Cream of the Crop
Page 61
The best part of the week? My friend Clara was in town, working on a hotel remodel in the Flatiron District. She traveled all over helping to rebrand hotels, specializing in historic hotels that were on the verge of going under. Sometimes it was as simple as bringing in a new manager, changing out some staff, or brightening up the rooms, but sometimes it was a complete overhaul. That was the case with the Winchester, a pre-WWI hotel that had hosted presidents and kings, movie stars and countless starlets. It had fallen on hard times, and in a last-ditch effort the family that owned it had hired Clara’s firm to try and rebrand it for the new batch of stars and starlets.
“You should see the dining room—heaven! It’s still got the original windows, hidden behind miles and miles of awful draperies, but the windows are still there.” Clara was sipping her sparkling water, hands flashing about as she talked a mile a minute. Clara moved almost constantly, her sleek runner’s frame seeming almost incapable of keeping still. Running ten miles a day four days a week (on the fifth day she’d push herself to fifteen if she had a race coming up), she competed in marathons and triathlons around the globe. She traveled a lot, was always on the move, although her schedule had been slowing down of late, as she took more projects that seemed to be based in the United States than abroad as was her norm.
Which was fine with me, because it meant I got to see her more often. And now that we had Roxie firmly ensconced in upstate New York, we were even all planning a weekend get-together just as soon as we could pin Clara down. Which was proving almost impossible.
“Mom and I used to have lunch in the tearoom at the Winchester when I was a kid,” I reminisced, thinking back to the wintry Saturdays we’d spend together. “I’d always order the French onion soup, which used to come in these fantastic earthenware crocks, all bubbly and cheesy. I’d always burn the hell out of my tongue because I couldn’t wait, but it was soooo worth it.”
“Shit, Natalie, if I had a nickel for every story I’ve heard like that, I’d have a lot of nickels! They still have those bowls; I found a bunch of them in a storage room. Trying new things is good, but when you have something you’re known for, like the onion soup? You never take it off the menu.”
“So will the new Winchester Hotel have onion soup again?” I asked.
“Hell yes,” she answered, raising a glass in salute. “When the tearoom reopens for the Christmas season.”
“My favorite time of year.” I sighed, thinking of the department store window displays and crowds, tourists and natives alike. “Do you know where you’ll be this holiday?”
“Not sure yet; there’s a hotel in Colorado we’ve been in talks with. Over a hundred years old, same family for generations, but really struggling. If we get it, I’m asking to go there.”
“You know you’re always invited to our house; my parents put on a killer holiday party.”
“Mm-hmm, I know,” she said, her eyes moving around the restaurant, not quite lighting on anything in particular. She never liked talking about family, or holidays. I only knew the little bit I did know from the few times she’d been pickled enough to talk about it. From what Roxie and I had been able to figure, her childhood hadn’t been a happy one. Never knowing her father, she’d been removed from her mother’s home early for reasons she didn’t talk about, and she’d bounced from one foster family to the next. What was amazing about Clara is having that kind of start in life could have broken her, but instead she’d struck out on her own as soon as she turned eighteen.
She’d won a scholarship to the Culinary Institute both Roxie and I attended freshman year, and like me, she realized quickly it wasn’t her cup of tea. But she stuck it out until the end of the year, and then applied for financial aid at a traditional four-year school in Boston.
The three of us had kept in touch through the years, and it was nice having us all on the East Coast again. I invited her year after year to holiday parties with my family, but she always politely declined.
“You know I appreciate the invitation, right?” she asked now, her voice quiet.
“You know I’ll always ask, right?” I answered with a question of my own.
She smiled. “One day I’ll say yes.”
“Perfect!” I said, patting her hand and changing the subject. “So, this guy I’ve been fucking—”
The waiter who’d discreetly been trying to peek down my dress all lunch dropped his tray of drinks.
Clara just held her head in her hands and laughed.
I walked back to work after lunch, with kisses and hugs from Clara and a promise to come over for dinner next week sometime when she was back in town. I’d picked a restaurant only a few blocks away from the office, and I took the long way back so I could walk a little longer. I wasn’t quite ready to go back to work yet. I was restless, I could feel it in my bones.
Oscar had been slowly driving me mad this week with his texts. His first came in Sunday night, before I’d even gotten to bed. Once again, I’d caught the last train home from Poughkeepsie, and was just turning the key in my front door when my phone buzzed in my pocket. Standing in the entryway, I read his text and his words made me flush scarlet almost instantly.
My bed still smells like you.
The next bubble was even better.
I still smell like you.
But the last bubble was my favorite.
Get your great comma big ass back up here, Pinup.
I did love a guy who didn’t need a thigh gap.
