Page 10 of Casanova LLC

4:47 am: Maybe a rain check? Do you do rain checks?

I called her.

“I’m so sorry,” she answered, and I could hear the cringe on her face. “You must think—I can only imagine what you must think.”

“I think you should meet me at Raines Law Room tonight at seven so you can ask me whatever you want to ask. Nothing needs to be decided before that.” There was silence. “Okay?”

“Okay, yes, but…” she exhaled. “No, forget the but.”

“Already noted about the pegging.”

“... That was a joke.”

I chuckled. “Yes. See you tonight?”

“Yes. Good.”

“Good. Ciao.”

Claire

I spent entirely too long on my hair and makeup. I told myself it would make me feel more confident. I told myself it would give me armor. I told myself I wanted to look attractive. I told myself to stop talking to myself.

I’d never been to Raines Law Room, but when I looked it up online, I saw that it was a speakeasy of sorts. I decided, finally, on a simple, mostly demure, boatneck black dress. It had a low back, but I wore a jacket over it. Tea-length, flared hem. I chose a pair of black knee-high boots. Appropriate for early February in New York. And also business meetings. Such as this was. I told myself that repeatedly.

I arrived ten minutes early and found the door after walking past it only twice. The problem was, it wasn’t a door, but a nondescript black box at street-level. I entered it and immediately walked down a flight of stairs to an actual door. The brass plaque next to the doorbell had the name of the place.

I rang the bell and a man with a handlebar mustache opened the door so quickly he must have seen me arrive on a camera. I said I was here for Alessandro Vianello. He silently offered me entry with a smooth sway of his hand, closed the door, and asked me to wait. There was a plush red curtain separating the vestibule from the rest of the venue. All I could see was the host station and the coat rack next to it. The lighting was candlelight-low.

He returned from around the corner and informed me that Alessandro was finishing up with another guest. He’d be with me shortly. Would I like to go to the bar in the meantime? I shook my head politely. Would I like him to take my coat? I gave him my outer wool one, but kept the lighter blazer underneath.

A few minutes later, an expensive-looking woman came around the corner and I knew she had to be the other “guest.” Filler and lip injections; perfect red hair; high, fake breasts spilling out of a square-neck cocktail dress. A prime example of fifty being the new forty. Did I recognize her as one of the Housewives Of Wherever?

The mustachioed maître d’ and I exchanged a placid smile and then he escorted me around the curtain and into the bar.

What was he thinking about me? What did he know about Alessandro? What was I doing here? All questions that remained unanswered as I followed him through a railroad-style space, three rooms, one after the other. Low, tin ceiling. The first room was lined with pairs of small club chairs, overstuffed couches, and cocktail tables. The next section had two curtained banquettes on each side. Past this was a bar, or something like it. Like the people mingling there were in a friend’s kitchen, waiting for them to fix a drink. The sound of ice being scooped and shaken was comfortingly familiar. I wanted to go straight to the bar, forget the actual reason I was here. But?—

“Good evening, Claire.” A curtain from one of the banquettes was pulled aside as we approached and a hand, and a face, that face, beckoned me in. The maître d’ held the curtain back and Alessandro stood and kissed me on the cheek and it felt like a breeze, and crisp leaves, and clear water kissing rocks as it rolled effortlessly onward. How long had it been since a simple touch had been so evocative?

We both took a seat and I looked around. The wall next to me was brick. The dark, velvet couches on which we sat were about three feet apart. A small table mounted to the wall stuck out about a foot. Black cocktail napkins were already in place. A filigreed mirror hung above the table and out of it cropped a little wall lamp with an antique shade, casting a sienna hue.

Alessandro smiled, handed me an open drink menu, and I glazed over at the pages of options. I snapped it closed. “Whatever you’re having is fine.”

“An excellent choice.” His smile continued as he pulled a short chain that hung out from the wall. A doorbell-style light illuminated above it.

Within seconds, a server poked her head into our curtained cubicle. “What may I get you?” she asked softly, like the place was a library.

“Two Moonsets, please.”

“Right away.”

She left us. He explained, “It’s a negroni but with mezcal.”

I’d heard of both, but was unfamiliar with each. I wasn’t a drinker. I stuck to wine, mostly. “An excellent choice.” I was trying to be funny. It kind of worked. Maybe. “This is lovely.” I looked around, trying to keep from looking at him.

“It’s basically my office.” He spoke gently, fluidly. It had the rumbly feel of an idling boat engine. One of those vintage wooden ones that George Clooney was always standing up in. “Back when I lived here, it was my special-occasion place. Now, when I’m in the city, it seems like I’m here more than my sister’s.”

That’s right, his family lived here. He’d been born here, if I remembered correctly. His accent was certainly American. There were so many questions I had. Not the least of which was, Is this actually happening? And right next to that, Are you who you say you are? Descendant of Casanova? Really? Am I being played in some way I can’t begin to fathom? I told myself to stop questioning everything. I was along for the ride, however long or short it may be. I could get off whenever I wanted (Out. I meant out. I could get out whenever I wanted). I could leave now, even. If I wanted to.

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