Текст книги "New Amsterdam: Tess"
Автор книги: Ashley Pullo
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© 2015 by Ashley Pullo
eBook Formatting by Erika Q. Stokes
Cover art by Molly Van Roekel
Proofreading by Marla Esposito
Paperback cover design by Nick Fantini
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the prior consent from the publisher, except in the instance of quotes for reviews. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet without the publisher’s permission and is a violation of the International copyright law, which subjects the violator to severe fines and imprisonment.
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and places are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead or actual events are entirely coincidental.
“Life is the flower for which love is the honey.”
—Victor Hugo
To the Humans of New York
In the summer of 2010, photographer Brandon Stanton began an ambitious project – to single-handedly create a photographic census of New York City. The photos he took and the accompanying interviews became the blog Humans of New York (St. Martin’s, 2015).
Contents
New Amsterdam: A Brief History
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Playlist: Tess
Merci Beacoup!
About the Author
Other works by Ashley Pullo
New Amsterdam:
A Brief History
Beginning in the early 16th century, explorers crossed the Atlantic Ocean in search of the elusive Northwest Passage, but instead found an inhabited island full of beavers and wild natives. Beavers were all the rage in Europe, especially with their waterproof furry pelts, and perfumed anal excretions used in fancy colognes. It wasn’t India, but this new land offered something better – commerce.
Who would be the first to settle this new empire?
Following Columbus, some European dudes with really long names set sail to find a shortcut to the land of silk and spices, only to return to their homes with boring tales from the sea. However, these explorers lent their names to several hot spots in New York City – Hudson Bagels, Verrazano Community College, and Cartier Cupcakes on the Upper East Side.
Several years later, the Pilgrims attempted to settle New York but failed miserably. They desperately wanted to trade with the Native Americans and sail along the Hudson River, but the Mayflower wasn’t equipped with a working GPS, and their supply of snacks were running low. Therefore, the Pilgrims made a pit stop near a big rock and decided to call it home.
Enter the Dutch.
With their colorful detailed maps and European goods in tow, Dutch businessmen settled at the mouth of the Hudson River on the southern tip of Manhattan (knowing that this would be prime real estate for future yuppies.) Wanting all the beavers in all the land, a team of orange swooped in and opened the port for business. During the grand opening in 1621, the Dutch West Indian Company resurrected Holland law – kicking out all the previous private traders and expanding the territory for a Dutch settlement.
What American history lesson doesn’t involve the fear of attack by European powers and the Mohawk-Mahican war?
So in 1628, the Dutch built Fort Amsterdam from clay and sand, crammed all the settlers into the area, and then planted five-hundred tulips to keep things pretty. The construction of a protective wall was also ordered, but the iconic bronze bull and Gordon Gekko won’t appear until the late twentieth century. To further safe-guard their new settlement, Mr. Minuit purchased the land from the Lenape Indians for sixty guilders of goods – a few fake Rolexes, some pashmina scarves, and a couple of snow globes featuring the first Thanksgiving.
Uh oh, here come the British . . .
Sailing into the harbor with four frigates in 1664, the British demanded that the newly sustainable area of New Amsterdam be relinquished to the Duke of York (huge fan of the beaver pelt!) The Dutch settlers were booted off the island of Manhattan – some settled along the north shore of Long Island, and others found peace as hipsters in Brooklyn. Alas, New Amsterdam was officially renamed New York, and the colonization of North America was in full effect.
On a happy note, one of the most important things to survive from the first settlement of New York City was the Castello Plan – a rudimentary mapping system of Manhattan. As centuries passed, and men’s fashion evolved, the beaver trade was considered a frivolous activity for sissies. But thanks to the Dutch and their snazzy cartography, generations of visitors can pick up a five-dollar map of Downtown at any corner bodega.
Prologue
In its defense, the man wearing the expensive plum blossom aftershave had it coming.
As the days stretch longer, and the humidity rises, New Yorkers rely on various distractions to cope with the summer heat. Traveling is an adventurous option, but escaping the City requires an attractive destination and expendable cash. Spontaneous sex can be an effective diversion, although the result is often stickier than a sweat lodge in the Mojave Desert. Free events with air-conditioning are great resources on a budget, except mass transportation prior to the event can trap a person in an air-tight tuna can for hours. So as the temperature spikes, and the smell of the warm garbage lingers, the only refreshing solution is to stumble into the nearest happy hour for great conversation and even better libations.
