Page 102 of A Certain Appeal
I can see Dion’s cards. Unless Johnny is holding a particularly great hand, he’s SOL against Dion’s four of a kind. I grimace, and Johnny’s shoulders sag.
He waves me off. “Pop a pastie, kiddo.”
I continue down the hall to a short set of stairs and one of the exit points to the main floor. I wait, hand on the knob, and listen to the murmur of the gathering crowd on the other side. The faint twitch of nerves flutters in my stomach. This is it.
I take in a long breath, trying to steady myself. I don’t know what to expect from my first look at the crowd. The excited buzz from the dressing room has given way to that other, unnamed sensation. Whatever it is, it’s good; a little unwieldy, but good. When I open the door, sound swells into my ears: laughter, chatter, and the clinking of barware. I round the corner into the bar, and my breath catches.
The bar is almost full, guests enjoying drinks and conversation as they wait to be seated. The seats on the islands are filling up with our VIPs, and the tables between the islands and the bar are mostly seated as well. Across from me, Marley beckons to a group I recognize as friends of Chloe’s in from California, escorting them to the catwalk. Andrea’s resumed her post at the hostess station, fielding a phone call. She throws her head back, clearly exasperated, and plucks her martini from the podium.
Looking around, there’s no question we’ve maintained the Russian contingency, and I spot a penis-tipped tiara among a group of women with sashes that read, “Karli’s Gettin’ Hitched!” No sign of any fratty Wall Streeters, though. I suspect their attendance had more to do with Meryton’s proximity to the Financial District than any particular fondness for the club, but it works for me: Wickham can have all the coked-up broker bros he wants—assuming Meryton ever opens.
The thought passes over me like a cold shadow. Our renovation crew had friends on the Meryton job and kept us abreast of the setbacks that befell the other operation. It seems a few purloined sketches of adesign scheme do not a cohesive concept make, and when pressed for clarity on “his” vision, Wickham struggled to expand beyond what he’d snatched from me. This cost him two reputable contractors, and when he finally found someone willing to work with the incomplete concept, Wickham couldn’t pony up for the deposit.
The bold-lettered sign that went up a few days after Meryton’s last show read, “REMODELING: Under New Management!” It was replaced a month later with “Schedule Your New Year’s Eve Event!” Last week, a handwritten note was taped over the vinyl sign: “Grand Opening: TBD.”
When Tonic sent me the picture, my stomach bottomed out. Wickham’s spiraling descent toward failure should be satisfying; instead, it’s just sad. We may have transplanted the heart of the place, but it hurts to see Meryton being treated so shamefully.
“Hey, kitty cat,” calls Michael. “Feeling proud?”
I smile back, glad for the distraction, and sidle up to the bar. It didn’t need much updating, though the tile on the floor is a larger version of what we used in the lake, and the liquor cases lining the wall behind Michael were illuminated to highlight the sunburst motif framing them. “More like having an out-of-body experience. How’s it going?”
“Beautiful chaos.” He resumes pouring a row of shots. “You girls get your bubbles?”
“Sure did. Thank you kindly.”
He smiles, then looks over my shoulder. “Esteban!” He points to the tray of shot glasses. “For island two.”
Esteban pulls the tray across the bar. “Why don’t the Russkies do bottle service? Alwaysvashe zdorovieone round at a time.” He sends an air kiss my way. “Kitten, your parents are adorable, telling the Ivans all about their talented baby.”
I groan. “They haven’t been too mortifying, have they?” I step on the bottom rung of a bar stool to get a better view of the frontmost islands, where friends and family have been seated. My mom is on the catwalk chatting with a broad-shouldered man in a suit. She points toward the stage, and I smile. When my parents got in yesterday, I gave them a tour. Mom wasn’t able to fathom the barn wood, either.
“It’s cute,” says Esteban, offering me his hand as I step down from the stool. “They’ve been talking nonstop, pointing out details in the room. Your dad had them hunting for the tile kitten. It was precious.” He hefts the tray of shot glasses. “Careful. You may have some former KGB over for the holidays.”
He departs with the shots, and I finally make my way to the stairs up to the second floor. At the first landing, I find Charles pacing the short platform. I have to look away before I laugh outright. The guy is truly sunshine incarnate; even his anxious stride is optimistic.
“Bennet!” He holds up his hands with a wince. “Sorry. You’re Kitten right now. And what even is this outfit?”
I shimmy my shoulders. “It’s called a playsuit.”
“Ming?”
“Naturally. And how do you feel, sir?” I look over his jacket for any boxlike protrusions. “Nervous?”
Charles grins and reaches into his breast pocket, producing a shining platinum band dotted with tiny diamonds. I helped him pick out the engagement ring last month, but seeing it now, I press a hand to my chest in an earnest swoon. “High quality, with sparkle to spare. Just like our Jane.”
“I’m glad you’re here. I need a second opinion. I’m waiting until after the show.Maybe.I don’t want to distract him asking before he goes on, but I’m afraid that if I wait, I’ll throw myself onstage halfwaythrough ‘It Had to Be You’ and propose then and there.” He wrinkles his nose. “What do you think?”
“Waiting makes sense to me,” I say. “It’s a little close to showtime now anyway. But if he’s singing and the spirit moves you, I say charge up there and bend that knee.”
“Darcy said the same thing! And with Jane’s family and everyone here, it’s too perfect.” He sighs. “I love him so much.”
“Yeah, you do.”
He gives himself a little shake. “Thanks, Ben—Kitten. Pop a pastie!”
I watch him trot down the stairs, then finish my trek to the second floor. We opted against seating the upper level tonight, and I weave around the empty tables and chairs to the open office door.
When I look in, Darcy is at the window, observing the gathering crowd. My heart gives a familiar squeeze. He’d do this during renovations: quietly survey the day’s progress. It’s similar to how I catch him looking at me at times, no longer searching, but with something like wonder. I feel a different kind of pull toward him in these moments—he’s admiring something I contributed to. I had the vision, and he had the means to make it real. Together, we’ve created something.
