Out to Lunch (27 page)

The good news is that between the five of us, we catch the dog.

The bad news is that we don’t manage to catch him before he hides his prize somewhere to enjoy later. We get him back downstairs, and Wayne sets about doing a training session with him to refocus his energy, while Andrea and Law clean up, and Elliot and I do a thorough search for the bone upstairs. Not only is he not allowed people food, but cooked bones pose a real threat to large dogs, especially with his kind of jaw power, and I don’t relish the idea of a midnight trip to the emergency vet when he gets a bone fragment caught in his throat.

“I’ll have to figure out a way to repay all of your kindness,” I say, as we search my closet, feeling strangely intimate. “The airport run especially, I know how tedious that is.”

“You could let me make you dinner.”

“Anytime,” I say, as we shift the search into my bedroom.

“How about next weekend. Maybe Saturday?”

“Sure. That would be great. Let me know what I can bring. Is Wayne coming?”

He pauses, leans down at the corner of my bed, and stands up with the offending bone in his fingertips. He walks around the side of the bed, kisses my cheek almost absentmindedly and says, “No. Wayne is not coming.” And heads downstairs with the bone.

I think I have a date with Elliot.

23

A
nd how do you feel about having a date with Elliot?” Nancy asks.

“I’m not sure. I mean, I’ve never thought about him in a romantic way. And he isn’t my usual type.”

“Your usual type hasn’t really been that great for you, if memory serves.”

“Does that matter? Are you attracted to him?”

“I don’t exactly dream about him. But he kissed me New Year’s Eve and there was a not unpleasant response.”

“So he isn’t your dream guy, but he’s worth giving a shot?”

“I don’t know. He is sort of a new friend. I mean, I’ve known him for years, on the periphery, one of Wayne’s guys. But recently I’ve gotten to know him for himself, and I like him. He’s smart, and sweet, and he’s been very kind to me.”

“And you have said you have some things in common.”

“Well, he’s a foodie and a cook, so we have that. And history.”

“Has he been specific about this being a date? Or is that just your assumption?”

“It’s totally a date.”

“It’s my assumption. And I can’t very well ask him, because if it is just him being nice or a good friend, it would be very embarrassing.”

“You have a date with El-li-ot.”

Great. Now the Voix is doing E.T. impersonations.

“Go with your heart, Jenna, it won’t lead you wrong.”

“I hope not.”

“Trust me, once you go geek, you never go back, my friend.”

Good lord.

* * *

I
head straight from my session with Nancy to Brian’s office. I haven’t seen him in person since the EL Ideas debacle; we’ve been conducting business entirely by phone and e-mail. But the consultant is finished with Wayne’s business plan, and Brian wants to go over it with me. I’ve scanned it already myself, and the news is clear. Yes, this is a viable business idea. Yes, there is a market for these services. And yes, as long as I’m only involved in specifically what they refer to as “alternative theme” events, I’m not limited by my agreement with Peerless. On the other hand, since Aimee’s will specifically forbids any single investment of more than 10 percent of the principal of Wayne’s trust, the business model they have come up with would require at least one other significant partner or investor.

“Essentially, what we are saying, is that Wayne isn’t looking to launch this at a start-up level,” Brian says. “If he were looking to start small, do basic local events and build a reputation, the way you and Aimee built your business, this would be a no-brainer. But he is talking about going from zero to sixty like a Ferrari. He’s talking about needing to build contacts and develop resources immediately, not only in Chicago but in Los Angeles as well, and eventually New York. Offices. Staff. Marketing. And company-funded sample events to show what can be done. You are talking about a two– to three-million-dollar launch, and then needing cash infusions for the first two years until projections of profits can start to figure in.”

“Zoiks. That is a lot.” I knew what Wayne was thinking of would be expensive, but this is bigger than even I anticipated.

“Are you really even seriously considering this? Going back into business? With WAYNE?”

“I have to consider it seriously, in no small part because it is just the kind of crazy idea that could work. And because I promised Aimee that I would really look at all aspects of what Wayne wanted to do, and always consider whether she would encourage him or let him down gently, and so far, I believe this has the potential to be something she would have encouraged, or at least not dismissed out of hand.”