The texts continued all week, some flirty, some dirty, all designed to drive me crazy. We talked each night around nine, him going to bed so much earlier than I did since the cock crowed before dawn. Thank goodness that on weekends, he had some of the local 4-H kids come around to take care of the animals, affording him a rare Saturday or Sunday morning sleep-in.
“You should see the dining room—heaven! It’s still got the original windows, hidden behind miles and miles of awful draperies, but the windows are still there.” Clara was sipping her sparkling water, hands flashing about as she talked a mile a minute. Clara moved almost constantly, her sleek runner’s frame seeming almost incapable of keeping still. Running ten miles a day four days a week (on the fifth day she’d push herself to fifteen if she had a race coming up), she competed in marathons and triathlons around the globe. She traveled a lot, was always on the move, although her schedule had been slowing down of late, as she took more projects that seemed to be based in the United States than abroad as was her norm.
Which was fine with me, because it meant I got to see her more often. And now that we had Roxie firmly ensconced in upstate New York, we were even all planning a weekend get-together just as soon as we could pin Clara down. Which was proving almost impossible.
“Mom and I used to have lunch in the tearoom at the Winchester when I was a kid,” I reminisced, thinking back to the wintry Saturdays we’d spend together. “I’d always order the French onion soup, which used to come in these fantastic earthenware crocks, all bubbly and cheesy. I’d always burn the hell out of my tongue because I couldn’t wait, but it was soooo worth it.”
“Shit, Natalie, if I had a nickel for every story I’ve heard like that, I’d have a lot of nickels! They still have those bowls; I found a bunch of them in a storage room. Trying new things is good, but when you have something you’re known for, like the onion soup? You never take it off the menu.”
“So will the new Winchester Hotel have onion soup again?” I asked.
“Hell yes,” she answered, raising a glass in salute. “When the tearoom reopens for the Christmas season.”
“My favorite time of year.” I sighed, thinking of the department store window displays and crowds, tourists and natives alike. “Do you know where you’ll be this holiday?”
“Not sure yet; there’s a hotel in Colorado we’ve been in talks with. Over a hundred years old, same family for generations, but really struggling. If we get it, I’m asking to go there.”
“You know you’re always invited to our house; my parents put on a killer holiday party.”
“Mm-hmm, I know,” she said, her eyes moving around the restaurant, not quite lighting on anything in particular. She never liked talking about family, or holidays. I only knew the little bit I did know from the few times she’d been pickled enough to talk about it. From what Roxie and I had been able to figure, her childhood hadn’t been a happy one. Never knowing her father, she’d been removed from her mother’s home early for reasons she didn’t talk about, and she’d bounced from one foster family to the next. What was amazing about Clara is having that kind of start in life could have broken her, but instead she’d struck out on her own as soon as she turned eighteen.
She’d won a scholarship to the Culinary Institute both Roxie and I attended freshman year, and like me, she realized quickly it wasn’t her cup of tea. But she stuck it out until the end of the year, and then applied for financial aid at a traditional four-year school in Boston.
The three of us had kept in touch through the years, and it was nice having us all on the East Coast again. I invited her year after year to holiday parties with my family, but she always politely declined.
“You know I appreciate the invitation, right?” she asked now, her voice quiet.
“You know I’ll always ask, right?” I answered with a question of my own.
She smiled. “One day I’ll say yes.”
“Perfect!” I said, patting her hand and changing the subject. “So, this guy I’ve been fucking—”
The waiter who’d discreetly been trying to peek down my dress all lunch dropped his tray of drinks.
Clara just held her head in her hands and laughed.
I walked back to work after lunch, with kisses and hugs from Clara and a promise to come over for dinner next week sometime when she was back in town. I’d picked a restaurant only a few blocks away from the office, and I took the long way back so I could walk a little longer. I wasn’t quite ready to go back to work yet. I was restless, I could feel it in my bones.
Oscar had been slowly driving me mad this week with his texts. His first came in Sunday night, before I’d even gotten to bed. Once again, I’d caught the last train home from Poughkeepsie, and was just turning the key in my front door when my phone buzzed in my pocket. Standing in the entryway, I read his text and his words made me flush scarlet almost instantly.
My bed still smells like you.
The next bubble was even better.
I still smell like you.
But the last bubble was my favorite.
Get your great comma big ass back up here, Pinup.
I did love a guy who didn’t need a thigh gap.
The texts continued all week, some flirty, some dirty, all designed to drive me crazy. We talked each night around nine, him going to bed so much earlier than I did since the cock crowed before dawn. Thank goodness that on weekends, he had some of the local 4-H kids come around to take care of the animals, affording him a rare Saturday or Sunday morning sleep-in.
