Blessed are the Meek (5 page)

 

Chapter 9

T
HE PRESS-­CLUB DINNER
is black tie. Crap.

“The women will be wearing formal, floor-­length gowns and the men tuxedos,” the mayor's press assistant says when I call to confirm.

“Gotcha.” I hang up, thinking, what kind of ­people actually own “floor-­length gowns” for crying out loud? Not reporters, that's for sure.

On Saturday morning, with the dinner in T minus ten hours, I realize I need help. I pick up the phone.

“Mama, want to go shopping?”

“I'm on the next BART train.”

Just like I expected, she doesn't even mention the anniversary at the cemetery yesterday or that I've avoided her calls for the past week. I barely slept last night thinking of Caterina. I still wonder what triggered my mother's change of heart. It makes me uneasy, but I'm afraid to ask.

Today, as we shop at Union Square, my mother has slight dark circles under her eyes, and I wonder if she spent a sleepless night, as well. If so, only someone who knows her well would notice. She looks as stylish as ever in pressed jeans and a silky turquoise blouse. Her black hair is either in a tidy bun, or like today, a sleek ponytail. Her dark eyelashes seem even blacker with the slash of her signature red lipstick. She taught me
la bella figura
—­the Italian philosophy to present your best self always—­but I've always managed to bungle it. She's always had men flocking to her, but never remarried after my dad died. It was only after we kids moved out that she began dating another widower she's known since childhood.

Three hours of shopping later, I have a massive headache from trying on a variety of “floor-­length gowns” in silver, gold, and black. I kept getting sidetracked by the frothy chiffon sundresses in pretty oranges, turquoises, and pinks that would go great with my new strappy stiletto sandals. Finally, I settle on a black velvet halter dress. It's modest in front but has a plunging back side and is formfitting without being clingy or revealing. I fork over a month's salary at my mother's encouragement.

“You look like an angel in that dress,” my mother says over lunch at Scala's Bistro.

“Since when do angels wear black?”

“You know what I mean,” she says in exasperation. “Donovan will drop to one knee for sure when he sees you wearing it.”

I close my eyes and count to ten, so I don't explode. “Mama, please! Can you get off the marriage kick,” I say, holding my hand up to my throbbing head and waving away the waiter who is trying to refill my wine. “Plus, he's not going to see me in this anyway.”

“What? I don't understand.” My mother's hand freezes, with a forkful of expertly twirled linguine-­and-­clam pasta halfway to her mouth.

“The mayor's dinner is for reporters, not cops. Donovan's not invited. Besides, he's up at his sister's house in Sacramento this weekend for his nephew's christening.”

“He didn't invite you?” Her brow furrows. “Are you two having problems?”

“Mama, he did invite me, but I have to attend this dinner, so I couldn't go.” A blatant lie, which fills me with guilt.

I ignore her question about us having problems. I don't know if we are or not. I
do
know I haven't invited him to stay the night at my apartment since I caught him swooping in to rescue his old girlfriend from a murder rap. I look away, pushing around my shrimp risotto so it looks like I ate more than I did. I'm not hungry. For a girl with an appetite like mine, that's saying something.

“I pray every day that someday you realize work is not as important as love,” my mother says. “When you are on your deathbed, are you going to remember some horrible story you covered or the love you had with someone else?” She raises one eyebrow. I keep my face deadpan. “You have to be careful you don't lose this one because you put your job first.”

“Donovan's different,” I say, but flash back to the string of boyfriends who called it quits because of the demands of my job, including the one who did so on the morning of our wedding. Or rather, I broke it off but only because he told me he didn't want his wife to be a reporter.

“I hope so. He's a good man,” she says, dabbing her lips with the big linen napkin. She waits until she has my full attention before she says what she does next. “And Ella, you are . . . getting older. If you want to have children, you may not want to wait too long.”

I bite my lower lip and look away. What can I say? In a corner of the restaurant, several small children run and squeal, chasing one another around as their parents finish their meal. I can feel my mother's eyes on me like searchlights. I dip my head and rummage in my handbag for my lipstick. It's better than admitting what I feel deep down inside—­that lately, I can't bear the thought of becoming a mother.

After lunch, I drive my mother back to her home in Livermore, in the East Bay south of Contra Costa County, where my newspaper is located. We pass by the cemetery. I sneak a glance at my mother out of the corner of my eye. She is sitting ramrod straight, staring straight ahead.

 

Chapter 10

T
HE
F
AIRMONT
H
OTEL
was the first place Tony Bennett sang, “I Left My Heart in San Francisco” and is possibly the nicest hotel in the city. The beaux-­arts-­style massive white building sits atop Nob Hill. Tonight it is lit up in all its magnificence. I pull up to the valet stand in my beat-­up old Volvo sedan. At least it's clean. I spent an hour vacuuming and waxing it.