Rooftop bars in Brooklyn are the newest trend, serving mojitos in mason jars, and staging Fuck You, Heatwave screaming contests. But like most trends, rooftop bars are only as cool as their next hashtag. Of recent, the Village has had an influx of speakeasies – but who wants to drink moonshine in a dark basement with a penny farthing propped in the corner? Tourists.
But the truth is, New Yorkers ache for simplicity – packaged and delivered with tradition.
And so it’s Lower Manhattan that holds the rarest treasure, a place where people can congregate on cobbled streets and absorb the cool breeze from the East River. A gathering place for hundreds of years, the Seaport is the pearl of the City – the apex of New Amsterdam.
And this neighborhood is where the story begins . . .
Centuries ago, the Seaport was developed as a trading post for commerce, and that same vibe still exists today. Designed as a festival marketplace, businesses and food markets occupy the original mercantile buildings, while upscale restaurants and salty dive bars claim the piers. One hideaway in particular, known for the citrus cocktails, expensive gin, and fresh seafood, is Dunbar’s Oyster House. An area-favorite servicing the Downtown crowd, as well as tourists enjoying a relaxing meal in the historic district, Dunbar’s promises a simple menu with magical views. But on Friday afternoons, as the Italian loafers from the Financial District stumble into the South Street Seaport, Dunbar’s transforms into an expensive bar serving never-ending bottles of Nolet Gin and platters of raw, chilled oysters. And until last call, the entire Seaport is crawling with thirsty Wall Street capitalists demanding more.
The finance jabronis aren’t all bad, and some even exhibit self-control with the female wait staff. But the guy wearing the pastel-colored Canali shirt and expensive plum blossom aftershave? He’s the worst kind – engaged, handsome, rich, and arrogant. His ridiculous, OCD behavior, and the tone of his adenoidal voice are minor quirks in comparison to his need to pinch the ass of every woman that has the unfortunate task of being near him.
Leaning back in his chair and snapping lazily at the waitress in the tight T-shirt, he gutters, “Tonic. Three orange slices.”
The waitress, a former reality TV star, nods with a devious smile, perhaps wondering what would result in her bringing only two orange slices as opposed to three. Her smile fades as the man evaluates her legs, making no attempt to hide his wandering eyes. She frowns, grabs the empty glasses from the table in a swift swoop, and then stacks them on a tray.
Under strict instructions from management to divert all sexual advances into consuming more alcohol, she quickly repeats his demand with a wink. “Gin and tonic with three orange slices.”
With hooded eyes and parted mouth, the man runs his index finger up the side of her exposed leg. “Delicious.”
The waitress fidgets slightly, but then rasps, “Would you like something to eat?”
Stalling at the hem of her denim skirt, he taps his finger on her thigh and grins. “Are you offering?” he asks, his mouth practically watering.
The waitress lowers her head and laughs into her chest. Six months ago, she lived on an uninhabited island in the Maldives, feasting on barbecued beetles and showering with monkeys – surely she can handle the forward presumptions of a drunken idiot.
“Something raw, or something sweet, Paul?” Her reply is fluid yet snarky – and of course she knows his name – Paul Holbrook’s Amex is in her back pocket.
“Mmm, surprise me,” he snarls.
As the waitress glides back to the main kitchen purposely swaying her hips, Paul removes his phone to text his fiancée. He doesn’t have the slightest chance with the waitress, but sometimes, flirtatious hope is all a dick needs to get off.
Paul pecks at his phone with squinted eyes, pausing briefly to swat at a hovering insect. His creative excuse this evening: Important client visiting from Hong Kong. Staying Downtown. Paul Holbrook works in the European division. But his fiancée doesn’t fully understand what he does at work, or that he has a key to a corporate apartment on Front Street.
Her naive reply: Trader Joe’s is out of Brussels sprouts again!
Rolling his eyes, Paul drops his phone into the pocket of his striped dress shirt just as an associate from his firm plows into him. Unintentionally, the man spills a clear drink down Paul’s arm. Pissed, Paul jumps from his chair and shoves the other man into an empty table. “Garrison, you prick!” Paul squawks.
Startled, Garrison replies, “Calm down, Paul. It’s only seltzer.” Regaining his balance, Garrison takes a step toward his group of middle-aged buddies. Jokingly, the men raise their glasses to toast the alpha-male entertainment unfolding before them. Amused, Garrison takes a bow, but Paul grabs his arm, knocking the seltzer glass to the ground to shatter into a dozen pieces.
“Come near me again, and I’ll fucking kill you, faggot,” Paul grates while rolling his neck.
