Trust Me (4 page)

“Do you really think so?” Juliet asked eagerly.

“Definitely,” Desdemona said enthusiastically. She started to say something else but broke off as a shadow fell across the table. She looked up. “Oh, hi, Ian. Great show.”

“Mona,” the new arrival exclaimed. “Good to see you. Who's your friend?”

“This is Sam Stark. Everyone calls him Stark. Stark, this is Ian Ivers.”

“Hello,” Stark said.

Ian did a stagy double take. “Not
the
Sam Stark of Stark Security Systems.”

Stark did not consider that the question warranted a response, so he took another swallow of espresso instead.

Henry stepped in to cover the awkward moment. “One and the same.”

“How about that.” Ian grinned and stuck out a hand toward Stark. “Glad to meet you. Didn't realize you were into theater.”

“I'm not,” Stark said. He had a feeling he was not going to like Ian Ivers.

Ian was in his mid-thirties. He was short, and as Stark discovered when he reluctantly shook hands, his palms were unpleasantly moist. Both his jawline and his waistline had already gone soft. Perhaps they had never been firm. He wore his shoulder-length hair, which was thinning on top, in a ponytail. There was a gold ring in one of his ears. His stylish, wide-legged, heavily pleated olive green trousers flowed over his shoes. His iridescent black and green shirt sparkled in the neon light.

“Couldn't help overhearing your comment, Stark,” Ian said with an expression of deep admiration. “Henry's right. Great insight on Juliet's performance. Real flatness there. And don't overlook the cathartic sense of sexual release that occurred at the moment of impact.”

Stark surreptitiously wiped his hand on a small napkin. “I'm not sure I picked up on that.”

“It was very subtle,” Ian assured him. “Listen, I gotta run. Got some money people waiting for me. Promised 'em I'd talk to 'em right after tonight's performance. But I'd really like to get together with you soon, Stark. Contemporary theater needs guys like you.”

Stark stared at him. “I doubt it.”

“Hey, I'm serious here,” Ian said. “Not every man in your position appreciates the importance of fringe theater. I'll get back to you.” He winked at Desdemona. “See you, Mona.”

He lifted a hand in farewell and hurried off to a booth in the corner.

Desdemona wrinkled her nose at Juliet and leaned forward. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Honestly, I can't believe you and Aunt Bess want me to go out with him. You know I never go out with men who call me Mona.”

“Give him a chance,” Juliet insisted in a low voice. “He's really a nice guy, and the two of you have a lot in common.”

“Forget it.” Desdemona rolled her eyes and gave Stark a wry look. “Juliet and my aunt are incurable matchmakers.”

“I see,” Stark said. He made a mental note never to call her Mona. “You have to admit that Desdemona is a rather unusual name in this day and age.”

“I chose it myself when I was five years old,” Desdemona said proudly.

Stark nodded. “So, what's your real name?”

“Desdemona is my real name.”

“I mean what were you called before you were called Desdemona?”

“Susan or something,” Desdemona said carelessly. “I don't remember for certain.”

Stark stared at her, amazed. No one at the table seemed interested in the topic. He reminded himself that actors frequently changed their names. Further evidence of their erratic natures, he supposed.

Juliet sighed glumly. “I wasn't trying for a cathartic sense of sexual release, you know.”

Desdemona's eyes gleamed. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” Juliet said.

“I guess that explains why I didn't get it,” Stark said.

“Maybe I should have gone for it,” Juliet said. “Might have kept the Eastsiders interested.”

“Don't worry,” Henry said in a consoling tone. “It'll take at least a week to close the show.”

“And you've always got your day job,” Desdemona said cheerfully.

Henry laughed. “That's right.” He put a comradely arm around Desdemona. “Thank God for the one member of the family who has achieved financial stability.”

Juliet slumped gracefully against the back of the booth. “Sometimes I think I'm fated to stuff mushroom caps for the rest of my life.”

