Until I Saw Your Smile Read online

“Not really,” Matthew said. Not out loud, anyway. Not like this. This conversation is peaceful, too.

  The door swung open, and a dozen chattering women in long coats, dresses, and hats came in. Angela is about to be very busy serving church ladies.

  “What do I owe you?” Matthew asked.

  Angela’s eyes darted to the booth and back.

  “I’m taking the strawberry pastries to go,” Matthew said.

  “Oh.” She sighed. “You’re a very busy man with all that time on your hands.”

  He pulled a ten from his pocket. “Will this cover it?”

  “I’ll get your change,” she said.

  “Keep it,” he whispered.

  Angela nodded. “Thank you.”

  “See you.”

  “Don’t be a stranger, okay?” Angela asked.

  Matt nodded as he collected his jacket. “I won’t. Good-bye, Angela.”

  “Good-bye, Matthew.”

  Chapter 6

  Matthew went back to his apartment and slept most of the day, ignoring all urges to watch the Super Bowl pre-game shows, the commercials, or the game itself.

  With no New York teams in the game, what is the point of watching?

  His apartment phone woke him at nine PM. He rolled out of bed and picked it up in the kitchen on the sixth ring.

  “What’s going on, Matthew?”

  Michael. Right on time. “What time is it?”

  “That wild, huh? How’s Joy? I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?”

  Matthew sat up in bed rubbing his eyes. “Joy has left me for Carlo di Ponti, an exchange teacher from the Dominican Republic.”

  After a pause, Michael said, “No shit.”

  “Go ahead and say it.” I know you want to.

  “Say what?”

  “Say I told you so.” Matthew pulled on some jeans and a T-shirt.

  “Okay,” Michael said with a laugh, “I told you so. I’m sorry to hear it, though.”

  “Right.” Matthew opened a bag of microwave popcorn and put it into the microwave.

  “Joy was hot, Matt.”

  Matthew pressed a few buttons and poured himself a tall glass of milk. “And now she’s sweating with Carlo in the DR.”

  “So you’re a free man again,” Michael said.

  “Yep.” And poorer for the privilege.

  “I might be able to help you in that department,” Michael said. “There’s someone I think you’d like very much. In fact, I think she’d be perfect for you. She is some serious arm candy, and with a little luck, she could help you return to greatness.”

  “Not likely,” Matthew said, retrieving the bag of popcorn. Only slightly burned. He tasted a few pieces. Not bad. He sat in his easy chair and munched a few less crispy pieces, the glass of milk on the floor beside him.

  “You’re wasting your talents, Matt,” Michael said.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’m learning all sorts of new skills.” I’ve even “won” a criminal court case in Queens.

  “You’re wasting your life,” Michael said. “You need the right woman to get your old life back, and I have just the woman for you.”

  I’m going to regret asking this. “Who is this woman?”

  “Victoria Inez Preston.”

  VIP? Who gives their child those initials? “Okay. And?”

  “You’ve never heard of her?” Michael asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Michael said. “You don’t move in those kinds of circles anymore.”

  “I move in plenty of circles, Mikey.” Many of them resembling Dante’s nine circles of hell. “Tell me about her.”

  “Victoria is high end with a very nice, high end,” Michael said. “You ever see that Rodin sculpture Eternal Springtime? That’s her.”

  Hmm. That’s one sexy sculpture. “Where does one take someone whose high end looks like sculpture?”

  “Oh, Victoria is strictly Broadway, caviar, and Cristal,” Matthew said.

  Victoria is strictly ka-CHING. “I’m so excited.”

  “She’s as well-built as she is well-connected, Matt,” Michael said. “You won’t be disappointed. You want her number, don’t you?”

  Maybe. “Why would this goddess go out with a man who is wasting his talents?” Matthew asked.

  “Just call her.” Michael gave Matthew the number. “And call her now.”

  “Okay.” I have nothing better to do. “Say hello to Denise for me.”

  “Denise?” Michael laughed. “She is so last month. I’m seeing a Latvian model named Natalija now. Natalija Naudina. Her last name means ‘money’ in Latvian, and she has an incredible moneymaker.”

  “And she’s found the right man to invest in,” Matthew said.