Garrison Barker, a widower and father of two, is not a homosexual. But his beloved younger brother is openly gay. Certain words are triggers, and although Garrison’s brother doesn’t engage in retribution or violence, Garrison prefers to defend his loved ones with an aggressive approach.
Clenching his fists into whitening knuckles, Garrison shifts his weight to an offensive boxing position he learned in college. He’s ready to throw the first punch, a left jab to Paul’s smug face, but surprisingly, Paul slaps his own cheek.
Distracted by the overwhelming humming sound, Garrison mumbles, “What the . . . ?”
Straight from a horror movie, thousands of yellow and black insects circle the restaurant, dipping as a spherical unit to investigate the sweet smells lingering on the tables. The growing mass buzzes and swoops, causing patrons and employees to panic. Hands are flailing, and white cloth napkins are used to surrender, as the crowd runs from the waterfront restaurant dialing 911 from their phones.
Only a few seconds pass before the panicked hysteria becomes a contagion of silence. Due to shock or curiosity, every bystander within a one-block radius whips out their phone to document the disturbing sight thrashing before them.
#attackofthebees #seaport #swarming
Covered from head to toe in a buzzing, black cloud of honeybees, is none other than the lying, cheating, sexist, perverted, homophobic, anaphylactic asshole, Paul Holbrook.
He had it coming.
“During my first year as a rookie, I logged more hours in a patrol car than any cop in my unit. I also gained fifteen pounds.”
Chapter One
Gotham Online
NYC Detective Swarms to the Rescue
By: Darby Wallace
Any hopes of toasting the holiday weekend were interrupted last Friday evening when a swarm of bees invaded the popular dining establishment, Dunbar’s Oyster House. As the sun was setting over the New Jersey horizon, and happy hours were becoming early dinners, a swarm of 35,000 bees ransacked the restaurant in search for a new home. A NoHo resident dining in the Seaport was stung several times, but he is expected to make a full recovery.
311 or 911 – who ya gonna call? Like a scene from the iconic Ghostbusters, Detective Raymond Paggetti, the New York City Police Department’s unofficial beekeeper, rolled onto Beekman Street in a yellow truck with black stripes. After police officers secured the infested area, Det. Paggetti began his efforts in safely capturing the honeybees. With a large metal box and an insect vacuum, Det. Paggetti meticulously rescued the homeless bees within the first hour of his arrival.
As the newest superhero to grace the streets of Manhattan, Raymond Paggetti claims he’s just a regular guy from Long Island. His interest in bees began as a teenager when he found an active hive inside his family’s Suffolk County barn. The fascination grew, providing him with the title of Youngest Beekeeper in the Long Island Beekeeper’s Association.
While serving two tours in Afghanistan, Paggetti worked closely with an American development program providing beekeeping training courses to Afghani farmers as an alternative to the opium trade. Paggetti joined the police force in 2004, and has been responding to bee emergencies since 2006, the year he was promoted to Detective on the unofficial “bee bee-t.”
Since mid-March, Paggetti has responded to thirty swarm invasions, the largest yielding close to 75,000 homeless bees. “It’s not an easy job, but one I find very rewarding,” he said, adding that we need bees for more than honey. Our ecosystem relies on bees to pollinate close to one-third of the world’s food supply. Paggetti holds the recent warm weather and the decrease in formidable hive conditions responsible for the current bee situation in New York City.
On the northern edge of the Brooklyn Navy Yard, Levi Jones, a partner at Brooklyn Soil Rooftop Farm, was prepared to accommodate the Seaport bees. By setting up bait hives of queen bee pheromones mixed with lemon grass oil, Mr. Jones was able to lure the queen and the swarm to specific locations. The Seaport swarm has settled in nicely in Brooklyn, and currently occupies some prime real estate with one of the best views of Manhattan.
Det. Paggetti offers some sage advice when confronted with a swarm, “Bee respectful.”
“Damn, I missed all the good stuff.” Thessaly Sinclair scrolls to the bottom of the online article and clicks on the related links.
Her older brother, Kip, slides a plate of warm biscuits across the rustic pine table and laughs. “How do you even get Wi-Fi in here?” Kip motions to their surroundings – a barn the size of an airplane hangar.
Closing her laptop, Thessaly replies, “Dad had it installed last week. Don’t you keep track of all the orders and contracts?”
Kip slathers strawberry jam on a biscuit and exhales loudly. “I sign off on a dozen orders a day, Tess. I don’t read them. I just make copies and then shove them in a shoebox back at the house.”
