Playing for Love at Deep Haven (18 page)

His expression didn’t
change, but his voice lost some of its enthusiasm. “Um, yeah. I mean, I could
go alone, but I want you to come with me.”

A heavy metal
concert. Good Lord. Violet couldn’t think of anything that sounded less
appealing. She glanced back down at the menacing flier.

“Is it safe?”

“Of course. As
long as you don’t sit in the front.” He chuckled at her expression. “You’ve got
to get out more. It’s in a big arena. And I can get us backstage passes. Sure,
it’s extreme, but maybe you’ll like it, Vile.”

She glanced at
the flier again, sipping her coffee. “Portland’s three hours away.”

“Well, we could
leave this afternoon. I’ll take you out for dinner somewhere nice first.
Wherever you want. The concert will be over by eleven, and we’ll be home before
two.”

Dinner somewhere nice first. Hmm.
Her time with
Shep
had accustomed her to fine restaurants and wine,
elegant, creative dining and interesting pairings. He had no idea the carrot he
was holding out to her by offering dinner wherever she wanted. Still, two o’clock
in the morning sounded exhausting after the last several nights.

“That’s pretty
late.”

“Okay. Forget
it.” His shoulders slumped, and his voice was closed and resigned as he slid
the flier back to his side of the breakfast bar. Something about him giving up
made her breath catch, and she reached out quickly, placing her hand over his.

“Wait,” she
said, and he looked up at her, his eyes wary, but a little hopeful too. “Okay.”

“You’ll go?
You’ll come with me?”

She nodded. “But
I warn you . . . ”

He tensed.

“ . . . the
tasting menu at
Léonard’s
is pretty extreme too.”

***

She wasn’t
kidding.

Over the past
few years, Zach had had the privilege of touring around the world with various
bands as a backup guitarist/bassist/keyboardist. Because he could essentially
take over whatever instrument was needed, he’d become quite popular with
several Cornerstone bands, and it was cheaper for the label to send one Zach
than several backup musicians. With the tours came inevitable opportunities for
partying: eager promoters and fans paying for expensive dinners and vintage
wines, not to mention the ever-available stash of drugs that were as prevalent
as water bottles. Zach was too smart to dabble in drugs, even in the early
years, when he was often tempted, but he’d never been one to turn down a good
dinner.

Léonard’s
was not a place
Zach would have chosen to patronize. From the maître d’ who gave Zach’s ripped,
beat-up jeans and plain black T-shirt a snooty look, to the waiter who directed
all of his conversation exclusively to Violet,
Léonard’s
was sending a message:
You don’t belong.

And yet Violet
clearly did.

In her chic
designer jeans and aqua silk blouse, she looked put-together and classy,
exuding a grace and familiarity with the surroundings that demonstrated her
comfort level. She spoke with warmth and deference to the hostess who seated
them, and when the maître d’ stopped by to ask if the chef could come out and
say hello, it occurred to Zach that
Léonard’s
wasn’t
a random choice for Violet.

“You’ve been
here before,” Zach said, staring at the vast menu split pretentiously into
“Farmed,” “Forged,” and “Found.”

She looked up
and grinned. “
Mmm
. It’s one of my favorite
restaurants.
Shep
and I . . . ”

He glanced at
her over his menu. “It’s okay for you to talk about him, Vile. He was a big
part of your life.”

“We came here a
lot. Whenever we visited my mom or spent time in Bar Harbor, we’d make time for
Léonard’s
. You’ll meet Monsieur
Léonard
in a moment. He’s a genius.”

“A genius?” Zach
tried to keep the scoff out of his voice. Food was food. Well-prepared food was
nicer than ramen, but it was still just food. It wasn’t a cure for cancer.

“Yes! Wait until
you see what he does with—oh, Monsieur!” She leaped out of her seat to embrace
the large, red-faced, older man who’d suddenly appeared beside their table
dressed in chef’s whites with a tall white hat. “
Comment
ça
va
?”

“
Maintenant, ma
journée
est
parfaite
!”
the man exclaimed, releasing her and chucking her under the chin with
affection. “
Violette
,
how very good to
see you after so long! I couldn’t believe my ears when Jacques said you were
here tonight.”

“It’s
been too long,” she said, beaming at the chef, who looked over at Zach in
question.

“And
this is . . .?”

“Oh!”

Violet
looked down at Zach, and he slid out of the booth, holding out his hand. “Zach
Aubrey.”

“Monsieur
Aubrey. A pleasure.”

The
chef’s voice was warm, but his eyes were shrewd as he assessed Zach’s T-shirt,
shaggy hair, and tattoos. Zach could feel the other man’s confusion, trying to
reconcile Violet’s previous dinner companion with Zach.

“We
were so sorry to learn of Mr. Smalley’s accident,” said the chef gently,
turning his gaze back to Violet.

Zach
watched Violet swallow and blink her eyes quickly. He reached out and put a
hand on the small of her back, loving it when she, almost imperceptibly, leaned
back into him.

“It
was very sad,” she said. “Thank you, Monsieur.”

Léonard
gestured to Jacques, who had been hovering within calling distance of the
table. “Take away the menus, Jacques. Tonight we make something special to
welcome back Mademoiselle
Violette
.”

Jacques
whisked the menus away, and Zach watched as Violet took the chef’s hands,
squeezing them, before he bid them “Bon Appétit!” and returned to the kitchen.

They
resumed their seats, and Violet looked at Zach sheepishly. “Maybe this was a
bad choice.”

