor tables on the terrace.
As I got closer, a woman called out and waved to me. “Alex! Come join us.”
It was Gretchen Adkins, a Wellesley classmate married to a Parisian, who’d been at the party the night before. I walked to the short hedge that separated the terrace from the cobblestone street and greeted the couple.
“I can’t sit, Gretchen. I’m late to meet Luc.”
“He’s got his hands full inside. Just have a drink with us. We’re waiting on another couple.” She was kind and warm, and loved to gossip. It was comforting to see someone from home, and I would have liked to catch up with her, but I learned months ago that Luc had a reason for me not to sit with his clients.
“They buy you a drink,” he chided me gently one night last fall, “and I end up buying them dinner. People mean well when they invite you to sit with them, but when the bill finally comes, most of them figure they deserve something for entertaining you while I was hard at work.”
“Let’s plan lunch before I leave next week. I’m really running late,” I said. “Did you enjoy Luc’s bash?”
“Wasn’t it just divine?” Gretchen said. “Of course I paid for that good time today. Wicked hangover, and I didn’t get out of bed until two. The phone rang all day with people dying to know how to get on the list for next year.”
I blew kisses to her and kept on my way, interested that she hadn’t heard anything about a corpse dressed in white or the scandalous news from New York.
The bartender must have seen me approaching and alerted Luc, who opened the door and bowed his head to me, taking my hand to kiss it and welcome me inside.
This was the showmanship that Luc Rouget thrived on. He looked dashing in the crisp white chef’s coat with his name embroidered in green thread that was exactly the same shade as the paint trim in the dining room. He wore clogs as his father had decades earlier, long before Mario Batali popularized them as the celebrity chef footwear of choice. Regulars and first-time diners seemed to watch all his movements, curious to see who he favored and whether any glimpse of his mercurial temper would flash.
Every table in the bar, except for the four-top in the far corner, was occupied. The crowd was more youthful and hip, on most nights, than the guests interested in the full experience of the haute cuisine served next door.
Luc escorted me to the table, and I slid into the brown leather banquette against the wall. He called to the bartender, asking for
deux coupes
, and within seconds there were two glasses of champagne on our table.
“Are the kids okay?” I asked.
Luc hovered over me, leaning one arm on the door frame between the rooms, but he had his eyes set on the action in the restaurant. He would lavish most of his attention on the high rollers who were paying through the nose for the hard-to-get reservation.
“They’re fine. They don’t know anything yet.”
“And Brigitte?”
“What’s to say? She hasn’t seen Lisette in years and doesn’t want to be part of any investigation involving her death. She’s taken the boys out of school for two weeks while she goes to Normandy tomorrow, where her mother is.”
“I take it you’re not happy about
Similar Books
