THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Twenty-Three
THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Twenty-Three
The restaurant was called The Red Olive, and its hip but casual interior only amplified my excitement. The hostess ushered us to a table in the middle of the restaurant, a cozy two-top with white tablecloth facing the stage a few rows back. Other couples and groups were already filling in, and a quiet hum of chatter filled the room. The light, buttery scent of olive oil lingered in the air, topped with a crisp note of toasted crust. I could tell I was going to love it here.
The generous length of tablecloth hid my unexpectedly short skirt, and I began to relax and skim the menu the waitress had handed us.
“Hand-tossed,” Adam read. “I don’t suppose that’s the right kind, is it?”
“It’s probably a thin crust, but I’m sure it’s good. It smells amazing in here. You really haven’t been before?”
“No, not really my style. But I’m glad you like it.” His eyes held a hopeful glimmer.
The waitress came over and took our drink orders. I asked for a Coke, and Adam ordered sparkling water. The waitress gave us a funny look as she left the table. What was that all about? I looked around. Besides the color of my hair, there wasn’t much difference between us and the other couples in the restaurant. I leaned over to Adam, who was flipping over the menu.
“Did I do something wrong?” I whispered.
Adam looked up. “I don’t think so. Why?”
I glanced at the waitress, who was punching in the order at a server stand on the far side of the room. “The server gave me a weird look after I ordered my drink.”
“Oh. That.” Adam shook his head a little. “It’s sort of customary to have beer or wine in these types of establishments, so long as you’re eighteen.” He paused. “You are over eighteen, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, I’ll be twenty-one this fall.”
Adam looked relieved, which seemed weird, but he added, “Then you can order whatever you like.”
“Coke is fine,” I said, but wondered why he wasn’t drinking. I had noticed at nearly every other table people had some kind of alcohol drink in hand. But then again, most of them probably lived around here and weren’t driving home. That must be it.
“I’ll split the check with you, by the way,” I said.
“Sorry?”
“I can pay for my own dinner.”
He squinted at me, as though trying to interpret what I’d said, until finally a glimmer of recognition showed. “Is this because of what I said about The Vagina Monologues? You do know I was being sarcastic, don’t you?”
Before I could reply, the master of ceremonies came to the microphone and our eyes were swept toward the small stage in front.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a very special show for you this evening. Tonight, direct from Paris, the swinging jazz sensation, Celeste and the Bouchard Five!”
The restaurant had a full house by now, and the crowd erupted in applause as a dark-skinned woman with gold-tipped hair and a long satin gown took the microphone in front. Her bandmates joined the stage—a saxophonist, a trumpeter, a pianist, a bassist, and a drummer.
“Thank you,” she said in a resonant voice with a light French accent, her sparkling pink lips stretched into an enigmatic smile. She looked back to the trumpeter, who nodded, and the music began.
I knew the song from the first smoky notes of the trumpet, a clarion of clear, bright reverberation with just the softest breath around the edges— “Misty.” When Celeste opened her mouth to sing, a river of sound, perfectly pitched with the richest timbre, flowed from that stage and flooded the room. I was entranced, transported, elevated to another time and place, the tinkle of the piano keys, the tangy low notes of the saxophone, the soft swishing on the snare, and the warm embrace of the humming double-bass, all putting me on my dad’s lap in the corner of our living room, listening to Ella Fitzgerald’s record one more time.
The sepia-toned glow from the brass table lamp. The soft nap of the blue velvet armchair. The light smoky smell that clung to Dad’s beard. It was all there, so real, so beautiful, and my heart—my poor, broken, beat-up heart—felt healed in that moment, knit back together with the memory and the song. When Celeste finished, I had to press my fingers to the corners of my eyes to stop the tears that threatened to flow over and smear my mascara.
There was a light touch on my elbow.
“Are you alright?” Adam asked me over the roar of applause from the room.
“I’m fine,” I said and took a quick sip of the Coke, its sharp cold sweetness shocking my senses enough to clear my eyes again.
Adam didn’t look convinced, but soon the waitress returned to take our pizza orders, and the food that arrived shortly thereafter was a welcome respite while the sea of emotion settled inside me. I nibbled away, engrossed in the music. Every song was as beautiful as the last, and by the time the first set was finished, I had barely eaten more than one slice.
“Is it not very good?” Adam asked, looking at my plate.
“Oh no, it’s great! Really tasty. Your friends are just so talented, I keep getting distracted.”
The lines on his forehead relaxed. “Would you like to say hello?” he offered.
“Can we?”
Adam led the way to the side of the stage where Celeste stood laughing with the MC. When she caught sight of us, she excused herself and came down the steps, arms open wide.
“Le voilà! Mon agneau perdu!” she exclaimed, wrapping her arms around Adam and kissing both his cheeks. “It has been too long, Adam. Look at you, you are so thin! You are taking care of yourself, no?”
“Of course I am, Celeste,” he said with good humor.
