Page 40 of Artifice
From the street, The Harborlight Dining Room appeared deceptively modest—a weathered clapboard facade with mullioned windows and a simple hanging sign swaying gently in the evening breeze.
But as Olive stepped through the blue door, she immediately understood why Margaret had called the place “the crown jewel of our little town.”
The restaurant occupied the second floor of a former captain’s house built in 1843, with panoramic windows overlooking the harbor. White linen tablecloths draped over antique mahogany tables, each set with gleaming silver and delicate porcelain bearing the restaurant’s nautical emblem.
Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the space, their light supplemented by hurricane lamps at each table. In the corner, a pianist played Debussy on a baby grand, his notes floating above the hushed conversations of the other diners.
The maître d’—a silver-haired gentleman who introduced himself as Maurice—led Olive to a corner table where Principal Denarau was already waiting.
He rose when Olive approached.
The man was in his mid-forties and nice-looking with a trim body and a full head of dark hair just beginning to gray at the temples.
But what surprised Olive more than his good looks—which really didn’t shock her since she’d seen pictures of him online—was how nicely he was dressed.
Before she had taken the job at Aegis, she probably wouldn’t have been able to pick out designer labels. But since it paid to pick up on details like that now, she’d become fairly astute at it.
The suit he wore right now probably cost at least seven thousand dollars.
The clothing seemed quite expensive for the principal at a home for troubled teens.
“Ms. Bettencourt,” he said with a practiced smile.
She grinned. “Please, call me Liv.”
“And you can call me Michael.”
He already had a hand extended. Olive went in, fully expecting a handshake.
Instead, Principal Denarau pulled her hand to his lips and planted a soft kiss there. “So glad to have you here with us.”
So this man was a charmer.
Of course, with someone like Margaret as the director of the school, maybe his charm balanced out her dour attitude.
“It’s good to be here.” Olive kept her voice friendly but professional.
She had some hard-hitting topics she needed to address with him, and she didn’t want to seem too chummy before diving into the difficult questions.
He pulled out a seat and pushed it in for her.
This was beginning to feel more like a date than a meeting. She hadn’t expected that.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a bottle of Harborlight’s private reserve Chablis. The perfect accompaniment to their signature dish.”
“Which is?” Olive accepted the napkin that Maurice unfurled with a flourish before placing it in her lap.
“Atlantic halibut en croûte,” Michael replied. “Local halibut encased in a puff pastry with a lobster and scallop mousse, served with champagne beurre blanc and seasonal vegetables from the restaurant’s own organic garden. Chef Larousse trained in Paris before returning to his hometown to open this establishment fifteen years ago. The halibut has been written up inFood & Winetwice.”
As if on cue, Maurice returned with an ice bucket containing the wine. “Chef sends his compliments, Principal Denarau, and wishes to inform you that he’s prepared his special truffle variation of the halibut this evening, as you prefer.”
Michael nodded appreciatively. “Excellent. We’ll both have that, Maurice. And perhaps start with the oysters? The Pemaquid Pointers are exceptional this season, I’m told.”
“Very good, sir.”
As Maurice withdrew, Michael leaned forward slightly. “I hope you don’t mind my presumption in ordering. The halibut truly is transcendent—and I thought it might be a fitting prelude to our discussion about the future of Lighthouse Harbor.”
Actually, Olive did mind. She preferred ordering her own food and drinks.