“That’s your business method?” Thessaly laughs. “Later I’ll show you how to use my favorite accounting software. And then you can access it at any time – even on your phone.”
“I bet you impress all the fellas,” Kip drones.
Taking a sip from a glass of iced tea to hide her laughter, Thessaly rolls her eyes. “Accept it, brother, no more lazy days on the golf course shootin’ the shit with old dudes – you’re a twenty-first century farmer now.”
“Tess, chicks don’t dig a farmer.” Kip shoves the remaining biscuit in his mouth and sighs. “And Asheville isn’t really hopping with modern women.”
The Sinclair farm is situated on lush soil and tucked inside a valley in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Only minutes from Asheville, North Carolina, the farm services local markets, popular eateries, and most notably, the Biltmore Estate. What started as a fun hobby for Rosalyn Sinclair and her three children quickly evolved into an empire – Sinclair Honey, Sinclair Jam, and most recently, Sinclair Events.
Two miles from the sprawling farmhouse stands a favorite spot of not only the grown Sinclair children, but the residents of Asheville. Five years ago, the royal blue barn facade was restored to the original pre-WWI structure, and then a large addition was constructed to accommodate a cozy three-hundred guests for gatherings. Located in a field of sunflowers, and reachable only by a stone path, brides and grooms flock to secure this idyllic spot for weddings. The Sinclair Barn is booked solid every weekend during the spring and summer, and every third Sunday, the family hosts a farm-to-table dinner featuring on-site preparation. Recently, the cast of The Hunger Games feasted on North Carolina barbecue, fried okra, and strawberry rhubarb pie. And as a result, Sinclair Events finally made it on the first page of the Asheville tourism magazine.
“What’s on the menu tonight?” Thessaly cracks open a biscuit, places a pat of butter on each half, and then closes it. “And where’s Shelby? I want to spend some time with him before I leave tomorrow.” She delicately peels apart the biscuit and adds a spoonful of creamed honey before taking a bite.
Standing from the table, Kip answers, “I dunno. I think he stopped by the hospital to have lunch with Dad.” Kip clears his dishes from the table and heads to the large, industrial kitchen.
The patriarch of the Sinclair family is a renowned cardiologist. Born and raised in Boston, Dr. Bruce Sinclair moved to Atlanta in the late seventies to complete his surgical residency. During his first year of private practice in an affluent suburb, he treated a beautiful Southern debutante with a heart murmur. It’s poetic that Bruce and Rosalyn Sinclair fell in love over a few skipped heart beats.
Returning from the kitchen with a clipboard, Kip announces, “Fried chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, green beans, and banana pudding.”
Frowning, Thessaly rants, “Good ‘ol fried chicken. Drinks?”
“Um, local brewery wants a chance. Peach tea, of course. Maybe some Jim Beam Honey?” Kip teases, knowing Thessaly is still churning from the whiskey shots from the Fourth of July.
Ashen, she replies, “Absolutely not.” Returning a text, she adds, “Hey, do you need me this afternoon? I’m meeting Mary Alice and her fiancé at the Grove Park Inn for a late lunch.”
“Nah, I have it covered. The staff will be here soon – and you scare people, bossy pants.”
“What?” Thessaly squeaks.
“It’s true. You’re on a perpetual sugar-high – darting around and shouting demands like a crazed toddler,” Kip replies.
Smiling, Thessaly slides the laptop into her bag while staring out the large window. The lavender catches her attention so she suggests, “Tell Beatrice to use the yellow gingham tablecloths. I’ll have Oscar cut the lavender and wildflowers for the vases.”
Kip nods while checking off items from the clipboard. “Yes ma’am – gingham, lavender, vases, and another round of Jim Beam. Hey, give Mary Alice my love.”
Patting Kip’s arm and offering a consoling smile, Thessaly patronizes, “Aw, sweetie. You’re like twenty years too young for her. Stop pining for my friend and find someone that appreciates a frat boy.”
Kip’s cheeks redden. “I’m twenty-seven!” All three kids inherited the Sinclair English skin – freckled, pale, and easily flushed. “And a half.”
“Exactly. I’ll see you later?” Thessaly calls over her shoulder with a smile.
“Yeah, yeah. Stop by the warehouse – Junebug came in just to see you.”
Thessaly pauses by the metal barn door and says, “Kip, in case I haven’t told you, I think you’re doing a fantastic job. Mama can relax knowing you’re out here.”