“No,
it’s fine. You’re a favorite here.”

“We
came here a lot. With the
Smalleys
too.”

“I
see.”

He
did see. Her world was coming into clearer focus, and he’d be lying if he said
it didn’t worry him. For all that he made a comfortable living writing songs
and touring, it would be years before he could offer her anything close to the
monetary comforts she’d taken for granted with
Shep
Smalley. And for all that she claimed money didn’t matter to her, he couldn’t
help but wonder if that was completely true.

“And
Monsieur
Léonard
was always very kind to me. Why, one
time when we had Nouvelle Night with our gourmet group, he was kind enough to
share his special recipe for
boeuf
bourguignon
with me. Mine
wasn’t quite as good as his, but it was still spectacular.” She laughed softly,
circling the top of her wineglass until it hummed, her face far away, immersed
in memories.

“Gourmet group?”
he said.

“Yes. At home.”

At home in
posher
-than-posh Greenwich.

She smiled as
Jacques returned with a bottle of red wine and two glasses, winking at Violet
as he set them on the table. It was probably her favorite, but all things being
equal, Zach would have really preferred a beer or Scotch . . . if he’d even
been asked.

She took a sip.
“
Mmm
! It’s delicious, isn’t it?”

Zach took a
small sip, and grudgingly admitted to himself that it was good. He gave Violet
a tight smile.

“Our gourmet
group had six couples, and we’d rotate houses and hosts every other month. It
was so fun. We’d choose a different theme, and some of the hosts would really
go all out, decorating their entire dining rooms to match the theme. One time .
. . ”

She continued on
about gourmet group as an uncomfortable feeling pooled in Zach’s stomach. He
glanced around the restaurant, at the crisp white linens and gleaming
glassware, the white-gloved waiters and bustling busboys. It’s not that a
restaurant like this was completely off Zach’s radar, but it was well outside
his comfort zone.

He looked back
at Violet, nodding as she described the floral arrangements at Swiss Fondue
Night, and felt the first real spike of uncertainty about a possible life with
her. If this was who she was, what she needed, could he learn to make it a part
of his life too?

“What else, um .
. . what else did you and
Shep
do for fun?”

She seemed
surprised, at first, that he had interrupted her, then smiled at him warmly.
“For fun? Oh, I don’t know. The regular stuff, I suppose. Tennis and golf in
the summer, skiing in the winter.”

“You don’t like
skiing,” he blurted out.

“I learned to
appreciate it,” she said quietly, defensiveness creeping into her tone.

“What else?” he
asked tightly.

Her eyes cooled.
“We attended charity events and gallery openings.
Shep
loved dinner parties, so we hosted a couple every month.”

“A couple of
dinner parties a month? Hosted by the girl who ate pizza from the box on the
floor of her dorm room?”

“I learned to
appreciate them too,” she said, her lips pursing.

“What else?”

She took a sip
of her wine. “Nothing.”

“Come on,
Violet. I’m trying to understand who you are now.”

“No. You’re
judging who I am now.”

“Says the chick
who winces every time she looks at my tattoos.”

She shrugged.
“So what’s your point, Zach? We’ve changed. What did you expect? It’s been ten
years.”

“Nine. How many
of these things that you ‘learned to appreciate’ are things you truly love to
do?”

“All of them,”
she
snarked
. “I’m just a shallow suburban yuppie
now.”

“You’re being
unreasonable.”

“Am I? You’re
putting me on the defensive. Yes, I like fine dining, Zach. It tastes good. No,
I never fell in love with skiing, but I learned I could tolerate things in my
life that weren’t necessarily my cup of tea. I challenged myself to accommodate
the likes and interests of someone I cared about!”

Zach stared at
her angry face, her words searing his heart as he realized what an asshole he
was being. She didn’t want to go to a heavy metal concert, but the same open
spirit that had prompted her to learn how to ski and host lavish dinner parties
had paved the way for her to join him tonight. And he was beating her up for
it.

He reached a
hand across the table and curled his fingers around hers.

“I’m sorry,” he
whispered, pulling her hand to his lips.

Her eyes read
confusion, and he wished he had better answers for making their way smoother,
their transition from apart to together more organic.

She sighed. “I
didn’t love
everything
.”

“What didn’t you
love?”

“It feels
disloyal to talk about him like this.”

“We’re not
talking about him. We’re talking about you,” he murmured against her skin. “You
can tell me anything, Vile.”

“Charity events,
especially dinners, go on for way too long, and no, I never actually did end up
liking ski vacations very much. I spent most of my time alone in the lodge
curled up with hot cocoa and a magazine.” She bit her bottom lip, staring at
the table. Her voice was very soft when she spoke again. “He never even read my
book. And . . . and he thought my poems were foolishness. A maudlin waste of
time.”

Zach ground his
jaw, trying to control the emotions that her confession evoked. If
Shep
Smalley were still alive, Zach would have liked to
hunt him down and smash a fist in his smug face. Foolishness? A waste of time?
No wonder she had zero confidence in her immense talent. Damn
Shep
Smalley for doing this to her.
Damn me for pushing her into his arms
. He squeezed her hand more
tightly, kissing it again, and she looked up at him with glistening eyes. He
locked his with hers.

“I hate charity
events,” he said. “I never learned how to ski. I loved your book. And your
poems pierce my soul.”

Neither of them
noticed for a quite a while that Jacques had delivered the first course and
refilled their glasses.

***