One Way or Another(69)
49
That evening, Ahmet stood at the head of the companionway waiting for his guests to arrive, elegant in a white tussore silk rajah jacket, a style long out of fashion, but because he was wearing it, would soon become fashionable again. Ahmet wore it because he liked the way it looked, and the collarless jacket was cool on a summer evening. Standing next to him, well, not quite next to, but a step behind, was Martha, stunning in black silk with a low V-neck, back and front, banded in sequined leopard. It was daring for her but she’d been encouraged by Marco to live up to the “flash” occasion and had succumbed when shopping with Lucy. Who, she had to admit, looked a dream in knee-length slate-gray chiffon that Martha had thought too grown-up and too tight but now had to admit was a winner. High at the neck, shoulder-baring, it clung lovingly to Lucy’s small breasts and narrow hips, ending where a wisp of tulle peeked from under the narrow skirt, showing off her nicely browned legs. Of course her heels were too high, spindles to break her neck on, Martha had warned to no avail, ankle-strapped, showing off her newly polished toenails. Black, of course. The choice had been that or purple. Martha’s own toes were a nice turquoise, which went with her dangling earrings, a surprise gift from Marco, who’d arrived back at the hotel from the boat, where he’d again been speaking to Ahmet about the painting, allowing just enough time to get himself together for the party. Which meant a black tee instead of white, dark jeans instead of blue, and a soft-shouldered Armani jacket he’d had for years and vowed he’d never part with.
“It’s my only jacket,” he told Martha, inspecting himself in the mirror in their room at the hotel before they’d left. “I figure one is enough. It covers all occasions, from a presentation to the queen, to parties on grand yachts, and even weddings.”
Martha thought how attractive he was, with his rumpled hair, his almost good-looking face, his complete unself-consciousness about his appearance—Marco wasn’t even aware how cute his butt looked in those jeans. She was glad she was with him.
“We’ll be the best-looking couple at that party,” she said. “If not the most expensive.”
“You’re not a couple.” Lucy stood by the door, ready to go. “We’re three, remember?”
Marco quickly walked over and gave her a hug. “I’ll never forget it, Lucy, baby,” he said. “Though, in fact, we are a quartet; you forgot about Em.”
Lucy rushed to pick up the dog from her basket and gave her a hug. “Will she be okay here, all alone?”
Martha said, “Don’t worry, the babysitter will be here.” Marco rarely left his dog behind and would certainly not leave her alone now, though her pleading eyes and piteous look followed them out.
*
The yacht looked wonderful, colorful flags and pennants fluttering in the breeze, white-jacketed waiters standing ready, and champagne—Taittinger, Ahmet’s favorite—chilling in ice buckets. Martha had asked Ahmet his favorite color and been surprised when he’d told her orange; somehow she had expected it to be black. So now the tablecloths, napkins, flowers in rows of galvanized buckets were in every shade of tangerine and melon, and the scent of orange blossom, which Martha thought the true perfume of the south of France, was everywhere. The plates were hand-picked by her from Biot, a village near Vence, in a pale greenish glass typical of the area, as were the wineglasses, sturdy and outdoorish, instead of fancy and expensive. In fact, Martha bet Ahmet would be surprised when he got the bill for his party, which would be far less than he’d thought, yet the food was delicious, with spicy rice dishes, salads fashioned from leaves and herbs picked in the hills that morning, and filet mignon cooked simply in red wine. There was a bouillabaisse for the fish-eaters, made the true old-fashioned fishermen’s way, with a mix of whatever they’d plucked from the sea that day, but always with the ugly red rascasse for flavor, and never with mussels. There was home-baked bread to dunk in the broth—well, almost home-baked, it came from the bakers along the harbor—and a lavender crème br?lée for after, or else sliced fresh peaches soaked in vermouth with, if wanted, a dollop of crème fra?che.
It had taken more hours to get together than Martha liked to think about. As she stood with Ahmet accepting compliments, her feet were killing her and she was wondering whether she could risk a second glass of champagne before her work was done. Marco came to her rescue. He slipped his arm beneath hers. Leaning into her, he said, “You smell wonderful and look hungry. I’m taking you away from all this.”
“You are? Where to?”
“See that table over there?” He pointed to the far end of the deck where a table for two awaited in the shadows; a candle flickered, a bunch of roses gleamed golden, the pale tangerine cloth draped to the floor, and two chairs tied with pale orange chiffon bows awaited. “Ours,” he said.
“Can I take my shoes off?”
“Take off whatever you want.”
She put her hand in his; it was the best feeling in the world. “Now I know why I love you.”
“You mean you didn’t before?”
“I don’t know if I can just leave, I feel like I’m deserting my post, I have to keep an eye on everybody, make sure it’s all right. I mean, this is my job.”
Marco waved a hand, taking in the seventy happy guests at their tables, the champagne being poured, the quartet playing softly in the background. Lucy was dancing with a nice-looking young guy in an NYU T-shirt who Martha suspected was a gate-crasher, but her sister looked as though she was having a good time. Ahmet was presiding over a table of beautiful, expensive-looking younger women and important-looking older men. He caught her eye and lifted a hand in acknowledgment, mouthing a smiling thank-you. Morrie stood alone, propping up the boat’s rail; he’d moved on from champagne and was knocking back a bottle of beer, relaxed. She went over and thanked him.