“Had to be done, Tess.” Kip places his hands in the pockets of his khaki pants and shrugs his shoulders. “Summer is our busiest season – and Mama needs to take it easy for a few months. I’ll bribe Shelby to help out, too.”
“And just think of all the weddings with young, drunk, desperate bridesmaids at your disposal!”
Shaking his head and walking back to the kitchen, Kip mumbles under his breath, “Pest.”
Laughing, Thessaly slides open the heavy door to be met by the blazing afternoon sun. Adjusting her focus, she takes a moment to marvel at the kaleidoscope of sunshine shimmering along the trees of the adjacent peach orchard. She and her brothers spent lazy afternoons running through that orchard, soaking up the sun, acting out scenes from Sci-fi movies, and daring each other to eat the fallen, bruised peaches. There was that one time, in the summer of ‘99, when Shelby had to be rushed to the emergency room for consuming a dozen fermented peaches. But a stomach pump didn’t stop the Sinclair kids from returning to the orchard the very next day to beat the record.
As Thessaly grew older, the peach orchard served as a hidden make-out spot with her high school boyfriends. It was fairly accessible by car, yet hidden from the main house and her over-protective father. One Thanksgiving, home from Duke University with her college boyfriend, Thessaly experienced the most erotic vertical sex pinned against a peach tree. And then a few days later, under the same peach tree, she and her boyfriend promised to move to New York after graduation.
Swinging her bag over her shoulder and shielding her eyes from the sun, Thessaly hops into one of the farm’s pickup trucks near the service entrance to the back of the barn. She cranks up the air-conditioning, adjusts her designer sunglasses, and then drives the three miles on a gravel road to the warehouse.
The brick cottage has always been one of Thessaly’s favorite places on the farm. Packaging honey and jam is more of a scientific process rather than a culinary method, and Thessaly remains fascinated with the product-end of business. So much so, that she opened her own artisanal store in New York City selling handcrafted condiments.
Thessaly parks the truck in the small, paved lot and presses the horn. After fastening her shoulder-length blond curls in a low ponytail, she grabs her bag and exits the truck. The glossy yellow door to the warehouse swings open as a short, round woman with bright-red hair comes stumbling out.
“Tess! Get over here,” the woman urges, arms wide open and ready for a hug.
Standing almost a foot taller, Thessaly embraces the woman and closes her eyes. “Junebug, I’ve missed you! How was your Fourth?”
June giggles as she takes a step back to study Thessaly’s appearance. “Stayed up at the cabin and fished – ended up grilling hot dogs for dinner.” June winks. “Oh my, you’re so thin. And your clothes! Tess Sinclair, you’re a New Yorker.”
Blushing, Thessaly replies, “Junebug, you couldn’t be more wrong.”
“C’mon, Tess. Let me show you the first batch of wildflower honey – such a pretty shade of pale yellow.”
June takes Thessaly’s hand and leads her into the warehouse. Actually, warehouse is an industrial term – the cottage is more like a modern kitchen with shelves of bottled honey and jam, baskets of fresh fruit and herbs, and walls lined with family photos and honeybee watercolor canvases. The familial feeling inside the warehouse reaffirms the importance of capturing nostalgia within the business. In fact, the Sinclair success comes from excellent products packaged and branded to mimic southern traditions.
“God, it smells delicious!” Thessaly runs her hand along the stainless steel counter of the work station, stopping at a large copper pot lined with Teflon.
“That’s your daddy’s special request,” June whispers between pursed lips.
Thessaly nods and says, “Ah, nectarine honey with Stevia.”
“Yep. Smells divine, tastes like shit. But your daddy is determined to put the agave folks out of business with this sticky goop.” June scoops a ladleful of the cooling orange liquid and grimaces.
“It is pretty nasty,” Thessaly teases, leaning against the counter. “So, Junebug, how’s the summer supply? I need a fairly large shipment this month.”
Replacing the large spoon in the pot, June replies, “We’re busy as bees, Tess!” That joke never retires on a farm. “The warehouse is expecting so much honey this summer that your mama was looking into some new buyers – natural skincare products, I think.” June wipes her hands on her blue apron and moves to a small desk. “Fill out the form so I can set your order aside.” June taps the page of her puppy wall calendar and adds, “Percy is scheduled for the fourteenth of July. Is that a good delivery day for you?”
“Yes, it should be.” Thessaly instinctively stirs the congealed liquid in the cooling pot. “I have three more restaurants on the rotation now, and several event planners have scheduled meetings.”
“That’s wonderful, Tess! And how’s your cute little shop – The Hive?”
