Blessed are the Meek by Kristi Belcamino

in a smile.
    A woman in a gray uniform arrives with a needle and thread, distracting his attention from me. I sneak a peek at him while he’s not looking. He has silky black hair and Elizabeth Taylor blue-­violet eyes. Up close, his skin is lightly pockmarked, but this one small flaw makes him more attractive.
    I thank the woman as she deftly mends the tear in my dress. She smiles but keeps her eyes on the fabric. When she finishes, I reach for my silver clutch, but Grant has already reached for her hand. I see a flash of green and what looks like a one with two zeros behind it. My face flushes. I was about to give her five bucks.
    U PSTAIRS, A TUXE DO-­CLAD waiter offers me a salmon canapé that I try to nibble at delicately. The bruschetta crumbles in my hand and I end up dropping a tiny flake of salmon down the front of my dress. The mayor has his back to me a few feet away so I turn toward the window and try to fish the pinkish flake out, but it slips deeper into the land of no return.
    The dining room offers spectacular panoramic views from floor to ceiling of the Golden Gate Bridge on one side and the Bay Bridge on the other. I sense someone at my side and know before he speaks who it is.
    â€œI argued with my staff about which room we should hold the dinner in. They said the Venetian Room is more fitting, but I find it stuffy and ostentatious.” I cast a glance to my side. Grant stares out the window as he speaks. “I prefer the Crown Room for its views.”
    Before I can agree, an assistant whispers in his ear, and the mayor leads me to my seat. Others in the room follow his lead. The meal begins with oysters on the half shell. I sigh with pleasure as I taste one. Grant watches me. I’m self-­conscious under his gaze, trying to eat them in a ladylike manner.
    â€œThey say oysters are an aphrodisiac,” he says, lowering his voice so nobody else can hear.
    My face grows warm. I’ve already had two glasses of champagne and nearly forgot why I was here—­to find out more about Mayor Adam Grant. In case he had anything to do with Sebastian Laurent’s murder.
    â€œHave you read any interesting books lately?” I change the subject.
    â€œI have actually,” he says. “I’m right in the middle of a few—­Jimmy Carter’s latest and Stupid White Men by Michael Moore.”
    â€œBut you’re a Republican!” I say, then regret it.
    He laughs. “I’m also reading The No Spin Zone by Bill O’Reilly.”
    â€œWell, that makes more sense.”
    â€œI take it you’re not a Republican?”
    â€œNot even close. But don’t tell anyone in my family.” I splash some Tabasco sauce and squeeze some lemon juice on a fat juicy oyster. “They’d disown me.”
    â€œMy lips are sealed,” he says. “I think we can still be friends even though I presume you didn’t vote for me.”
    I shrug, but he sees something on my face. “You did, though, didn’t you?” He smothers a laugh.
    He is poised as he tips the oyster shell up to his lips. His eyes never leave mine. I give a wry smile. “Yeah, I voted for you. We needed a change around here.” Then I see my opening. “Plus for a Republican, you’re surprisingly supportive of the arts.”
    â€œThis is San Francisco,” he says, taking a small piece of garlic bread to mop up some juice on his oyster plate. “I would be foolish not to support the arts, now wouldn’t I?”
    â€œYes, but you are personally supportive, too, aren’t you? I thought I saw a picture of you at an art opening last week. For Annalisa Cruz.”
    There it is.
    He looks at me for a minute, and I catch the shadow of something flash across his face. “Oh, yes, Annalisa. She’s a good friend of mine. We’ve known each other for years.”
    â€œShe’s quite a talented artist,” I say, taking a sip of water but