  “Now leave me alone so I can get turned down by the Broadway and caviar woman with the nice end.”

  “She won’t turn you down,” Michael said. “Have fun.”

  Matthew punched in the number. If something is too good to be true, it usually isn’t. Michael sounded so desperate. I’m probably getting one of his leftovers. Here goes nothing.

  “Hello?”

  Cultured voice. Definitely not Brooklyn. “May I speak to Victoria Inez Preston, please?”

  “This is she.”

  And formal, too. “My name is Matthew McConnell, and Michael Adamcyk suggested I call on you.”

  “How is Michael?” Victoria asked.

  Why not? “He’s busy with a Latvian model named Natalie something.”

  Victoria laughed. “I can never keep up with him or his women, can you?”

  “No.” I don’t even try.

  “Wait a minute,” Victoria said. “Are you the Matthew who finished above Michael in your law school class at NYU?”

  A lifetime ago. “Yes, and I was wondering if you’re free this weekend to take in a show.” Don’t ask me which one. I have no idea what’s playing.

  “Oh, I’ve been dying to see The New Yorkers at the Sondheim,” Victoria said.

  Ka-CHING! And who is “dying” to see an old Cole Porter musical? “And I would love to take you.”

  “That’s wonderful, Matthew,” Victoria said. “Where will we eat beforehand?”

  At this rate, I will never be able to retire. “What do you suggest ?”

  “Oh, Le Bernardin, of course,” Victoria said.

  Of course. Four stars from the Times. Famous TV chef, too.

  “It’s my favorite,” Victoria said. “Oh, but it’s so hard to get a reservation on such short notice.”

  I’m sure Michael can arrange that for me. “I’ll figure something out. I’ll let you know our reservation time as soon as I do.”

  “I look forward to meeting you, Matthew,” Victoria said.

  “Likewise, Victoria. Bye.”

  Well, she sounded normal. He called Michael. “Can you get me tickets to The New Yorkers at the Sondheim and a pretheater dinner reservation at Le Bernardin?”

  “No problem,” Michael said.

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that,” Michael said. “I’ll have your tickets waiting for you at the box office, and I’ll text you your reservation time.”

  “Okay.” No problem, he says. I used to have that kind of pull. “What did you tell her about me?”

  “Just that you are the smartest man I know and one of the best lawyers I will probably ever know,” Michael said. “I didn’t mention your meltdown, your slumming at Brooklyn Legal, or your current groveling for chump change on the Internet.”

  “Thanks for that.” He set his popcorn bag aside and downed the rest of his milk.

  “They’d still find a position for you at SYG, Matt,” Michael said. “Enough water has gone under the bridge. You know your record still stands.”

  Some record. I have the dubious distinction of having the most billable and paid hours for one month, hours that exceeded the number of hours possible in two months. “Does it now?”

  “SYG would take you back in a heartbe
at and you know it,” Michael said. “You’d make partner in no time.”

  “Unless I have another attack of conscience,” Matthew said.

  “Yeah, no more of those,” Michael said.

  “Look, Michael, I’ve changed. I’m fine.” I’m meeting clients everywhere I go these days, even at block parties in Queens. “Is there anything specific I should know about Victoria?”

  “She’s gorgeous, smart, and witty, and she’s very, very tan,” Michael said. “I know how you like dark ladies.”

  “Not dark ladies,” Matthew said. “Women of color. I take it she’s black?”

  “As midnight.”

  There’s often plenty of light at midnight, especially in Manhattan. “I’m sure she’s not that dark, Michael. And you know I’m not as interested in a woman’s appearance as you are. What can you tell me about her personality?”

  “She’s smart and witty,” Michael said.

  That’s no help.

  “Trust me,” Michael said, “she is everything a man like you wants and needs. Victoria is a knockout.”

  Please don’t use that word. “Well, what’s she look like? I don’t want to look like a fool trying to find her if we have to meet at Le Bernardin.”

  “Google her,” Matthew said. “You won’t be disappointed.”

  Matthew stood, collected his glass and popcorn bag, and went into the kitchen, booting up his laptop. “I will.”

  “And the show tickets are on me,” Michael said. “You’ll have to spring for the meal.”