Normally, I would've walked or taken the bus from my place. But I knew my dress would've provoked whispering from the older women on the bus. Tromping up the hills of San Francisco in black velvet and stilettos would've been absurd.

The valet, a boy with freckles and close-­cropped hair, opens my door for me. As I get out, my sandal's spiky heel catches the hem of my dress, and I trip, falling right into the valet's arms. His face is as red as his uniform as he helps me regain my footing.

When I look up, it's my turn to blush. The mayor is a few feet away on the sidewalk, smoking. By the amused look on his face, he obviously saw the whole thing. Figures. Heading toward the door, I hold up the torn hem on my dress so it doesn't drag on the ground. I'll find a bathroom and assess the damage.

“Maybe I can be of some assistance,” the mayor says, coming over and offering me his arm. “Adam Grant.”

The jig is up.

“Gabriella Giovanni.”

The look on his face is blank.

“I'm with the
Bay Herald.
I'm attending your dinner this evening.”

“Aha! Well, then, how fortunate I had the chance to meet you beforehand,” he says, taking my elbow and leading me inside. “Shall we?”

The doorman tips his hat as we enter. Grant leads me to the concierge's desk. “Ethan, Ms. Giovanni has had an unfortunate accident. Do you think we can fix her up?”

“Yes, sir. In a jiffy. I'll send housekeeping right over.”

Grant leads me to a tufted chaise lounge nearby. “Sit. I'll keep you company.”

“Are you serious?”

“Why, yes.” He pats the seat beside him.

“Thank you. You've been very kind, but I can take over from here.” The thought of him watching someone sew my dress is humiliating.

“Oh, I would be remiss if I left you alone here. I like to think my mother raised me better than that.”

“But you're going to be late for your own dinner,” I say, and glance at my watch.

“That's one of the perks of being the host now, isn't it? The party doesn't start until I arrive.” He reaches into the inside pocket of his tuxedo and takes out a small phone. “Denise? I've been delayed a few moments, so can you keep everyone entertained? Maybe offer another round of champagne and aperitifs? Fabulous. And one other thing, can you do a bit of rearranging at the dinner table? I'd like you to move Gabriella Giovanni's seat so she's at my side. Thank you kindly.” He snaps the phone shut.

“You didn't have to do that.”

“It was my pleasure.” I look away from his eyes, crinkled in a smile.

A woman in a gray uniform arrives with a needle and thread, distracting his attention from me. I sneak a peek at him while he's not looking. He has silky black hair and Elizabeth Taylor blue-­violet eyes. Up close, his skin is lightly pockmarked, but this one small flaw makes him more attractive.

I thank the woman as she deftly mends the tear in my dress. She smiles but keeps her eyes on the fabric. When she finishes, I reach for my silver clutch, but Grant has already reached for her hand. I see a flash of green and what looks like a one with two zeros behind it. My face flushes. I was about to give her five bucks.

U
PSTAIRS, A TUXE
DO-­CLAD
waiter offers me a salmon canapé that I try to nibble at delicately. The bruschetta crumbles in my hand and I end up dropping a tiny flake of salmon down the front of my dress. The mayor has his back to me a few feet away so I turn toward the window and try to fish the pinkish flake out, but it slips deeper into the land of no return.

The dining room offers spectacular panoramic views from floor to ceiling of the Golden Gate Bridge on one side and the Bay Bridge on the other. I sense someone at my side and know before he speaks who it is.

“I argued with my staff about which room we should hold the dinner in. They said the Venetian Room is more fitting, but I find it stuffy and ostentatious.” I cast a glance to my side. Grant stares out the window as he speaks. “I prefer the Crown Room for its views.”

Before I can agree, an assistant whispers in his ear, and the mayor leads me to my seat. Others in the room follow his lead. The meal begins with oysters on the half shell. I sigh with pleasure as I taste one. Grant watches me. I'm self-­conscious under his gaze, trying to eat them in a ladylike manner.

“They say oysters are an aphrodisiac,” he says, lowering his voice so nobody else can hear.

My face grows warm. I've already had two glasses of champagne and nearly forgot why I was here—­to find out more about Mayor Adam Grant.
In case he had anything to do with Sebastian Laurent's murder.

“Have you read any interesting books lately?” I change the subject.

“I have actually,” he says. “I'm right in the middle of a few—­Jimmy Carter's latest and
Stupid White Men
by Michael Moore.”

“But you're a Republican!” I say, then regret it.

He laughs. “I'm also reading
The No Spin Zone
by Bill O'Reilly.”

“Well, that makes more sense.”

“I take it you're not a Republican?”

“Not even close. But don't tell anyone in my family.” I splash some Tabasco sauce and squeeze some lemon juice on a fat juicy oyster. “They'd disown me.”