Thessaly moves to the desk and takes out her phone. She grabs one of the yellow and black striped pens from a utensil crock, pausing to study the framed family photo displayed on the desk, and then opens the inventory app on her phone.
“It’s been more fun than I could’ve ever imagined! I love going to work, and I love knowing that a piece of my family is always with me.” Thessaly checks off ten gallons of raw honey to be used in the store, ten crates of the eight-ounce honey jars to be labeled and sold, and three dozen, thirty-two-ounce jars for vendor services. “I also have a side project I’m launching and I need a different packaging. Can you get the four-ounce jars that are cubes?”
“Of course – clear or blue?”
Thessaly signs the order form and then scans the paper with her phone. “Clear, please. And black lids, not gold.” She stands from the desk and replaces the pen. “Thanks for coming here today, Junebug. I wish I could stay longer but I’m behind on getting everything sorted. And that wedding last night nearly killed me – honey whiskey shots are not my friend.”
“Oh Lord, the stories I could tell you involving a night with Mr. Beam. And the honey doesn’t make it less hairy, does it?” Giggling, June drops the order form in a file marked Priority. “Honestly, Tess, I needed to get away from the cabin and Murray’s complaining. The flies were biting more than the fish.”
“Junebug, can you do me a favor?”
Placing her hands on Thessaly’s arms, June replies, “Just ask.”
“Send Mama away if she comes near the warehouse or the apiary.”
“I’m one step ahead of you, Tess. I hid her bee suit last week.” June winks.
Mary Alice Hanson likes all things vintage. Clothes. Cars. Cocktails.
And men.
“Tess!”
“Mary Alice!”
The excited shrills of old friends can be heard throughout the lobby of the Grove Park Inn. Actually, Mary Alice and Thessaly are more like sisters, each with only brothers, the two women have a twenty-year friendship that defies time.
Taking in Thessaly’s slim black pants, sleeveless black top, and designer black espadrilles, Mary Alice exclaims, “Chic and sexy, as always!”
Thessaly grabs Mary Alice’s hand and twirls her around, sending her mid-century, full-skirt to flounce and wave like a spinning top. “Elegant and charming, as always!”
After completing a full rotation, Mary Alice pats her stomach and exhales. “I ordered a round of Moscow Mules – come meet Bennett!”
The two women continue through the lobby of the historic inn, past the creepy elevator hidden in the fireplace, and then outside to the Sunset Terrace overlooking the Blue Ridge Mountains. The Grove Park Inn hosts spectacular views, with hues of blue and green converging into a landscape painting of natural splendor. Even F. Scott Fitzgerald found inspiration with a bottle of whiskey and this particular view of the mountains.
Reaching a small table near the outdoor bar, Mary Alice squeezes Thessaly’s hand and clears her throat. “Bennett, sugar, this stunning creature at my side is my best friend in the whole wide world.”
A silver-haired gentleman with olive skin and lapis-blue eyes looks up from the table and grins. Dressed in a white dress shirt and pale-blue sport jacket, he stands to greet Thessaly. Bennett isn’t the oldest guy Mary Alice has dated, but he’s definitely the most dashing.
“Tess Sinclair,” his voice deep and velvety, “it’s an absolute delight to finally meet you.” Bennett extends his arm with an inviting smile, but Thessaly furrows her brows when she spots a shiny gold ring on the fourth finger of his left hand.
“Mary Alice?” Thessaly snaps.
Confused by Thessaly’s snotty reaction, Bennett drops his hand to the back of a nearby chair. He slides it out and waits for Mary Alice to sit.
“What?” Mary Alice asks, scooting her chair into the small table.
Accepting the other chair Bennett slides out for her, Thessaly sits down at the table while glaring at Mary Alice. “Did you get married without me?”
Bennett sighs in relief as he claims a chair, realizing that Thessaly is in shock and not ridiculously rude. “Tess, it’s my fault,” he apologizes, sliding his chair closer to the table.
“Nonsense!” Mary Alice reaches across the table to take Bennett’s hand, flashing a giant rock on her ring finger. “Sugar, you’re such a gentleman – so, so sexy,” she whispers while biting her lip. Turning to address her friend, Mary Alice continues. “Last week we were in Memphis . . . there were Elvis impersonators officiating weddings at Graceland . . . the weather was nice . . . I happened to have a gorgeous, white 1963 Valentino dress just hanging in my garment bag . . . it was fate.” Mary Alice tilts her head and frowns. “Tess, are you upset we didn’t get married in the bee barn?”
