“It's very… very shiny,” Bruce stumbled. His tie was black silk with little gold anchors. “Aren't you cold?”
“Not a bit, hon.”
“No ‘hons' and no ‘sweeties' tonight. We might slip up later.”
“I'm glad to see someone's taking this seriously,” Steve said. “Thanks, Bruce. For doing this, for everything.”
“Hey, no problema, amigo. You're teaching Victoria some lawyer tricks. I'm happy to help out.”
Just then, Dr. Doris Kranchick arrived and introductions were made. Steve watched as Victoria went into full charm-school mode. Oh, how she admired someone who devoted herself to science, and had the doctor seen that recent article in the Journal of Applied Psychology on acquired savant syndrome? And what about behavioral therapy versus drug therapy?
Steve lost track when they began discussing cerebral refreshment and triggering stem cells to produce even more neurons. Just when the conversation grew impossibly dense, Victoria smoothly turned to lacrosse, starting with the Iroquois warriors who played the game with human skulls. Steve realized then that Victoria had prepared for the evening the way she prepared for court. Research, planning, outlines. She probably had alphabetized index cards in her purse: “Lacrosse, History of Sport. Native Americans.”
When Victoria paused, Bruce unexpectedly grabbed the baton and ran the next lap. He invited Kranchick to visit his farm, then cursed the “damned evil weevil” that attacked his avocado trees. Jackie jumped aboard with an offer to list the doctor's home for sale at a reduced commission if she'd be interested in a fabulous new bayfront condo in Hallandale.
The waiter came by with a tray filled with five slushy drinks. “I took the liberty of ordering for everyone,” Bruce announced. “We're starting with frozen avocado daiquiris. Then avocado vichyssoise, smooth as liquid silk.”
Steve thought he'd rather drink phlegm.
“Then a tofu salad with herbs and avocados,” Bigby continued, “vegetarian chili tamales with a tomatillo-avocado salsa, and sweet avocado mousse for dessert.”
“Utterly delightful,” Kranchick cooed.
Steve knew Victoria wouldn't be able to eat a thing without breaking out in a rash.
They chatted a while, Victoria making Kranchick the center of attention. Somewhere between the second and third tray of green drinks, Kranchick said: “Ms. Lord, it's absolutely wonderful to meet you. You're nothing like I expected.”
Steve wondered if he'd just been dissed, but Victoria smiled and replied, “Thank you.”
“And your engagement ring,” Kranchick gushed. “Simply spectacular.”
“Nothing says love like a big fat diamond,” Steve chipped in.
“Mr. Solomon, you grow on people, don't you?”
“Like a fungus,” he said.
“Which reminds me of citrus canker,” Bigby piped up. “Helluva problem.”
“I don't mean to pry, Mr. Bigby,” Kranchick said, “but are you and Ms. Tuttle an item?”
Bruce wrapped an arm around Jackie, and she dropped her head onto his shoulder. “We're not as far along as Steve and Victoria, but who knows what the future will bring?”
“Que sera, sera,” the doctor sang.
With Bruce and Jackie cuddling, Steve felt he had no choice. He had to keep up appearances, didn't he? He slipped an arm around Victoria, but somehow, his hand ended up sliding under the fabric of her mesh top. Her skin was warm and smooth. He waited a moment to see if she would move away or dig a high heel into his ankle. When she didn't, he slowly began stroking her back.
She turned her head to him. A placid, controlled expression that betrayed nothing. Steve wished he knew what she was feeling. Desire? Regret? Anger? He sometimes thought he could read the look in a woman's eyes, but can any man?
“Tell me all about your wedding plans, Mr. Solomon,” Kranchick said. “Where's the ceremony going to be?”
“Ah, Temple Beth-”
“Church of the Little Flower,” Victoria interrupted.
“How lovely! I know it's a little soon to ask, but are you planning to have children?”
“Four,” Victoria said, just as Steve said, “Two.”
“Three,” they corrected, in unison.
“Four?” Bigby asked, looking at Victoria, eyebrows arched.
“And if you don't mind my asking,” Kranchick said, “are you planning on any religious training?”
“Jewish,” Steve said.
“Episcopalian,” Victoria said.
“Catholic,” Bigby said.
“One of each?” Kranchick asked, clearly confused.
“We need to talk about the bridesmaids' dresses.” Jackie desperately tried to change the subject. “Empire waists? Canary yellow and sunset orange? I'm gonna look like Kilauea.”
“Bruce chose them,” Victoria said, then realized she'd made a mistake.
Kranchick's high forehead furrowed. “Mr. Bigby, you outfitted the bridesmaids?”
“Yes, because…” Bigby began, then stopped. Stumped.
“Because…” Victoria said.
“Because…” Jackie said.
“Because Bruce is gay,” Steve volunteered.
“Oh, my,” Kranchick said.
“Was gay,” Bigby corrected.
“Until he met me,” Jackie said, stroking Bigby's cheek.
They were somewhere between the tofu and the tamales. Bigby was going on about the tragedy of medfly infestation, Kranchick listening as if he were revealing the mystery of Creation. Bigby's arm was still draped over Jackie's shoulder, so why shouldn't Steve keep up his own massage? With Victoria's back growing warmer under his touch, he nuzzled her ear and whispered, “For what it's worth, I think Bruce is the luckiest guy in town.”
“Do you mean that?”
“I'm green with envy, as green as my daiquiri.”
Leaning toward her, Steve's hand moved farther under the fabric, slipping around her rib cage and coming to rest just below her right breast. A perfectly fine, naturally firm, small but shapely, non-Rudnick breast, which now rested on the top of an index finger. She didn't move away, didn't call a cop, didn't slug him.
For a moment, he was fifteen again, in the balcony of the theater on Arthur Godfrey Road, wondering what Sarah Gropowitz would do if he cupped her 32A in his hand. As he recalled, he did nothing for so long that his arm fell asleep. The pain had been so severe, he'd thought the evening might end with amputation.
Steve sneaked a glance at Victoria. She was blushing, the color starting at the base of her neck, moving like the incoming tide until her cheeks were ablaze. A moment later, she discreetly reached behind her back, removed his hand, and slid her chair back. “If you'll excuse me a moment…”
She bolted from the table, avoiding eye contact with Steve. His eyes were trained on the front of her singlet, where her nipples propped up the silvery mesh like roof shingles in a hurricane. He ordinarily hopped to his feet when a lady left the table. But he couldn't stand up just now, not with his napkin pitched like a tent over his crotch. He shot a nervous look at Bruce, who was offering Kranchick a two-bedroom apartment at Bigby Resort amp; Villas, lakefront view at no charge. Then a peek at Jackie, who was watching him, eyes keen as talons. Smiling devilishly, she dangled a maraschino cherry by its stem, rolled it on her tongue, and bit into it.
“Mr. Solomon, I must say you have wonderful friends,” Kranchick said, breaking away from Bigby's sales pitch, “and your fiancee is both beautiful and charming.”
“Sometimes I feel like pinching myself, asking if it's all real.”
“It's real, old chap,” Bruce said heartily. “And you deserve it all.”
Old chap? Maybe it was the yacht club surroundings, or maybe he'd overdosed on daiquiris. Still, Bigby was a decent guy, and for a moment Steve felt guilty about the strange brew of feelings he had for the man's fiancee. The guilt, however, was pretty much drowning in a deep pool of desire. With Victoria still nowhere in sight, Steve excused himself from the table.
He searched the bar area.
No Victoria.
He went to the ladies' rest room, knocked on the door, and called her name.