  The more expensive of the two.

  “I know you’ll have fun, Matt,” Michael said.

  “Good-bye, Michael.”

  “No ‘thank you, Michael’?” Michael asked.

  “I’ll let you know after the date, okay? Good-bye.”

  Matthew moved his laptop to the window to search for WiggyWoo, a strong wireless connection somewhere nearby. Good ol’ WiggyWoo, he thought. I’m glad he (or she) hasn’t password-protected the connection yet.

  He Googled Victoria Inez Preston and found that she was, indeed, fine to the point of perfection, with a sculpted body, face, and silhouette, a model or beauty queen with money. She was the daughter of Mr. Clayton Williams Preston and Mrs. Sheila Preston-Powers, co-partners in Powers Preston, real estate brokers to the mighty rich and uppity in Manhattan. Which means our Victoria has most likely never worked a day in her life.

  His cell phone buzzed, and he went into his bedroom to read the text: “6 Friday at Le Bernardin . . . Enjoy!”

  Michael has some serious pull.

  While looking at a glossy, full-body picture of Victoria in a Guy Caroche dress, he called her on the apartment phone. “Victoria, we have reservations at Le Bernardin for six this Friday, and our theater tickets will be waiting for us at the box office.”

  “Oh, that is so amazing!” Victoria gushed. “I can’t wait. Cole Porter musicals are so iconic, aren’t they?”

  Iconic? Not really. “Yes, yes they are. I look forward to seeing you.”

  “Oh, likewise, Matthew,” Victoria said.

  “Victoria, would it be all right if we met at the restaurant?” Matthew asked.

  “Oh, is your car in the shop?” Victoria asked.

  It might be. I don’t own it anymore. “Something like that. I hope that’s not too much trouble for you.”

  “Oh, it isn’t,” Victoria said. “I will see you Friday at six. Bye.”

  Matthew immediately researched Le Bernardin to see if he could eat for the rest of the week.

  He found that he couldn’t.

  I can eat crackers and cheese, and I will not be able to get a cup of Angela’s coffee or any pastries for the rest of the month.

  Prix Fixe at Le Bernardin was $120 a person, and its farm-raised golden Osetra caviar weighed in at $135 an ounce. With a wine pairing on the chef’s tasting menu, Michael would be out $330—a person. He called the toll-free number on his Visa and found that it might carry him through the night if Victoria didn’t opt for the tasting menu.

  He looked again at Victoria’s picture.

  She’ll want the full treatment. My Visa is going to get quite a workout.

  For the rest of the week, Matthew stayed in and spent no money, moving around his apartment in search of an open wireless connection. In one corner of his closet, he was able to connect to abbaby8675309 and checked his Web site for leads—nothing. He played Internet spades thanks to doobiebro68 and lost more times than he won. With Wiggy Woo’s help, he tuned in to NBC.com and watched a preview of the opening ceremonies of the Winter Olympics in Sochi City, Russian Federation.

  How’d they choose that place? It’s right by the Black Sea, known for its caviar and pollution. That snow looks like confetti. I wonder if sturgeons eat paper.

  He wasted the rest of his evening watching movie trailers, a series of sequels and remakes for the X-Men, the Green Lantern, SpongeBob SquarePants, Spider-Man, the Transformers series, and James Bond (the twenty-fourth). They’re remaking Dirty Dancing and Ninja Turtles? Why? How could you possibly improve on those? Viewers will only say, “The original was better.” And Spielberg’s Robopocalypse sounds suspiciously like Terminator 4! There is truly nothing new under this or any other sun. What happened to original thought?

  He fell asleep in his easy chair, and he dreamed, strangely, of Joy, Carlo, and Boston Celtic great and NBA legend Larry Bird. In his dream, he walked into the bedroom and saw Larry Bird resting against his headboard eating Bachman’s pretzels and drinking Krug Grande Cuvee while Carlo and Joy were getting busy on top of a stack of pillows rising nearly to the ceiling. “Joy!” his dream self yelled. “What are you doing up there?” Joy peered over the edge of a leopard print pillow. “You cheated on me first,” she said. “In a dream, Joy,” Matt said. “Well, so is this,” she replied. “Leave her alone, Matt,” Larry Bird said. “You miss every shot you never take.” Matt stared at Bird. “Didn’t Wayne Gretzky say that first?” Bird shrugged. “Probably. Hey man, it’s your dream . . .”