“My lips are sealed,” he says. “I think we can still be friends even though I presume you didn't vote for me.”

I shrug, but he sees something on my face. “You did, though, didn't you?” He smothers a laugh.

He is poised as he tips the oyster shell up to his lips. His eyes never leave mine. I give a wry smile. “Yeah, I voted for you. We needed a change around here.” Then I see my opening. “Plus for a Republican, you're surprisingly supportive of the arts.”

“This
is
San Francisco,” he says, taking a small piece of garlic bread to mop up some juice on his oyster plate. “I would be foolish not to support the arts, now wouldn't I?”

“Yes, but you are personally supportive, too, aren't you? I thought I saw a picture of you at an art opening last week. For Annalisa Cruz.”

There it is.

He looks at me for a minute, and I catch the shadow of something flash across his face. “Oh, yes, Annalisa. She's a good friend of mine. We've known each other for years.”

“She's quite a talented artist,” I say, taking a sip of water but not taking my eyes off his face.

“Do you know her work?”

“I only just met her. I'm writing an article about Sebastian Laurent.”

I watch him carefully. Nothing unusual crosses his face this time. Instead, his eyes grow somber.

“His death was a damn shame.”

L
A
TER, AFTER THEY'VE
served dessert, I try again.

“You said Sebastian Laurent's death was a shame. Were you friends?”

“No, not at all,” Grant says, pushing back his plate of raspberry torte and taking out a thin, silver cigarette case. He's obviously immune to the city's antismoking laws. A waiter materializes by his side with a crystal ashtray. I guess if you're the mayor, you can pretty much do whatever the hell you want in your city. But I think it is brave of him to light up in front of a group of reporters who all have the means to spread negative publicity. Maybe just arrogant.

He exhales before he answers. “Sebastian was the jealous sort and resented my friendship with Annalisa. Despite that, I don't believe anyone deserves to die a violent death.”

“He was jealous of you? So I shouldn't interview you about my profile piece on him?” I eye his cigarette case, secretly sending him vibes to offer me one. He doesn't.

“Probably not, but my press office might be able to come up with a statement about his death and the loss to the community as a result. He brought a lot of business to the city with his company.”

I nod. He changes the subject.

It's late, and everyone else has left. Grant and I have talked for hours about everything—­except Annalisa or Sebastian Laurent again. I've run out of time and have nothing to show for my evening except some champagne and good food in my belly.

Grant walks me to the elevator. His staff members wait in the doorway behind us.

“I'll be right there,” he tells them.

I press the
DOWN
button and turn to him, looking up into those blue eyes.

“It's been such a pleasure,” he says, and gives me a slow smile that sends shivers down my bare arms. “I don't want it to end. I have an idea, and it might help with your story—­do you have plans tomorrow?”

I blink. “Uh, the usual Sunday routine—­Mass, then supper at my grandmother's house with my family.”

His hand reaches out toward me, and for some reason, I hold my breath. A current of electricity zips between us. Our eyes meet. Then his gaze drops, and I feel the slightest brush of his hand in the hollow beneath my neck as he pulls my necklace out of my dress and holds my Miraculous Medal between his fingers. It's light blue with a small silver etching of the Virgin Mary in the center. He caresses it between the pads of his fingers. His fingers grazing my neck combined with the suggestive gesture sends a thrill of desire through me that startles me and suffuses me with guilt.

“I saw this earlier and knew you were a good Catholic girl,” he says. “Would you have to do penance for missing Mass tomorrow?”

I blush and look away.

“I'm sorry if I offended you,” he says.

“You didn't,” I say, looking up at him again. The moment is gone, and I feel a surge of relief, thinking of Donovan.

“Would your family be terribly heartbroken if you skipped this Sunday?” he asks, taking a deep drag on his cigarette. I notice it is a Dunhill blue, like Annalisa Cruz smokes. He exhales before he finishes. “I commissioned Annalisa a few months ago on a larger piece for my house in Napa. The installation party is tomorrow, and I'd love for you to be there. Have some wine, food, and fun.”

I try not to hide my excitement. The chance to see Annalisa Cruz and him together is too good to pass up. Maybe, if one of them killed Sebastian, they'll let something slip. Maybe they were in on it together. I'm suspicious of his motives. Is he a player who hits on every woman he meets, or is his attention toward me part of a more cunning plan? Either way, I'm going.

“When you put it that way—­I think my family would be okay without me for one Sunday.”

The elevator door slides open, and I step inside, pushing the button for the lobby.

“Be sure to bring a swimsuit,” he says. And then, right before the door closes, he winks at me, and says, “By the way—­I wasn't at Annalisa's art opening last week.”

The door slides shut. Busted.