“Suit yourself. Bottom line, Jenna, he cannot do this without you. Full stop. Forgetting even the logistics of the event planning industry, which Wayne knows nothing about, he needs your money. He won’t get another investor to take a flyer on him, especially if you aren’t involved. And from my perspective, if you are involved, you would need to own half of the company, same as you did with StewartBrand. Which means dipping deep into your principal as well. Your investments have done well rebounding from the crash, but you are just now getting back to the precrash level in your principal, which means you have essentially not made a dime in over four years. Obviously you still have plenty of money, but dipping this deep into that principal will be felt, you’ll have to pay some penalties, and there will be tax implications of making that much cash liquid. And of course, there is the Wayne element.”

“The Wayne element.”

“Jenna, you are halfway to freedom from Wayne. A few more months and you can hand him back to us, and not have to deal with him anymore. If you launch this business with him, you are locked in, day in and day out, for a minimum of four or five years. And really, can you imagine him really helping at these events? I just see him knocking over ice sculptures, and tipping over cakes, and generally being a bull in the china shop everywhere he goes. A bull on steroids. With an inner ear imbalance. On roller skates.”

“Enough, lawdouche, she gets it.”

“I know. But again, Wayne is pretty clear that his area here would be identifying and helping land clients, and consulting on thematic details and event brainstorming, and keeping up with all industry aspects of the target market.”

“You mean going to movies, reading comics, and playing video games.”

“Yep, something like that.”

“You can’t really be thinking you are going to do this.”

“I can be thinking that. And I’m pretty sure that the only opinion I asked you for on this was legal ramifications and financial obligations. I don’t really care about your personal opinions.”

“Well, that hurts my feelings, because I still care about you on a personal level, and I think this is a huge mistake for you personally.”

I wait for my heart to race, for the sweats to start, for my colon to twist itself into a pretzel. And when none of that happens, I look at Brian.

“I think, that being the case, that perhaps you ought to speak to your partners about who might be the best attorney to work with me moving forward.”

“You’re firing me? Because I care about you?”

“I’m firing you because I need an attorney who is less personally interested in the decisions I make. I’m a big girl, and I have a dad. And clearly, this is no longer a good fit. I’d appreciate a call from the other partners by the end of the week with a plan that I can review.”

“Seriously, I feel like you’ve completely lost your mind!”

“Careful, Brian. At the moment, I’m asking you be removed from my account. However uncomfortable that may be for you with your partners, I assume you would rather that, than having to explain why I’m leaving the firm entirely. And I will be advising Wayne to shift to the same person I am with, obviously, for convenience.”

His chiseled jaw snaps shut, and while I can see a dozen retorts on the tip of his tongue, he doesn’t speak.

“Thank you. I’ll review this further, and will discuss my decision with my new attorney. You’ll get formal word from Wayne on his choice soon, I’m sure.” And I get up, and leave him sitting there without another word, and get in the elevator.

“YOU are such a badass!”

Yeah, I know.

“And taking Wayne with you, nice touch.”

It’s the least I can do, Wayne doesn’t like him anyway.

“But still, it was very, well, ME.”

Well, someone has to hold that standard, you being all dead and such.

“I love it. So that just leaves one thing.”

What’s that?

“What are you going to wear on your hot date with Elliot?”

What indeed?

* * *

I
decide on a charcoal gray wrap dress, so a little sassy, but with my flat riding boots instead of heels, so a little more casual. I toss my grandmother’s old Hermès scarf around my neck to limit the cleavage, since at my current weight, the girls are at their most abundant bounciness. Plus the vintage pattern from 1960, showing a large floral arrangement in a gold vase in the center, and smaller bouquets at the corners, is intricate enough that it hides the inevitable drips and dribbles I always manage to land on my chest while eating.

“Breaking out the fancy bib, huh?”

Trying to stay somewhat demure.

“The ladies are extra buoyant today. Plus silk is so much more comfortable for tying you up.”