“You can thank Stark for the fact that there are still mushrooms to be stuffed.” Desdemona's eyes met his over the top of her cup. “Right Touch is going to make it through another tax quarter because he was chivalrous enough to pay the tab for his canceled reception this afternoon.”

For some reason, Stark was embarrassed. “Forget it.”

“Abandoned at the altar.” Juliet was momentarily distracted from her own trials. “Incredible. I've never actually met anyone who was left standing at the altar. Sorry I had to miss it. I had rehearsal.”

“I wish I'd missed it, myself,” Stark muttered.

“Kirsten and I were handling the champagne,” Henry told Juliet. “We saw the whole thing. A very heavy scene. Audience of two hundred.”

“No kidding?” Juliet's eyes widened as she gazed at Stark. “Two hundred people saw you get dumped?”

“A full house,” Stark admitted.

Henry hunched over his espresso cup and peered intently at him. “Mind if I ask you a question?”

“Depends,” Stark said.

“What was it like when you realized she'd ditched you? I mean, what was the first thing that went through your head?”

“The same thing that probably went through the fly's head a second before the swatter got him in
Fly on a Wall
,” Stark said.

Kirsten grinned. “You mean you experienced a sense of being on the verge of a cathartic sexual release?”

“Not exactly.” Stark glanced at Desdemona. “As I recall, it was more along the lines of ‘What am I doing here when I could be having a nice day at the office.’”

Desdemona's soft mouth curved with wry sympathy. “That thought was no doubt soon followed by the realization that he was going to be stuck paying for a wedding even though he hadn't gotten married.”

“The fiancée flamed out and left you with the whole tab, huh?” Henry shook his head. “Bummer.”

“That's one way of putting it,” Stark agreed.

“We're all very glad you paid the bill, though,” Juliet said. “Desdemona had to buy a lot of the supplies on credit for that gig. If you hadn't come through with the cash, she'd have been left high and dry.”

“Which would have been bad news for us Wainwrights,” Henry added. “We depend on her to keep us employed when we're ‘resting between engagements,’ as my father likes to say.”

“Desdemona's the first member of the family in three generations to have a steady job,” Juliet said. “To tell you the truth, the older generation of Wainwrights finds it a little embarrassing.”

Desdemona hoisted her cup in a mock salute. “A blot on the Wainwright family escutcheon.”

“But a useful blot,” Kirsten said. She looked at Stark. “Actually, I'm hoping to follow in her footsteps.”

“You're going to get a steady job?” Stark asked.

“I'm going to start a small business, just like Desdemona did.”

Stark sipped his espresso. “Catering?”

“Not exactly.” Kirsten's eyes lit with the excitement of the incipient entrepreneur. “I'm going to open an upscale, very classy boutique right here in Pioneer Square.”

Stark eyed the long, purple, tunic-length sweater that she wore over a pair of tight purple pants. “Let me guess. Designer clothing?”

“No way,” Kirsten assured him. “There's a zillion clothing boutiques here in Seattle. I'm going to open a very special kind of shop. A place that will cater to women's sexual fantasies and consumer needs.”

Stark wondered if he'd missed a conversational cue somewhere along the line. It happened all the time. “Sexual fantasies.”

“You know, attractively colored condoms, for example. Women buy a lot of the condoms sold in this country, did you know that?”

“Uh, no. No, I didn't,” Stark admitted.

“Some pretty lingerie. Maybe some light leather, vibrators, instructional videos, erotica written by women, for women, that kind of thing.”

“I see,” Stark said.

“But all sold in a tasteful atmosphere.” Henry gave his wife a proud smile.

“Tasteful,” Stark repeated cautiously.

“I'm going to call it Exotica Erotica,” Kirsten said. “It will be a place owned and operated by a woman, catering specifically to female shoppers. Of course, men who are interested in buying sensual toys and such to give as gifts to the women in their lives will be welcome.”

Stark looked at her. “Is that a fact?”

