The Mistress(11)

“We can feed her here, if she’s willing to eat late.” He knew that would mean dinner between eleven P.M. and midnight, after most of the customers left. And he wouldn’t have time to sit down with her until then. He would have to supervise the waiters, and spend time with their most important guests, to make sure their dinners were going well. His mother would keep an eye on the really illustrious ones, and see to their needs, but he would have to take care of his share too. The one thing he never admitted was that he was Lorenzo Luca’s son. He preferred to be anonymous when he worked for her, and his mother indulged him, although she thought he should be proud of it. But at Theo’s request, she never told any of their customers that he was her son. And she was grateful for his help. He was attentive to her, patient with her, and helpful when he could be. He thought it his duty, as an only child, and he liked his mother, despite her quirks. They had always gotten along, although she worried about him being alone and rarely liked the women he went out with.

“What time do you need me to come in?” He didn’t sound happy. He respected her success with the restaurant, and admired her for it, but he hated being there himself and, even more, wearing a suit and tie in the heat, and having to be charming to strangers he’d never see again. His mother was far more extroverted and loved it. The restaurant replaced a social life for her, and gave her contact with a wide variety of interesting people.

“You can come at seven-thirty. Our first sitting is at eight,” she said. Sometimes they got Americans who wanted to come earlier, but not that night. All the clients on their reservation list were European, except for Vladimir Stanislas, which was a major coup, and she was aware that he had never been there before. She wanted everything to go seamlessly that night, particularly for him. She knew about his art collection, and was hoping he would stop to admire Lorenzo’s work, which was obviously why he was coming. He had booked a table for two, through a regular guest of theirs.

“Chloe is going to kill me,” he said, wondering what to say to her. All he could do was tell her the truth, that his mother needed him to help out at the restaurant, which she would think was an excuse to avoid taking her out.

“You can make it up to her tomorrow night,” his mother said cheerfully.

“Maybe not. I want to work.” He was at a tough spot on the painting he was working on, and hated going out two nights in a row before he had solved the problems that were slowing him down. His father had been that way too. Nothing existed in his universe except the canvas he was working on. “Okay, never mind. I’ll deal with it. I’ll come in.” He never let her down.

“Thank you, darling. If you come at seven, you can eat with the waiters. They’re having bouillabaisse tonight, with rouille.” She knew it was one of his favorites, although he could order anything he wanted, but he never took advantage of the fact that he was the boss’s son. Theo preferred to eat what the others did, and wasn’t a demanding person, unlike his father.

He called Chloe as soon as he and his mother hung up, and gave her the bad news. She wasn’t pleased.

“I’m really sorry.” He had promised to take her out for socca, which was like pizza made of chickpeas, baked in a special oven, and they both loved it. It was a local dish, and they were serving it in the square that night. She loved playing boules with the old men afterward, which was a thrill for them, to have a pretty young woman join their game. Theo enjoyed it too, when he wasn’t working, and now he couldn’t do anything with her except midnight supper, if she was willing. “I promised to help my mother. She just called me, the ma?tre d’ is sick. She said you’re welcome to come to dinner, if you don’t mind eating late. We can probably grab a table at eleven, if the guests are starting to leave by then.” But they both knew that at Da Lorenzo, people often stayed much later. The surroundings were too romantic and the atmosphere too welcoming for anyone to want to leave early, which was part of the restaurant’s success, along with fabulous food and great art.

“I was hoping to be in bed by then,” Chloe said tartly, “and not alone. I haven’t seen you in a week.” She sounded angry again, which had become the norm.

“I’ve been working,” he said, thinking he sounded lame. It was always his excuse.

“I don’t know why you can’t stop at a decent hour. I leave my studio by six every day.” But she did second-rate commercial work, although he would never have said that to her. His was of a far different caliber than hers, but he was never rude about her work.

“I work different hours than you do. But anyway, I’m stuck tonight. Do you want to come to the restaurant late?” It was the best he could offer her, and a fabulous meal if she did.

“No, I don’t. I don’t want to get all dressed up. I was going to wear shorts and a T-shirt. The restaurant is a little too fancy for me. Socca, boules, and bed immediately after sounded good to me.”

“It sounded good to me too, and a lot more fun than wearing a suit and tie, but I’ve got to give my mother a hand.” That annoyed Chloe too. She had met his mother a couple of times, and found her a little too serious about art, and possessive of her only son. And Chloe wasn’t in the mood for a lecture about the great Lorenzo Luca, which bored her to tears. She wanted to go out and have a good time with him. She had thought he was a great guy at first, handsome and sexy and terrific in bed. Now she found him much too serious about his work. “I’ll call you when I finish,” he said. “Maybe I could come by.” She didn’t answer at first, and a few minutes later, sounding petulant, she hung up.