Yep. That’s me. I’m going to go to Elliot’s for dinner, and he and I are going to reenact our favorite scenes from
Fifty Shades.

“Ick. I’m SO glad I died before I had to read those.”

Well, I’ll only read them over my own dead body.

“You look lovely for your first date.”

It might not be a date.

“And if it is?”

I’ll deal with that when and if it happens.

“I think it’s wonderful.”

You’re just glad I’m not dating Wayne.

“I’m glad you are going on a date with a smart, lovely man, who treats you with respect and affection, who is solid and stable, who would not in a million years get twinkles in his eyes about your money.”

It might not be a date.

“Well, if it is, don’t be a dumbass.”

Meaning?

“Meaning you jumped right into the thing with Brian with wild abandon. And on his worst day Elliot is ten times the man Brian is on his best day.”

So you think I should sleep with him.

“I think you shouldn’t NOT sleep with him because you are overanalyzing anything in your little brain. If the opportunity presents itself, don’t run away, just follow your heart.”

Or parts southerly.

“Hey, you know what they say about rescue dogs being perfect and grateful? No one is better in bed than the guy who always had to work to get the girls. I’m not saying.”

You’re just saying.

“Exactly.”

* * *

E
lliot, that was amazing.” The meal has been spectacular. We started with a salad of fennel, golden beets, and grapefruit. He did a veal roast with a classic shallot-cognac pan sauce, smooth with butter and brightened with thyme and parsley, the meat perfectly cooked, still rosy in the middle, with a great crisp brown sear on the outside. An interesting dish of fregola, toasted pearl pasta that is one of my favorite ingredients, cooked with sweet corn he charred on the grill, and chives. And simple steamed asparagus. Everything cooked perfectly, well seasoned, and full of soul. We ate at the small table in his kitchen, tearing pieces of crusty bread to sop up the sauce, and drinking an exceptional Donhoff Riesling that was the perfect foil to the meal.

“Glad you liked it.”

“Truly extraordinary.”

“Should we have dessert in the library?” he asks, having cleared the plates to the sink.

“Sure.” He pulls my chair out for me, and I follow him to the room, completely paneled with bookshelves and cabinets, with an intricate wood ceiling. There is an old leather couch that looks as if it was made of WWII fighter pilot jackets, that mottled, worn leather that is so soft and has such great patina. A deep chair in burgundy velvet with an ottoman. A coffee table that appears to have once been a file for architectural drawings, stripped to the original steel with a glass top. On the coffee table is a bottle of Madeira, a plate of dark chocolates, a bowl of tiny tangerines. He opens a lower cabinet to reveal that it is a minifridge, and brings over two plates that each have a slice of what looks like flan, dark at the top from being baked with caramel.

He hands me a plate and fork, and pours me a glass of wine.

I take a bite. And my eyes snap open.

“Gâteau de semoule?” I say in disbelief.

“Mais oui, mademoiselle, bien sûr.”
He smiles. “I thought you might like it.”

“I adore it. And I haven’t had it in years.” The very French dessert is essentially baked crème caramel–type custard, thickened with semolina for an amazing texture and added nuttiness. There are juicy golden raisins, which I believe he has soaked in rum, and the caramel you make for the bottom of the baking dish turns itself into a light sauce when you unmold it. It is the kind of dessert that any French
maman
would make on a weeknight for dessert. Unfancy, unfussy, and completely comforting and delicious. You never see it in bakeries or on menus, it is a dessert you get at a friend’s house when you go for dinner. And it is the perfect thing. “Elliot, where did you learn how to make this?”

He blushes a bit. “An ex-girlfriend of mine had a French mom. She was the one who really taught me how to cook in the beginning. I think I dated her daughter for at least a year longer than I would have so that I wouldn’t have to give up her lessons.”

“And after the breakup?”

“You know French women. You cannot insult their dogs, their housekeeping, their food, or their daughters. I was out on my ear. But not before I got her best recipes.”

“Was it worth the extra year?”

“Tonight’s meal was made possible by it, so you tell me.”

“Works for me.” I laugh, picturing Elliot fighting the desire to end a relationship for the sake of the cooking.