Page 55 of Single-Minded
I nod my head no, still coughing in fits and starts. The kitchen is buzzing with activity from the line, and several servers make their way around us, as though we’re part of the furniture. Daniel hurriedly brings me a glass of water, and I take a sip, and then another. I hang my head in embarrassment, and he kneels down in front of me.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. What the hell is wrong with me?
“What’s going on?” he asks.
“It’s nothing. Carter brought a friend, Santiago, tonight. Santiago and Michael apparently… made a date… at our divorce party. It’s stupid. I was just taken off guard.”
“I understand,” Daniel says, holding the glass of water for me. His eyes are kind, and it makes me feel even more ridiculous. But how could he possibly understand?
“I’m sorry. This was a bad idea,” I say. “I should go.” I need to regroup. This is no way to behave in front of a client.
“Please stay,cher,” he says. “Eat something and you’ll feel better. You want me to toss him over the side of the boat? Maybe poison his appetizer?” He grins at me, and offers up the glass of water again. I giggle, in spite of myself.
“We can probably let him live,” I respond.
“Well, isn’t that generous of you.” He laughs and offers his hand to me. “Come on, you’ve already gotten the most awkward situation possible out of the way in the first five minutes of the party, now you can relax and just have a good time. I’ll make sure you don’t end up sitting at the same table with Santiago.”
“That’s kind of you,” I say, “but it’s really not necessary. I’m fine, I don’t want to trouble you.”
“It’s no trouble,cher,” he says, smiling. “I was looking for a good excuse to sit next to you anyway.”
47
Daniel and I exit the kitchen, as Carter and his little entourage cheer me on.
“She lives!” he says, extending his arms to hug me. Santiago and Lolly applaud enthusiastically, joined by several other guests who arrived while we were in the kitchen and have no idea why they’re clapping.
Carter hugs me and kisses me on the forehead, whispering, “Forgive me, Alex, I never would have brought Santiago if I’d known you were going to be here.”
I nod without saying anything. It’s the only way to ensure I don’t burst into tears.
“Also, I had no idea Michael told you they’d hooked up,” he says. “So that’s a little awkward.” I nod again, and search around for my empty wineglass. I probably need a refill.
Daniel makes introductions all around, as a few more people arrive. His construction manager, Scully, is there along with some of the crew, the metals artist who’s creating the Boudreaux sign, and several chefs I recognize from popular restaurants around town: the Cariguilos are here, as well as Michael Klauber and Phil Mancini of Michael’s on East, and Alyson Zildjian, a talented Sarasota caterer. Sarasota is a small beach community, and many of the guests already know one another well. Cliff Roles, man about town and the city’s most outrageous and colorful photographer, alternates between mingling with guests and snapping pictures, some of which include him. There are about thirty guests in all, and I know or have heard of about ten of them. It’s a colorful, creative, and boisterous crowd, comprised of probably every person Daniel has met since he moved to town a few months before. The wine flows and the food is heavenly.
I’m chatting with Lolly when I spot him out of the corner of my eye: Dr. Creepy. Daniel is on his way toward me with a glass of wine, when Dr. Creepy sees him and makes a beeline in his direction. Creepy doesn’t notice me until it’s too late.
“Brett,” says Daniel warmly, “glad you made it.”
“Thanks for the invite,” says Dr. Creepy.
Daniel touches my shoulder gently, “Alex, this is Brett.” He gasps audibly. Well, this is going to be interesting. “Brett, meet Dr. Alex Wiggins, she’s an environmental psychologist and her firm is helping to design the milieu for Boudreaux.” I turn to face Dr. Creepy head-on. There’s no getting out of it now.
“We’ve met,” I say, trying not to let on how much I despised him. Or the fact that it took me the better part of an hour to figure out how to get the picture of his junk permanently off my phone. Somehow the image had gone to the cloud, and by the time I got home, the slimy little weasel (and his slimy little weasel) was added to my laptop and my iPad, not to mention most likely permanently archived somewhere on my backup drive. It would not go away.
“So how do you two know each other?” I ask.
“He’s part of the boat restoration crew,” says Daniel. “The guys call him ‘Barnacle Brett.’ He’s scraping the barnacles off the boat, getting her all cleaned up.” He laughs and pats Brett on the shoulder. “I think this might be the only time we’ve ever had a conversation when you weren’t wearing a wetsuit.”
Dr. Creepy, aka Barnacle Brett, looks mortified, and I cannot contain my smile. It’s awful, and petty, I know. But it’s also deeply satisfying. And, it explains why so many people knew him at Marina Jack—he probably cleaned the barnacles off half the yachts in the marina.
Barnacle Brett excuses himself quickly, mumbling something about needing to find the men’s room. I wish Darcy were here to see what just happened. She’d be laughing her ass off.
Sitting down at a table next to Carter and Lolly, I’m certain that Santiago will be close by, but I’m determined not to care. I watch Daniel make his way around the deck, chatting easily with new friends and acquaintances. He’s a natural host, charming and funny, effortlessly gracious and welcoming. You’d never know by looking at him that he’s only been in town for a few months. He schmoozes like a local.
The evening is perfect, not too warm, and it’s clear enough to see the stars over the Sarasota Bay on one side of the boat, and Sarasota’s famous kissing statue over the other. The party guests cluster in small groups of old friends and new, laughing and talking, enjoying the food, the wine, and all the evening has to offer.
Carter and I are cracking up about some old story we’ve forgotten all but the punch line to, and the group of us squeeze in together when Cliff Roles comes by to snap a few photos. I try surreptitiously to size up Santiago without him noticing—weirdly curious about what attracted Michael to him. He’s on the short side, but muscular. He has a thick Cuban accent, and a loud and easy laugh. Also his pants are very, very tight.
