No relationship was perfect; too often couples failed because one side was left holding the bag of responsibility—one person making all the effort, the other making none. But Paul and Vera had grown into each other. They’d each made the effort to overcome life’s obstacles. It was almost too easy. That was how he knew it was real—the manner in which their bond had developed. Sometimes he could melt just thinking about her, seeing her in his mind: her beauty, her kindness, her ideals. He could not imagine being with anyone else in the world.
Paul’s love made him feel exalted.
“Excuse me. Aren’t you Paul Kirby? The writer?”
Paul glanced up. Two women stood to his right, a redhead and a blonde. “That’s right,” he said. “How did you know?”
“I saw your picture in the Capital once,” explained the redhead. “I’ve read a lot of your stuff.”
Paul felt distantly flattered; he was not used to being picked out of a crowd, especially in a bar crowd. He tried to think of an erudite reply, but some distraction pecked at him. Dots of light from the glitterball roved the redhead’s bare shoulders. She wore a short strapless black dress with a sash, black nylons, black heels. A knockout. The blonde looked less formaclass="underline" a shiny blue blouse and designer jeans. She was slim, wan. Straight white-blond hair had been cut straight just below the bottom of her earlobes. She smiled meekly and said, “The City Paper said you were doing some articles on singles bars.”
“And that you’d be here tonight,” the redhead finished.
“Ah, so you girls came here just to meet me,” Paul joked.
“Maybe,” the blonde replied.
That was it. That was his distraction. Guilt. Single guy. Singles bar. Two single girls. Subconsciously he felt in violation. I’m an observer, he reminded himself, not that he needed to. He knew he wouldn’t cheat on Vera under any circumstance—he had no desire for anyone else. It was just the ideal that haunted him. But this was a good thing. He could talk to these girls, try to analyze them for their perceptions. It would make the article better.
“Actually, my name’s Dan Quayle,” Paul said. “Can my father buy you two a drink?’’
The girls laughed and sat down on either side. He ordered them each White Russians, a Heineken for himself, and rolled his eyes when the suspendered barkeep brought him a Corona.
Then the redhead leaned forward, eyes alight, and said, “So, Paul, tell us about your article.”
««—»»
At precisely the same moment, Vera Abbot strode through the entrance of another bar, a small brick-and-mortar tavern called The Undercroft. “The ’Croft,” as it was known to regulars, existed quite apart from the downtown hangouts and dance clubs. It was a bar with brains which attracted a specific patronage: beer connoisseurs, artists, writers, academicians, etc., not drunks, floozies, and sex predators. Ceiling rafters sported hundreds of imported beer coasters. Pennants decorated the front walls, from breweries as obscure as George Gale, Mitchell’s, and Ayinger. The long polished bar accommodated ten taps, and their inventory boasted over a hundred beers from all over the world. The ’Croft was not a place where one came to drink Bud.
Winter now had its teeth firmly set; Vera nearly shuddered in relief when she entered the ’Croft’s warm confines. Here everybody was everybody’s friend—almost everyone in the place, staff too, greeted her as she hung up her overcoat. Being here suddenly reminded her of the other less admirable bars in the area, and that reminded her of Paul, and the series of articles he was writing about local singles bars. Part of her didn’t like the idea of her fiancé surveying such places on his own, but that was selfish. Jealousy was one of many negative emotions that had never shown its face to their relationship. He was a professional writer; he’d been commissioned to write the series, and he was therefore committed to do so as effectively as possible. His dedication to his work was just more proof of his love. Before, he’d endeavored to be a good writer for himself—now it was for Vera too, and for their future together. She’d never had such easy mutuality in a relationship before, nor such unselfishness. It made her feel very stable with Paul, a verifier of his love.
It made her very happy.
Feldspar, the name seemed to pop upright in her mind. She’d almost forgotten why she’d come. Feldspar. The job offer.
Vera scanned the modest crowd. Down the bar three guys proposed a toast with Windex shooters. A couple at a side table leaned forward to kiss, while two art students argued over who was the more important writer: William Faulkner or Kathy Acker. Maybe Feldspar’s not here, Vera considered. Several friends who worked at the Radisson waved into her confusion. Maybe he lost interest. But what was his interest? Just what kind of job did Feldspar have in mind?
A smudge of darkness seemed to move, nearly glimmering; Vera sensed more than saw the squat figure rise. The back corner table by the fireplace, over which hung the ’Croft’s famous painting—a classically depicted nude woman lying in the woods before a ram and a goat. Feldspar, in his black Italian suit, smiled subtlety at her and bid the table with his jeweled hand.
“I got out a little early,” Vera hurried to explain. “I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Feldspar replied. “And again I’m grateful for your time. Please.”
Vera took her seat. Feldspar seemed to sit himself with some difficulty, as if he had a trick knee or something. It was the diaphanous black material of his suit that gave his shape the elusive shimmer. “I realize your time is precious,” he went on, finally settling himself. “But first, what would you like?”
Feldspar was drinking a Chimay Grand Reserve: Trappist ale in a huge bottle. He’d had several Courvoisier’s at the restaurant, plus two Remy’s, and now this. Yet he didn’t appear fazed at all. If Vera had drunk all that, she’d be on the floor. He’s paying, so what the hell? ”A GM would be nice,” she said.
“Fine.” Feldspar signaled the tablehop and ordered. He wasted no more time with subtleties. “I work for an investment company of sorts, one department of which is involved in exclusive resort facilities. We’re opening one in this propinquity.”
Vera opened her mouth, then closed it. He’s something, all right. “I hate to seem stupid, Mr. Feldspar, but I don’t know what propinquity means.”
He’d nearly flinched, as though the confession were absurd. “What I mean is, my superiors are opening a similar resort nearby. We’d like you to run it, or I should say, we’d like you to run the resort’s restaurant.”
Before she could make any response, the waiter brought her Grand Marnier. She sipped from the large snifter, luxuriating in the sharp taste and aroma. “I need to know more—”
“Details, but of course.” A thread of foam touched one side of his moustache when he sipped his ale. The ale looked murky, nearly crimson, with fine white sediment sifting in the glass like a snow orb. “We’re a renowned chain, and an exclusive one… Also a very private one. In other words, the name of my firm would be meaningless to you.”
“Try me.”
“Magwyth Enterprises,” he said.
“You’re right, I’ve never heard of it.” He must be exaggerating. Vera read all the hotel journals and trade magazines; how “renowned” could this company be if she’d never even heard of it? She made a mental note. Magwyth Enterprises. Look it up.