  Early Friday morning, Matthew realized he had nothing to wear. He had given away all his Bottega Veneta and Canali suits after he left SYG, and all he had were several blazers at least one size too big. He found a decent off-the-rack navy blue pinstripe suit at Brooklyn Tailors on Grand Street, and with the shirt and tie, he parted with a thousand bucks.

  This date is already too expensive. Thanks, Michael. He means well. He benefited most from my leaving SYG because now he’s their golden boy.

  Maybe this will end happily. And if it doesn’t, I’ll at least have a nice suit not to wear again.

  On Friday night, Matthew pushed through the gold revolving door at Le Bernardin on West 51st in Manhattan a little before six.

  “Reservation for McConnell,” he said to the maître d’.

  The maître d’ looked on either side of him. “Your guests are not with you?”

  “No. I’m early.” Wait a minute. “Did you say guests?”

  “I have a reservation for three,” he said. “Is this correct?”

  No. “Sure.” Who’s the third wheel? Michael? I wouldn’t put it past him.

  Seated in a leather chair the color of butternut squash, a glaring lamp behind him, Matthew stared up at paintings of fishermen covering the wall to his left; the nearest fisherman spilled his catch from a wicker basket. Waiters in all-black button-ups, dusty bottles of wine and champagne cradled in their arms, moved under the brightly lit wooden ceiling stealthily pouring and serving a packed house.

  After reading through the menu twice, Matthew thought about calling Michael. But that’s what he wants me to do. He wants me to worry, and I will not give him the satisfaction.

  At six-fifteen, after assuring his waiter that his “party” was on the way, he called Victoria. When his call went straight to voice mail, he hung up.

  He repeated these calls until six forty-five.

  At 6:49 PM, Victoria and another woman who could have been Victoria’s shorter, thicke
r twin swept into the room wearing matching satin blue dresses and high heels, pearls and diamonds swinging wildly as they walked.

  They’re acting like models. They’re walking into a crowded restaurant like runway models. At least they’re not anorexic. I’m surprised they’re not bumping into chairs or each other and spilling wine.

  Matthew stood, his bladder nearly full from two glasses of ice water, and smiled. Victoria was, indeed, flawless in every way, not a hair out of place, with satiny black skin, legs for days, a full bottom lip, at least fifty teeth, and slender arms.

  Matthew held Victoria’s chair for her as she sat.

  “Matthew, so nice to meet you,” Victoria said. “This is my oldest and dearest friend, Debbie Lewis-Johnson.”

  Debbie stared at her chair.

  Matthew held Debbie’s chair, too.

  He also swore he heard the hovering waiter snicker.

  So Michael made reservations for three because he knew Victoria never travels without her best friend, Debbie. No wonder he’s not springing for dinner. I’m paying for three!

  “Hello, Victoria, Debbie,” Matthew said as he sat.

  “Have you been waiting long?” Victoria asked.

  Yes. “No, not too long.”

  Is she going to give me an explanation for (A) being late or (B) bringing her wing woman? Is this normal behavior for rich, unmarried women of privilege?

  “Isn’t this place amazing, Debbie?” Victoria asked.

  “Yes,” Debbie said in a husky voice. “It is certainly amazing.”

  “So iconic,” Victoria said.

  “Oh yes,” Debbie said. “This is the most iconic restaurant in New York. It’s the Temple of Seafood. Chef Ripert is so amazingly iconic.”

  Matthew learned three things from this brief exchange. One, he would get no explanations about anything from these two women, probably ever. Two, these women had the vocabulary of a four-year-old who discovers a new word and says it repeatedly to the detriment of all within hearing distance. And three, he was likely to spend over a thousand dollars on dinner.

  “Have you already ordered for us, Matthew?” Victoria asked. “I hear the chef’s tasting menu is amazing.”

  There goes the grand. “Then that is what we’ll have.”

  “Oh, and at least one order of caviar,” Debbie said.