“Exotica Erotica will be the kind of place where professional women and suburbanites will feel comfortable.”

“Even Eastsiders?” Stark asked.

“Especially Eastsiders,” Kirsten said. “I envision a place that will remind them of their favorite mall stores. Very upscale, like I said.”

“Not tacky,” Juliet added in case Stark had not grasped the concept.

“Definitely not tacky,” Henry agreed.

Kirsten leaned forward, her eyes filled with the zeal of a crusader. “Do you realize that in this culture there are virtually no decent, pleasant places where a woman can shop for products that are geared toward her sensual needs?”

“Uh, I hadn't given the matter a lot of thought,” Stark admitted.

“Who knows?” Henry said. “If the concept works, maybe Kirsten can franchise it.”

Stark looked at Kirsten. “When do you plan to open your store?”

“Just as soon as I can convince Desdemona, here, to cosign the loan papers at the bank.” Kirsten smiled at Desdemona.

Stark put down his cup with great precision. “So it's one of those situations.”

Henry frowned. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Desdemona smiled a little too brightly. “Forget it, Henry. The man's had a bad day. It's getting late. Maybe we'd better break up this little party.”

Henry checked the massive Mickey Mouse watch he wore on his wrist as he slid out of the booth. “It's only twelve-thirty.”

“I've got a consultation for a new job in the morning.” Desdemona scooted to the edge of the seat and stood. “Don't forget, I'll expect everyone who's scheduled to work tomorrow at Right Touch no later than ten. We've got a charity event in the afternoon.”

“We'll be there,” Juliet promised. “You really think I was good tonight?”

“You were terrific,” Desdemona said.

“Excuse me,” Stark said. “It's been a long day.”

“Yeah, sure.” Henry gave him a commiserating look. “We understand.”

Juliet got out of his way. “Sorry about what happened to you today.”

“I'll live.” Stark got to his feet and then paused, unsure of what to say to these strangers who had taken him under their collective wing for the evening. “Thanks for the show. And the coffee.”

“No problem,” Henry said. “The passes to
Fly on a Wall
were free, and you paid for the espresso.”

“True,” Stark agreed. “Nevertheless, I appreciate the company.”

Henry shrugged. “For what it's worth, you played that scene this afternoon like a pro. Just the right combination of cynical disdain and arrogant pride. The crowd loved it.”

“I've had practice.” Stark took his corduroy jacket off the coat hook. He looked at Desdemona. “I'll see you home.”

She smiled. “Thanks, but it's only three blocks, and I've got my car parked out front.”

“I'll ride with you and catch a cab from your place,” Stark said.

She gave him an odd look, but she didn't argue. Stark took her arm. It felt good. He guided her out of the crowded espresso bar and into the chilly spring night.

First Avenue, which ran through the heart of Pioneer Square, was crowded with people, as it usually was on a Saturday night.

Live jazz and heavy rock poured from the open doors of the packed taverns and bars that lined the street. Muscle-bound bouncers perched on stools at the entrances of the clubs. They flirted with wispy young women who wore heavy red lipstick on their mouths and rhinestones in their noses.

Desdemona's red Toyota was parked at the curb. She got behind the wheel and unlocked the door on the passenger side. Stark could not think of anything particularly witty or clever to say, so he stayed silent as she eased the little car into traffic.

After the first block he noticed that he did not feel the usual pressure to make conversation. It was a relief.

Two blocks later Desdemona turned a corner, drove partway down an alley behind an aging brick building, and used a remote control to open the steel gate of a parking garage. Inside, she slipped the Toyota into a parking stall.

Stark got out and walked her to the elevator.

“Do you want to come upstairs to my place to call a cab?” Desdemona asked as they waited for the elevator doors to open.

Stark suddenly realized that he wanted to go upstairs to her apartment more than he wanted anything else in the world. This was supposed to be his wedding night. “No, I'll get out at the lobby. I can find a cab on the street.”