Page 28 of Single-Minded
“I believe I mentioned on the telephone that I need your help in designing our annual Wildlife Foundation fund-raiser in June. We raised eight hundred thousand dollars at the event last year. This year our goal is to raise one million dollars. Whatever psychological magic you do, this must be an elegant event. There are important people who will be in attendance and it is critical that we maintain a very high standard.”
“So my assignment here is to help you raise your donations by twenty percent,” I reiterate.
“Yes,” she says. “Without doing anything tacky.”
I’m a bit offended but I push through anyway. Does she actually think I’m going to be adding plastic table tents or jugglers or a fast-food-inspired color scheme?
“Please be assured that your event will be as elegant as always,” I say. “Most of what I do will revolve around the exhibit, bar, guest and table placement; the schedule and language of the evening; the color scheme; and the accompanying music.”
“We’ve already scheduled the orchestra,” Olivia sniffs. “The event is only four months away.”
“Of course,” I say. “I’ll just be working with them on musical selections, pacing, and timing for various hot points throughout your event.” I reach into my bag and hand her a color swatch. “This will be your biggest potential disruption,” I say. “This is Pantone Emerald 17-5641. It will need to be the anchor of your color scheme, although you’re free to work with any coordinating colors you choose to create the atmosphere of elegance you’re seeking.”
“I’m not sure I can work with green so late in the décor stage.” Olivia sighs.
“You want to raise your donation levels by 20 percent, this is how it works,” I say with absolute confidence. I hand her a few more green swatches as well as a business card. “These swatches are for your florist and other vendors, and this is a card for a table linen service that has our color anchor in linens and chair covers if the hotel or your vendor can’t provide them.”
She accepts the swatches and puts them inside a tiny Chanel pocketbook.
“Now, let’s go look at our venue, shall we?” I say, signaling the waiter for the check.
Two hours later we’ve gone over every inch of the ballroom and I rough out some notes about potential placement of various elements, and talk with Olivia at length about the Wildlife Foundation’s needs and what types of animals they are trying to raise the money for. A cute busboy pokes his head in and asks if we’ll be much longer. Nice eyes. Olivia is obviously not great with strangers, but she’s clearly taken with animals of all sorts, and bubbles over with excitement when talking about what her group has been able to accomplish with regard to various species. Olivia speaks as though she’s lost a beloved relative when talking about the loss of the Tasmanian tiger, and I put my arm around her bony shoulders as she dabs at her eyes with a silk handkerchief.
She promises to e-mail me a list of the species they’re working to save, and do her best to work with the color scheme I’ve provided. I don’t exactly see us becoming best buddies while we’re working on this project, or, ever, but at least she’s relatively pleasant when I keep her focused on the animals. We wrap things up at the valet stand, and she agrees to meet again at the end of the week.
“It was so nice to meet you Olivia,” I say, thrusting out my hand to shake hers. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”
She offers her hand up limply, like a dead fish. “I do hope our time together will be productive,” she says. A barrel of fun, that one.
By the time the valet brings my car around, it’s almost one-thirty and I’m starting to panic a little that I’ll be late for my next meeting with the chef. Luckily, his new restaurant is docked near downtown Sarasota, which is only a few minutes from the Ritz-Carlton, and so as long as I can find a place to park, I should make it on time.
20
I park my car at the marina, already a few minutes late, and try not to fall on my ass as I run down the dock in sky-high heels in search of my new client’s floating restaurant.
Oh gawd. This is it. It looks like a garbage barge. A gigantic, hundred-year-old garbage barge. The white and blue paint is peeling, and the whole thing is filthy, and covered in mucky gray film, but there are glimmers of long-gone elegance everywhere—gorgeous leaded-glass arched windows, and badly neglected but still solid mahogany. A classic red riverboat paddlewheel. Searching around for a place to board, I finally find the gangplank entry and make my way inside.
“Hello… Mr. Boudreaux,” I call loudly into the depths of the restaurant. It’s dim, with only minimal light coming from the stunning but dingy arched windows.
“I hardly recognized you without your tiara,”says a man from behind the bar, more gorgeous mahogany. I’m startled at the sound of his voice, and it takes me a second, and then it dawns on me where I’ve heard that melodic Southern accent before: Sterno Man. From the pantry.
“Uh, hi. Hello. You were at my party the other night,” I say, flustered.
He comes forward into the dining area, brushing dust or something off his hands and onto his pant legs. He wears a black T-shirt emblazoned with a band I’ve never heard of. It looks soft and worn in, revealing just a hint of his well-muscled arms and strong chest. His close-cropped brown hair is a bit disheveled, which is sort of cute, and just makes him seem down-to-earth and approachable. Dear gawd, what is it with me and gay men?
“Please, it’s Daniel. I’d shake your hand, but I’m all grimy from trying to get things set up in the kitchen.” He grins, and his whole face lights up. “Construction and cooking do not mix.”
“Nice to see you again,” I say, glancing around the restaurant-to-be. At least it’s in much better shape on the inside.
He absentmindedly brushes his fingers against the cleft of his chin. “Sorry for crashing. I’m new in town and my friend Carter invited me to a divorce party. I’d never been to one, so I thought it might be fun to check it out.”
“Any friend of Carter’s is always welcome! Or, uh,companion.…” I say awkwardly. “He’s one of my favorite people. It was my first divorce party too. What did you think?”
He smiles and his cerulean eyes sparkle. “I loved the concept, and the upside-down wedding cake was a masterpiece, but I thought it didn’t seem like very much fun for the bride.”
“Oh no, I was just… tired,” I explain. And humiliated. And heartbroken. And practically the only straight person in a fifty-mile radius. I take a deep breath and refocus—Daniel is a client. “At least the groom had fun,” I say.
“What a complete dick,” he says, shaking his head.
