The Ladies' Man (8 page)

“Of course I did.”

“Was she thrown for a loop?”

“You did a pretty goddamn unforgivable thing,” says Richard, “so this attitude—‘Was she thrown for a loop?'—doesn't make me think you grasp the big picture.”

Nash wasn't expecting this unpleasantness. He is fully awake now, and distracted by the fact that he is naked under the covers while two women are conversing in Spanish directly outside his door. “I take it Adele never married,” he says.

“No, she didn't—”

“Did Lois?”

“Did
you
?”

Nash says, “I've come close.” He hears the maid letting herself in, but doesn't warn her. At the sight of him in bed, the young
woman cries, “I come back.” Nash says in Spanish, “It's okay. Close your eyes. I'll put something on.”

The maid retreats, and from the safety of the hallway repeats, “No, is okay. I come back.”

Nash confides to Richard, “I'm stark naked, and the maid just let herself in.”

“You speak Spanish?”

“Enough. Maid-speak.”

“Don't scare her,” says Richard. “They put up with enough shit without having to deal with naked guests.”

Nash laughs. “I'm a big tipper.”

Richard says, “Go get dressed. I'll see you in a couple of hours.”

Adele wears charcoal gray, a stunning wool jersey sheath that Lois brought back from her honeymoon in Paris. It is dressier than what she generally wears to the station, especially accessorized by her black suede high heels and her late mother's double strand of pearls. Her coworkers have been paying her compliments since nine
A.M.
, and asking why she's all dolled up.

“Meeting my brother for lunch,” she tells them. “Maison Robert.”

“Not your birthday?” someone asks.

“Not a job interview?” asks the new station manager with a smile.

Later they will agree she seemed different that morning. Nothing specific, but definitely not herself.

Richard points out that Harvey could hardly be guilty of standing her up if he didn't know she was joining them.

“Regardless,” says Adele. “If he's not here in five minutes, we leave.”

“Fine.”

“The maître d' can say, ‘Your party didn't want to wait.' ”

“Fine.”

“I don't want to begin this lunch with his stupid apology for keeping us waiting, at which point we'll feel compelled to say, ‘Don't worry about it. These things happen.' ”

Richard says, “If you stay and have lunch with me, I'll ask your advice. I know how much you like that.”

“About what?”

“Me and Leslie.”

Adele says, “You told me there was nothing wrong.”

He raises his index finger to his lips. “On the condition that we have lunch together. Until then, I'm a closed book.”

“What time do you have?” she asks.

“Seven past one.”

“That's long enough.”

“Fifteen minutes is the usual grace period.”

“Not in this case,” she says.

“By the way, you look great,” he says after another minute.

Adele smiles briefly; checks her watch.

“Haven't I seen that dress on Lois?”

“It used to be hers. She gave it to me after the divorce.”

“That's nice—that you two can wear the same clothes.”

Adele says, “You don't have to make small talk.”

At exactly one-fifteen, she walks to the maître d's podium to say they'd like to be seated at a table for two instead of what they had reserved.

“Of course,” says the man, as he scans his seating chart and plucks two menus from a box.

“If a gentleman asks for us, could you say ‘The Dobbin party left'?”

The man looks as if such a statement would cause him pain. Richard, at her side, says, “You can't ask him to police the restaurant, Dell.”

When they are seated at a small table in a line with other small tables, and have ordered drinks, Richard says, “He could be stuck in the subway. It might not be his fault.”

Adele opens her menu and says, “It's always his fault.”

Richard smiles the good-natured smile of the habitually dressed-down baby brother.

Adele says, “Now can I ask you about Leslie?”

Richard repeats, “Ahh, yes: Me and Leslie,” as if it were the title of an often-requested and tiresome song.

The waiter brings Adele's glass of Chardonnay and Richard's beer. The party at the next table gets their salmon and their striped ravioli, which bring Adele and Richard back to the menus. “What do you feel like?” he asks.

Adele closes her menu and says, “I'm going to surprise you.”

“How?”

“Steak with garlic mashed potatoes on a bed of bitter greens. I'll skip dinner.”

“I'm having …” Richard's eyes travel down the page before he announces, “… the lobster B.L.T. with watercress mayonnaise.”

“I saw that.”

“Want to share an appetizer?”

“You go ahead,” she says. “I'm taking you to lunch.”

“Maybe I'll have the smoked mussel chowder.”

“Good.”

Adele asks if he's spoken to Leslie since he left the night before.

“Actually, I didn't leave last night. I left Wednesday morning and stayed at Nora's Wednesday night.”

“Who's Nora?”

“Nora from Newton.” He smiles at his own alliterative cleverness, but Adele does not.

“You've taken up with someone else?”

“Absolutely not,” says Richard. “This is a friend with a couch.”

“From where?”

“From the office.”

“You don't have any male friends with couches?”

“You'll be happy to know Nora's a lesbian most of the time.”

Adele's face, which has been registering disapproval, freezes. “I don't believe it,” she says. Richard swivels around to see Harvey Nash, unescorted and unapologetic, advancing.

