“It’s better that you leave her alone,” she said. “There isn’t just water under your bridge, there’s maggots and shit and dead bodies. Now, get the fuck out of my house before I call the police.”
She didn’t have to tell me twice. I was done. Done. Forever. Never again.
We go back to the hotel and get ready for dinner. She showers first and then puts on her makeup and does her hair while I take my turn. So far we haven’t kissed. The only contact we’ve had was when we held hands earlier. I wait on the balcony while she gets dressed. When she comes out to tell me she’s ready, my eyes glaze over.
“You’re staring,” she says.
“Yeah…”
“You’re making me feel awkward.”
“You’re making me hard.”
Her mouth gapes.
“Naked feelings, Duchess! You’re in a tight black dress, and I know how good it feels to be inside you.”
Her face looks even more startled than a second ago. She spins to walk away, but I catch her and pull her against me.
“You’re wearing that dress simply because you like it. You don’t dress to make men look at you — you hate men. But, your body is ridiculous and it happens anyway. You walk and your hips sway from side to side, but you don’t walk that way to get attention, it’s just the way you move — and everyone looks. Everyone. And when you listen to people speak, you unconsciously bite your lower lip and then let your teeth slide across it. And when you order wine at dinner, you play with the stem of your wine glass. You run your fingers up and down. You are sex and you don’t even know it. Which makes you even sexier. So, when I think dirty thoughts, forgive me. I’m just under your spell like everyone else.”
She’s breathing hard when she nods. I let her go and lead her out of the room and to our minivan.
She has not lost her childlike awe. When she sees something that has never crossed her vision before, she becomes entranced — parted lips, wide eyes.
We step into the large foyer of the restaurant holding pinkies, and her speaking stills. To our left is the hostess stand, and in front of us the room opens up to two stories of red wall, decorated in gilded gold mirrors. It’s a spacious receptacle into the restaurant doors leading off into different directions, and her head swivels around to take it all in. The bulbs they use to light the room are red. Everything glows in red luminescence. The room reminds me of old class and sex.
“Drake,” I say to a tall blonde standing behind the desk. She smiles, nods and looks for my reservation.
Olivia has let go of my pinkie and has grasped my whole hand. I wonder if she’s afraid — perhaps intimidated.
I bend down to her ear.
“Okay, love?”
She nods.
“This looks like the red room of pain,” she says.
My mouth drops open. My little prude has been expanding her reading horizons. I choke on my laugh, and a couple of people turn to look at us. I narrow my eyes.
“You read Fifty?” I ask quietly. She blushes. Amazing! — the woman is capable of blushing.
“Everyone was reading it,” she says, defensively. Then she looks up at me with big eyes.
“You?”
“I wanted to see what all the hype was about.”
She does that blink, blink, blink thing with her eyelashes.
“Did you pick up any new techniques?” she says, without looking at me.
I squeeze her hand. “Would you like to try me out and see?”
She turns her face away, pressing her lips together — horribly embarrassed.
“Caleb Drake,” the hostess says, interrupting our whispering. “Right this way.”
I lift my eyebrows at Olivia, and we follow the hostess through a door at the rear of the room. We are led through a series of dim hallways until we enter another decadently red room — red chairs, red walls, red carpet. The tablecloths are mercifully white, breaking the continuity of the color. Olivia takes a seat, I follow.
The server approaches our table moments later. I watch her face as he guides her through a wine menu that is the size of a dictionary. She is overwhelmed after a few seconds, and I speak up.
“A bottle of the Bertani Amarone della Valpolicella, two thousand and one.”
Olivia scans the menu. I know she’s trying to find the price tag. The server nods my way in approval.
“A rare choice,” he says. “Aged for a minimum of two years, the Bertani hails from Italy. The grapes are grown in soil that is composed of volcanic limestone. The grapes are then dried until they are raisins, which results in a wine that is dry and higher than most in alcohol content.”
When he retreats from our table, I smile at her.
“I’ve already slept with you, you don’t have to order the most expensive wine on the menu to impress me.”
I grin at her. “Duchess, the most expensive wine on this menu is six figures. I ordered what I enjoy.”
She bites her top lip and seems to shrink into her seat.
“What’s the matter?”
“I always wanted this — to come to restaurants that raise their own cows and mortgage bottles of wine. But, it makes me feel insecure — reminds me that I’m really just poor, white trash with a good job.”
I reach for her hand. “Aside from your notably filthy mouth, you are the single classiest woman I have ever met.”
She smiles weakly like she doesn’t believe me. That’s okay. I’ll spend the rest of forever convincing her of her worth.
I order her the New York Strip. She only ever eats the filet, because that’s what she thinks she’s supposed to do.
“It’s not as tender, but it is more flavorful. It’s the steak version of you,” I tell her.
“Why are you forever comparing me to animals and shoes and food?”
“Because, I see the world in different shades of Olivia. I’m comparing them to you — not the other way around.”
“Wow,” she says, taking a sip of her wine. “You’ve got it bad.”
I start singing a rendition of Usher’s “You Got it Bad” and she shushes me, looking around embarrassed.
“Singing is something you should never do,” she smiles, “but, maybe if you translated some of those lyrics into French…”
“Quand vous dites que vous les aimez, et vous savez vraiment tout ce qui sert à la matière n’ont pas d’importance pas plus.”
She sighs. “Everything sounds better in French — maybe even your singing.”
I laugh and play with her fingers.
The meal is unparalleled in the state of Florida. She reluctantly agrees that the New York Strip is better than the filet. After our meal is over, we receive a tour of the kitchen and wine cellar — which is custom at Bern’s.
Our tour guide stops in front of a locked cage, behind which resembles a library of wine bottles. Olivia’s eyes grow wide when our guide shows us a bottle of port that is two hundred dollars an ounce.
“It’s a delight in your mouth,” he says, comically.
I raise my eyebrows. I am standing behind her, so I wrap my arms around her waist and speak into her hair. “Do you want to try some, Duchess? A delight in your mouth… “
She shakes her head no, but I nod at our guide. “Send it to the Dessert Room,” I say.
She stares at me in confusion. “The what?”
“Our Bern’s experience isn’t over. There is a separate part of the restaurant just for dessert.”
We are taken up a flight of stairs to another dimly lit area of the restaurant. It is mazelike in the Dessert Room; I’m not sure how we’ll find our way out without help. We are taken past a dozen private glass orbs, behind which each individual table sits. Each guest is given their own privacy bubble to eat their dessert. Our table is to the rear of the restaurant and fit for two. It is a strange and romantic setting. Olivia has had two glasses of wine and is relaxed and smiling. When we are left alone, she turns to me and says something that makes me choke on my water.