I climb back on the stool, conscious of every move. Crossing my legs, leaning over to pick up my drink. The neckline of this dress hangs loosely, it’s a little too big upstairs to tell the truth, but it does afford flashes of titty for those in the right line of view. A few sips later, I look over at his table again. He’s the best-looking of the four. They usually are. His forearms are muscled, tanned, and he’s wearing probably the least geekiest outfit you can get away with on a golf course – a basic polo shirt and khakis. Nice watch, and a couple of sparkly rings, but not overdone. The blond guy, the friend he’s here with, he notices me looking and turns away quickly. Edward, he glances over to see why and we exchange looks again.
It’s hard not to smile at this point. This guy’s just way too easy. I mean, you marry the rich bitch and get a corner office in Daddy’s company – you’d think he’d be a little smarter. Three years, too. At least, she says it took her that long to figure it all out. I linger in his direction just a couple of seconds more, then turn back to the bar to take a drink. It doesn’t take him long.
“Four draught,” and the voice is right beside me. “Two Rickard’s and two Upper Canada.” I turn on cue to smile at him as she goes to get the drinks. “You live in town?” he asks me.
“No, just here on business today,” I answer with another smile.
“Oh, yeah? What kind of business would that be,” and he pauses with a little smile of his own, “if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Modelling,” I explain. “I do a lot of work as a model.”
“Really?” Now he’s really interested. They always are, it impresses them. It’s the greatest hook for all these married guys looking for a quick hit, especially when they find out what kind of modelling. And it’s true, as a point of fact, I do model part-time – more and more if Jimmy has his way. It’s important. You either have to tell the truth about this kind of stuff, or rehearse it until it sounds real. That way you have the details, the stories to tell when they want to know more.
“Yessir,” and I take a drink because it’s not much in the way of conversation.
The bartender brings the beers.
“Listen,” he says, “I’m opening my own restaurant soon. We might need models for some promos and things. You do hostessing? At private parties and functions?”
“Sure. I do…” and I wave my hand in the air “… lots of things.”
He laughs.
“Got a business card?”
“Yes, I do.”
I dig in my purse and draw out one of my cards. He takes it and smiles.
“Cat – figure and erotic modelling? Now I’m really interested.”
“That’s me,” I agree, skipping over the invitation in his last remark. Erotic modelling. Let him just think about that one for a while. You got a card?
“Oh, sure,” and he hands me one from his back pocket. Edward Deliotto.
“Edward,” and I reach to shake his hand.
“Ed,” and we shake, fingertips lingering just a second too long. “Actually, most people call me Eddie.”
“OK, Eddie, that’s great. But I think your friends are getting thirsty.”
He looks at his table, where the three of them are pointing and snickering.
“Yeah, right,” he laughs and heads back.
I watch him show the guys my card, they start a round of laughing and joking with each other. I drink up in ten minutes or so and slip back out to my car, pulling my cell phone from my purse.
“Santos Investigations.”
“Yeah, Davey? It’s Cat.”
“Hey, Cat. What’s the news?”
“Piece of cake, man, that Deliotto guy. Hook, line and sinker. I mean, I’ve only got a phone number so far, and he’s saying it’s business. But I’m sure business is the last thing on his mind. I should have it wrapped up in no time.”
“Good work. You’re the pro, man.”
“Not really, Davey, not any more,” and David chuckles as I hang up.
“Hello?”
“Oh. Hi. I was looking for Cat.”
“Yeah, this is Cat.”
“It’s Eddie. Remember? From the golf course. In Niagara-on-the-Lake.”
“Right. Eddie,” and now my mind’s racing to put all the pieces back into place. “So how are you?”
“Great, I’m just great,” he says, his voice more confident now. “I checked out your website, by the way. Nice, really nice.”
“Thanks,” and I’m never quite sure what to say.
“Are you busy Saturday?” he asks.
“No, why?”
“Do you sail at all? Do you like to? I have a boat at Niagara-on-the-Lake, the marina near Queen’s Landing, do you know it? Would you like to go? I can tell you about the restaurant, what I had in mind for work,” he says.
“Sure Eddie,” and I laugh a little, “we can talk about whatever you want.” He laughs too, after a slight hesitation.
I wake up early and leave with enough time to take the old route down highway 8. The day is splashed with a hard glitter from the sun as it makes its way across a mottled sky, all of it balanced by the cooler and quieter green of trees and fields. This way into the Niagara Peninsula is still beautiful, still retains much of its farmland charm. But ugly development is creeping in everywhere, and more and more of the orchards are giving way to acres of new housing and soul deadening sameness. I lived in the Falls during the lean years, before the Casino, and I have to say I liked it better. But I’m not such a hypocrite I don’t recognize that I’m just a tourist here too. Just part of the problem.
The wind lifting the hair from my face is warm, and it’s too impossibly gorgeous out here to be brooding about anything. After St Catharines and over the bridge, I slip off the highway again to wind down country roads, past houses with huge porches and gingerbread trim and estate wineries set in the fields. I can’t help the feeling I get – I still get – taking the drive into town. Like I was far away from the rest of the world and its problems, somewhere that, in spite of the prevailing tourist trade, always had an atmosphere all its own.
The marina is down on the river, behind Queen’s Landing, a five star hotel in the guise of a Georgian mansion. I have to park a few blocks away on a side street. A couple of minutes wandering around and I see Eddie down at the end of the pier. He waves as he spots me. I walk quicker to meet him. His smile is real, he reaches for my hand and kisses me on the cheek like an old friend. I hate it now when these guys are nice. I used to be able to keep my distance a lot better.
“Come on!” and he takes me by the hand.
It’s a lovely boat, 30ft or more if I’m not mistaken, a dark navy blue with white trim, and the name – Ariadne’s Thread.
“How literate,” I joke.
“Not my boat really. Belongs to the family.” Eddie jumps in, helping me and my bag. I fall against him and he takes his time steadying me, looks down at me with approval.
“You like the sailing outfit?” I ask. It’s white shorts and a bikini top, a pale yellow blouse knotted at the waist.
“I do.” He smiles wider. “I know I saw smoked oysters in the fridge when I was here on Wednesday. Champagne too.”
“Is that all we’re here to do?” and I’m kittenish, “Eat sex food? I thought this was business.”
“Oh, sure,” and Eddie’s sudden efficiency as he unties the boat and takes over the controls. I follow him into the cabin. “I thought we’d make it out to Burlington this afternoon. I can moor it at La Salle, and drive you back to your car.” He glances over at me quickly. “But I want to eat sex food too.”