Thank You for Listening(90)

By the time the hostess took them into the restaurant and relieved them of their coats, Sewanee’s senses were strung tighter than a bowstring. There was the faint smell of woodsmoke and garlic, but also an undernote of something floral. Everything was intentional.

They were handed off to someone else and swept to a table by the windows. The tabletop was glass. The ceiling, thirty feet above, was mirrored. The windows offered a view of the garden they’d just toured. Beyond the sparse landscaping lights, the Venetian night was a black void.

Stu directed Sewanee and Nick to sit on the side that allowed them a view of the entire restaurant, the entire show. Marilyn and Stu sat across from them and Stu could not stop smiling, though it did vary; from gentle to impish to full-on clown.

Three more people appeared, one bringing a glass bottle of water, a waiter who confirmed they were doing the tasting menu, and a sommelier who confirmed they were doing pairings with the tasting menu. Stu didn’t let anyone answer before saying, “Absolute-mente!”

“Fantastico.” The sommelier smiled politely. He pulled a bottle from behind his back and said it was off the menu, but he had it open and wanted them to try it. He poured a splash into each of their glasses and departed. They raised them, clinked, and took a sip.

“What do you think?” Stu solicited, before they’d set down their glasses.

“Yummy,” Marilyn enthused.

“Wow,” Sewanee and Nick said and then, under his breath, Nick murmured, “It’s tight, it needs to open,” and Sewanee’s cheeks had never heated faster and Stu said, “Sorry, what?” and Nick answered, “Just right, doesn’t need to open.”

“Oh! Do you enjoy wine, Nick?”

“I’ve been known to diddle. Sorry, dabble. Diddle’s the Irish.”

Sewanee bit her lip.

Stu snapped his fingers. “I thought that accent was Irish!” Which prompted Sewanee to playfully explain how it was much more pronounced when he hit on women in bars and no true Dubliner had that accent anyway. Which prompted Nick to oh-so-innocently ask Sewanee which part of Texas she was from again, and–short of kicking each other under the table–they moved on.

Nick quickly lifted his glass. “Can’t thank you enough for letting me join in tonight.”

“I’m glad you’re here, Nick! And so happy you’re here, Swanners! What a night. Special night.”

Stu’s spirited embrace had Sewanee relaxing further and she could feel the same thing happening to Nick. An uncomplicated, pleasure-seeking father figure seemed a foreign, but welcome, concept to them both. Their fight faded into the recesses of their better selves and Sewanee had the urge to take his hand under the table. But she didn’t.

A flurry of servers presented the first artwork of a course and the sommelier poured a white. Nick was about to dig in, but Stu clucked his tongue. “Whoa there, cowboy, everything comes with an explanation.” The head waiter launched into a detailed description of what sat before them. This was immediately followed by the sommelier telling them why he chose this specific wine to “not only complement the dish, but to create a relationship with it.” Sewanee thought, if this were Los Angeles, it would be pretentious, artificial, chi-chi. But here, in Venice, on an island, it was earned.

They took a sumptuous bite and chased it with a healthy sip of wine. All four sat in a moment of silence. The kind of reverence reserved for prayer, as though they had never eaten before this moment.

“That is . . . this is . . .” Nick murmured, the first to attempt articulation. “What the hell is this?”

Stu banged the table. “And it’s a goddamn Marriott!”

Each subsequent course somehow surpassed the last. Number seven arrived and was served with a beautiful orange wine which, until tonight, Sewanee hadn’t known was a color of wine that existed. The conversation partnered with the food and drink as if it had asked the meal for a dance.

Currently, they were discussing the June French project, and Nick’s relationship to his aunt, and what it was like being raised by a writer, which had Marilyn asking, “Have you ever wanted to write?”

“No. Well, I guess if you count songwriting then sure.”

“Hold everything.” Stu quickly swiped his napkin across his mouth. “You’re a songwriter?”

“Sort of.”

“And does that mean you’re a musician?” Stu smiled wide.

“I was in a band, in another lifetime.”

Stu beat his chest. “I used to have a band.” Marilyn chortled. “What? So it was in high school and a year or two in college, it’s still a band!”

Nick grinned. “What do you play?”

Stu twinkled all ten fingers. “Keys. You?”

“A little guitar. Sing a bit.”

“And you wrote your own songs? That’s huge. We never got that far.”

Nick nodded. “A few of the songs. My best friend was the lead singer and did a lot of the writing. He’s the real talent, I . . . I do what I can.”

“Did you have any success?” Stu asked, popping the last piece of perfection on his plate into his mouth.

“We had a record deal. A hit song. We were touring.”

“Oh, what I would’ve given. Living the dream! What happened?”

“Well. My best friend drove that dream faster than he could handle it. Crashed and burned.” Nick looked at his plate and Sewanee could feel him warming to the topic, could sense him wanting to tell this story. “’Course we had our ‘people’ saying, keep going, this is what makes it great. But I watched him almost die one night and that was the end for me. Got him to the hospital in time–pure luck–and as soon as they released him, took him straight to rehab. Burned a lot of bridges, broke a lot of contracts.”