Two Bar Mitzvahs (No Weddings #3)(47)
Before I left to take care of my responsibilities, I leaned forward, lowering my voice. “And don’t forget the most important part: dark, sexy, claustrophobic closets…” I finally released her. “Enjoy your daydreaming, Maestro.”
She narrowed her eyes at me, whispering, “There will so be payback.”
“I’m counting on it. In a closet.”
I winked, then left before my sisters’ hard glares escalated to dagger-shooting levels for my loitering around their efficient flow. Yeah, whatever. If Kiki could rub down the waiters, then I could plant filthy fantasies into the mind of our baker—my baker.
I abandoned the kitchen, confident the girls had the catering under control and headed out back toward where the calypso band was setting up their equipment, diagonally off behind the barbeque area. We’d set up a plywood platform, ran extension cords out from the house, and had covered the area with seagrass rugs, but it was my job to make sure they had everything they needed.
As I passed through the pool area, the cabana-boy models were busy on either side of the pool, folding blue-and-green striped beach towels on the cushions of each chaise. Two gardeners watered the new large pots by hand, clipping and pruning any dead or wilting plant material as they went.
While I waited for the musicians to return from unloading more equipment, I watched the technicians as they set up smaller fireworks displays on the far side of the lawn. Only a few overhead explosions were planned. Earlier this week, I’d confirmed that the company had obtained a proper permit with local authorities, ensuring we were within the law and followed needed safety procedures.
The five musicians returned with the rest of their equipment, each carrying a different sized steel drum.
“You guys all set? Electric is good?”
One of them shook his head, bending down to a sound unit on the far corner. “No juice, mon.” His accent sounded Jamaican.
I gave a curt nod. “No problem. I’ll fix it.” Following the cord up to the house, I found it had been disconnected, the plug lying on the concrete border. I inspected the prongs to make sure they were clean and dry, lifted the cover of the metal-capped outlet on the wall, and plugged it back in.
I turned around and raised my arms to get his attention. He bent down and flipped a switch on his unit. I got a thumbs-up signal a second later. I nodded, satisfied.
Then I scanned the area, searching for signs of panic or anyone in need of direction.
The cabana boys congregated on the patio again. I headed up there, unwilling to leave anything to chance or assumption. The group laughed about something the guy on the end said, but none looked guilty or uncomfortable by the time I approached within earshot.
“You guys have everything you need? Have my sisters briefed you on protocol?”
One nodded. “We’re good. Half of us have experience. I used to wait tables all through college at a five-star Zagat rated restaurant. Your guests are in capable hands.”
Impressed, I stepped closer. “What’s your name?”
“Zach.”
I nodded to Zach but addressed the group as a whole. “I’m Cade. Any of you have any questions, feel free to ask me, but follow Zach’s lead and example. He’s in charge if you need anything and can’t find me. Oh, and Zach?” I clapped a hand on his shoulder, wincing at the coconut oil now on my palm. Yeah that shit would be wiped the f*ck off in a minute.
I scanned their faces. “Gentlemen? By ‘capable hands,’ Zach meant metaphorically. No one touches any person here, guest or otherwise. No one propositions or accepts invitations. None of you are to drink a drop of alcohol; there are nonalcoholic beverages for you in the kitchen. Part of your personal responsibilities entails keeping the guests safe, even from themselves when the alcohol flows and filters disappear.”
Zach laughed. “We got it covered. Don’t we, gentlemen?”
The rest nodded in agreement.
“Good.” Confident our guests would be taken care of, I turned toward the open door.
“Cade?” Zach arched his brows, and I paused. “Do we have to worry about any of the guests, regarding your concerns?”
I barked out a laugh, nodding. “All of the women, my two single sisters, and Bertrande.” I pointed a finger at the group. “Watch out for Bertrande. He may distract you, then grope you, pretending like it was accidental. You’ve all been warned.” Bertrande was a neighbor and an old friend of my Mom’s.
Half the guys burst out laughing and the other half’s eyes bugged wide open, wondering if they were in danger of stealth groping. I walked through the alarmed group. “Don’t be so concerned about Bertrande. At least a quarter of those women haven’t seen naked glistening chest muscles in years. Some touches won’t be accidental at all. A few might take a lick.” I smirked. “You simply step away and smile, flattered but polite. And are we clear that as long as you’re being protective of our guests, none of what goes does down, unintentional or otherwise, is considered sexual harassment?”
They all nodded, many laughing.
“Good.” No lawsuits with that cover-our-ass overview.
Chuckling to myself, I headed back up toward the house while I imagined one of our female guests chasing after one of our man-candy waiters with grabby hands. Those poor guys would have their work cut out for them today.
“Hey, Lisa.” Loading Zone’s best bartender had been sacrificed from the bar for the event. But Ben and I’d both had agreed that the other bartenders performed more than adequately when she had the night off. A full bar had been rented and set up outside the kitchen door, stocked with top-shelf liquors, a variety of barware and glasses, and a box of brightly colored drink umbrellas. “Have you taken inventory? Missing anything you need?”