“That’s good. We cannot have you running yourself to rags, you know. But what is this? You have not introduced your date!” she chided, turning an eager smile to me.
“Oh, I’m not his—” I started, feeling my cheeks warm.
“She’s not my—” Adam interjected.
“We’re not together,” I said.
“We live together,” he said.
“In separate rooms,” I added, feeling idiotic as soon as the words came out.
“She’s a guest at the Ratliffe House. Summer abroad student from America. Sort of an unusual situation,” Adam finished, then cleared his throat.
Celeste looked between us, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Bien sûr. And who would not love such company?”
I stuck out my hand before things could get any more awkward. “Hi. I’m Lucy—Lucy Steppenwolf.”
Celeste wrapped her long fingers around mine and squeezed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lucy.”
“I just wanted to say, you were amazing up there. I mean, the way you sang ‘Misty,’ it was like you were channeling Sarah Vaughan and Julie London and Ella Fitzgerald all at the same time. It was seriously one of the most incredible things I’ve ever heard.” The words tumbled out so quickly, I felt myself tearing up again, but Celeste’s blue-brown eyes were full of understanding, as though she could see the very scars that her music had touched in me.
“You’re incredibly kind. It means so much to hear, merci, Lucy.”
She turned to Adam. “You know, Adam, I like your friend. She has a soul for jazz. I’m so glad both of you could come, together. This is our last tour for a few months.” She rubbed her hand a little against the glistening satin draped over her belly. “There’s un petit joining the band soon.”
“You’re joking! I had no idea!” Adam looked elated. “Congratulations!”
“Oui, I wanted to tell you in person. Donnie and I are going to take a little break and finally record our studio album.”
“That’s brilliant! I’m so happy for you, Celeste. And Donnie too, the old scoundrel.”
The trumpeter, in a checkered shirt, called to Celeste from the stage, then lifted his chin in recognition and made a short wave at Adam.
“There’s the old scoundrel now!” She giggled. “I have to get ready for the second set. So good to see you, Adam.” She leaned in again for a little kiss on each cheek. “And to meet you, Lucy,” she said, turning to me. She leaned in and gave me a little cheek kiss too, surprising me. “Take good care of him,” she whispered. With a wink, she turned and climbed back up to the stage.
Back at our table, the waitress had just taken our dessert order when the MC came back to the microphone to announce the second set. The crowd clapped again, and Celeste took the stage with the rest of the band.
“Merci, merci, thank you, everyone,” Celeste said, her hand pressed to her heart. She paused, and a mischievous twinkle came into her eyes as she waited for the applause to die down. Then she leaned into the microphone and spoke again. “I would like to dedicate this next song to my friends Adam and Lucy.”
Every head in the restaurant whipped around to look at us as Celeste gestured toward our table. I gave a surprised look at Adam. What is this about? I asked with my eyes. Don’t know, he telegraphed with a shrug. But as the band began to play, my pulse quickened. Uh-oh. I knew this tune, and I knew what it was about. I glanced at Adam, who still appeared puzzled. Holding my breath, I faced the stage and waited for the opening lines of “Let’s Fall in Love.”
Of course, she had to sing it in that slow, sultry, Nat King Cole style. A charming, willful suggestion, bathed in lamb-like innocent phrases about our hearts being made for love, us being young, and other perfectly reasonable excuses. I stared at Celeste’s shoes, unable to meet anyone’s gaze. I’m not ready. I don’t want to fall in love. Adam Ratliffe was a lot of things: handsome, funny, interesting, successful. And sure, I was crushing on him a little. But I wasn’t ready to love him, was I? Moreover, how would I feel if he loved me? Yet Celeste continued to weave her magic spell, and as the song continued, each thought became more difficult to ignore. It was rapturous; it was painful; it was convincing. Maybe now was the time to try; maybe I was more ready than I thought. I felt dizzy and feverish, and despite realizing that a glance at Adam would tell me all I needed to know, I couldn’t turn my head.
When the song finished, I practically gasped with relief. The room applauded, and I felt the eyes of some of the audience crawling on my neck. Ugh! “Just fall in love, you guys! No pressure or anything!” And I thought I’d been embarrassed having to talk tampons with Adam and his plumber in my bathrobe. I sipped my Coke to soothe the lump in my throat, and welcomed the distraction of the waitress delivering dessert.
For the entire second set, Celeste proceeded to croon though song after song of love and romance, all the while beaming at our little table. I dared to sneak a peek at Adam once, only to find the sphinx had returned again, indifferent to the world around him, fully engaged in chipping away his raspberry gelato with the tip of his spoon. I guess that answers that. He’s definitely not falling in love. Not with me, anyway. But I didn’t know whether to feel disappointed or relieved. When the performance ended and the waitress brought our check, he promptly paid, waved goodbye to Celeste—who I saw cast a knowing glance at her husband—and said something about not keeping me out too late as we headed to the car.
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