Cohen under the table and he grudgingly covers my hand with his.
“Incredible.” There are actually tears in LeCrue’s eyes. “I am so delighted for you, Cohen. Truly. I always knew you would find happiness, despite everything…I always told your father that the choices a man makes in his youth do not define him.”
“So you’re really engaged, then.” Claude stares at me and shakes his head. “When I heard the rumor, I kept asking Annabelle if it was April Fools. Didn’t I?”
“You did,” says Annabelle with the tolerant amusement of a woman used to the idiocy of her husband.
“I look forward to spending more time with you, Georgette—may I call you that? I’ll need to get to know you if I’m going to be selling my company to your future husband.”
Silence falls over the table, as hard as the clang of a bell. Just as it does, the waiter returns, passing out glasses of wine as red as Annabelle’s earrings and plates of food I’ve never seen before. Tiny, rubbery-looking black-brown things swimming in garlic and butter. Delicate rings of squid in a sauce as black as ink. Slices of fresh mozzarella and tomato with artful splashes of balsamic vinegar. My mouth fills with enough saliva to keep Niagara Falls running for a week.
Nobody touches the food. Cohen’s expression is tense, like there’s something he’s not daring to let himself believe. “Do you mean that?” he says quietly.
Another long moment where nobody touches the food. I clear my throat. “Anyone mind if I…”
“Father.” Claude’s dopey boyish face suddenly has a lot more edges. “You know I dislike it when you joke like that.”
I extend a hand gingerly toward the squid before catching sight of Annabelle. Her face is sour and twisted, miles from the elegant, sisterly lady she was a minute ago. Suddenly I’m not hungry.
Nah, that’s a lie. I’m still hungry.
“This isn’t an offer,” LeCrue clarifies. There’s something clear-eyed and capable behind all the old-man harmlessness. “I’ll need to be sure, Cohen. You know I’ve always thought of you as one of my own. But you can’t deny you’ve been down dark paths before. This is a promising sign that you’re getting your life on the right track.”
“I’m already on the right track.” There’s hunger in Cohen’s eyes, but not for the food. “There’s no point in waiting.”
“While I do think you’re more than your choices, one can’t discount the fact that you were the one who made them. I need time. Time to make sure this young woman has changed you in the ways I hope she has.”
The young woman in question is currently groping surreptitiously for the plate of squid.
There’s a crash. Cohen has slammed his fist down on the table. I yank my hand back.
“Don’t play games with me,” he says darkly. “I’m the best man for this. You know I am.”
“That’s debatable,” Claude mutters.
LeCrue sighs, his wine untouched. For whatever reason, he’s trying to take a chance on Cohen…and Cohen’s disappointing him.
“I look forward to getting to know you better,” I say firmly. “I hope that we won’t let you down.”
Cohen is silent. LeCrue glances between the two of us. Apparently he’s willing to pretend that my response is from Cohen as well, because he nods, his face relaxing.
It’s the most socially awkward meal I’ve had since my cafeteria clique in middle school decided to stop speaking to me after I supposedly hit on Sally Beckham’s boyfriend. Annabelle’s good-natured friendliness has evaporated, along with Claude’s determined attempts to be Cohen’s best pal. They both sit silently, glaring at the two of us like we raided their fridge and stole all their favorite foods. LeCrue, who seems to be a man of few words as a rule, calmly sips his wine and asks me polite questions about my family. I feed him lie after lie and feed myself delicious bite after bite of filet mignon, taking advantage of
“Incredible.” There are actually tears in LeCrue’s eyes. “I am so delighted for you, Cohen. Truly. I always knew you would find happiness, despite everything…I always told your father that the choices a man makes in his youth do not define him.”
“So you’re really engaged, then.” Claude stares at me and shakes his head. “When I heard the rumor, I kept asking Annabelle if it was April Fools. Didn’t I?”
“You did,” says Annabelle with the tolerant amusement of a woman used to the idiocy of her husband.
“I look forward to spending more time with you, Georgette—may I call you that? I’ll need to get to know you if I’m going to be selling my company to your future husband.”
Silence falls over the table, as hard as the clang of a bell. Just as it does, the waiter returns, passing out glasses of wine as red as Annabelle’s earrings and plates of food I’ve never seen before. Tiny, rubbery-looking black-brown things swimming in garlic and butter. Delicate rings of squid in a sauce as black as ink. Slices of fresh mozzarella and tomato with artful splashes of balsamic vinegar. My mouth fills with enough saliva to keep Niagara Falls running for a week.
Nobody touches the food. Cohen’s expression is tense, like there’s something he’s not daring to let himself believe. “Do you mean that?” he says quietly.
Another long moment where nobody touches the food. I clear my throat. “Anyone mind if I…”
“Father.” Claude’s dopey boyish face suddenly has a lot more edges. “You know I dislike it when you joke like that.”
I extend a hand gingerly toward the squid before catching sight of Annabelle. Her face is sour and twisted, miles from the elegant, sisterly lady she was a minute ago. Suddenly I’m not hungry.
Nah, that’s a lie. I’m still hungry.
“This isn’t an offer,” LeCrue clarifies. There’s something clear-eyed and capable behind all the old-man harmlessness. “I’ll need to be sure, Cohen. You know I’ve always thought of you as one of my own. But you can’t deny you’ve been down dark paths before. This is a promising sign that you’re getting your life on the right track.”
“I’m already on the right track.” There’s hunger in Cohen’s eyes, but not for the food. “There’s no point in waiting.”
“While I do think you’re more than your choices, one can’t discount the fact that you were the one who made them. I need time. Time to make sure this young woman has changed you in the ways I hope she has.”
The young woman in question is currently groping surreptitiously for the plate of squid.
There’s a crash. Cohen has slammed his fist down on the table. I yank my hand back.
“Don’t play games with me,” he says darkly. “I’m the best man for this. You know I am.”
“That’s debatable,” Claude mutters.
LeCrue sighs, his wine untouched. For whatever reason, he’s trying to take a chance on Cohen…and Cohen’s disappointing him.
“I look forward to getting to know you better,” I say firmly. “I hope that we won’t let you down.”
Cohen is silent. LeCrue glances between the two of us. Apparently he’s willing to pretend that my response is from Cohen as well, because he nods, his face relaxing.
It’s the most socially awkward meal I’ve had since my cafeteria clique in middle school decided to stop speaking to me after I supposedly hit on Sally Beckham’s boyfriend. Annabelle’s good-natured friendliness has evaporated, along with Claude’s determined attempts to be Cohen’s best pal. They both sit silently, glaring at the two of us like we raided their fridge and stole all their favorite foods. LeCrue, who seems to be a man of few words as a rule, calmly sips his wine and asks me polite questions about my family. I feed him lie after lie and feed myself delicious bite after bite of filet mignon, taking advantage of
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