Richard rises and blocks Nash, who doesn't seem to interpret the stance as anything but a warm reception. “Good to see you,” Nash is saying to Richard, but his eyes are on Adele, and his smile is easy, even smug, as if he's pleased with the first glimpse of his blind date. “Sorry I'm late,” he says. “I got a little lost. Went to City Hall.” He is wearing a sports jacket in a black-and-white pinpoint check over a black T-shirt, and looks both more elegant and more casual than any man in the room.

Richard says tersely, “I told you, the
Old
City Hall.”

“Whatever. It's practically around the corner.” He extends his hand toward Adele, whose right hand tightens around her water glass instead.

“The maître d' wasn't supposed to let you in,” she says.

Nash, undeterred, cocks his head and asks, “Is this a private club?”

“You know what she's saying—”

Nash says calmly, psychiatrically, to Adele, “You're furious. Of course you are. Who wouldn't be?”

“That's right.”

“You've never forgiven me. And I had to show up late, which was the only test I had to pass. Christ. What a jerk.”

“You can say that again,” says Richard.

“I had no idea you'd be here,” Nash says to her. “Believe me, if I had known, I'd have been here a half hour ago.”

Richard lowers himself back down into his chair, and Nash kneads Richard's shoulders from behind. “I figured this guy wouldn't be here on the dot and wasn't going to be watching the clock.”

The maître d' jogs to Nash's side. “Monsieur—” he begins.

“Could you get me a chair?” asks Nash.

The maître d' says, “I believe that's up to Madame.”

“We've ordered,” says Richard.

“I don't mind,” says Nash. “I'm not that hungry.”

“Madame?”

Adele, not wanting to attract attention, and aware that her face is familiar to viewers of public television who tune in to Pledge Week, says pleasantly enough, “I don't think there's room.”

The maître d' offers to relocate them—with profound apologies for the misunderstanding—to a suitable table: Leave everything. Just take your personal effects.

Nash leads and choreographs: Richard next to Adele; Adele opposite Nash, where he stares at Adele, doing his best to flash messages of wordless admiration. The waiter transfers their wine and beer. Nash says, “Coffee, please,” and adds that he's just in from the West Coast, and his body clock is set at breakfast.

Adele asks, “Why did you want to have lunch with my brother? Richard doesn't speak for me.”

Nash repositions pieces of silverware as if deep in thoughtful
contemplation. He sighs, looks squarely into her face, and says, “I was afraid to talk to you without some sort of clearance—”

Richard said, “You rang the doorbell in the middle of the night. It was just by coincidence that I was there.”

“All of a sudden?” says Adele. “After all this time you decided you had to see me?”

“You look wonderful,” Nash blurts out, as if nothing else can be expressed until that obvious truth is proclaimed.

Adele harrumphs.

Nash leans in and cajoles, “And I do, too, don't you think? For a guy old enough to be our father?” He throws back his head and laughs.

Against her will, Adele smiles wanly.

“See, I'm not so bad.”

“We have to disagree,” says Richard.

“Are any of us married?” asks Nash.

“Are you?” asks Adele.

“Regrettably not,” says Nash. “I mean, ‘regrettably' in the sense that I missed out on having children.”

“It's not too late for you,” says Adele. “You can father a child today. You're at a distinct advantage.”

Nash closes his eyes and shakes his head sorrowfully.

“You can't?” asks Richard.

“Technically,” says Nash. “Am I physically capable of impregnating a woman today or tonight? Yes. Emotionally? Is that what I want to do? Am I desperate to father a child?” He shakes his head again and looks aggrieved.

Adele leans closer and says, “But you did father a child, Harv. He was born nine months after you left—Harvey Junior.”

“Adele!” says Richard.

Nash says, “That's not possible.”

Adele says to her brother, “He's alluding to the fact that we never had sexual congress.”

“Maybe I should leave,” says Richard.

“I deserved that,” says Nash.

The waiter arrives with Richard's chowder. Nash asks if the chef could scramble him some egg whites.

The waiter places a menu in front of Nash, as if to say, Perhaps you didn't realize that
we
decide what the chef makes.

“French, I see,” says Nash.

“Oui
,” says the waiter.

“A salad,” says Nash. He points to one. “Could you make this artichoke and shaved parmesan as an entrée?”

“I'll ask.”

“And a large Pellegrino.”

Adele says to the waiter, “Don't hold up our entrées while you're making his.” And to Nash: “I have to get back to work.”

He smiles and asks what she does.

“Development.”

“For whom?”

“For public television.”

“How wonderful. I'm a supporter of your sister station in Los Angeles.”

Adele stares with a near scowl.

“You're in L.A. proper?” asks Richard.

“An hour south, Newport Beach.”

“Bad commute?” asks Richard.

“Painless,” says Nash.

He expresses keen interest in their meals. Adele answers in a monotone—No, she usually has a light lunch, but today she felt like red meat.