The Perfect Couple(71)
“Wait a minute,” Celeste says. Her heart feels like it’s being squeezed. She turns to Shooter. “Aren’t you coming to dinner?”
Shooter smiles but his blue eyes are as flat as eyes in a painting. “I’ll be here when you’re finished,” he says.
Celeste wobbles in her wedge heels. She’s unsteady in heels on a good day, never mind on a dock under the present circumstances. Benji takes her arm and leads her down the dock to the hotel.
When they are out of earshot, Celeste says, “I don’t get it. Why isn’t Shooter coming to dinner?”
“Because I want to have a romantic dinner with my girlfriend,” Benji says. For the first time since she has known him, he sounds petulant, like one of the cranky children who are at the zoo past their nap time. This show of unexpected attitude provokes Celeste.
“So, what, you just hired him to drive the boat? He’s our friend, Benji. He’s not your servant.”
Benji says, “I should have realized you would find this scenario unjust. But when I told Shooter my plans to bring you up here, he offered. He’s going to grab dinner in the bar.”
“By himself?” Celeste says.
“It’s Shooter,” Benji says. “I’m sure he’ll make some friends.”
Dinner at Topper’s is an extraordinary experience, with attention given to every detail. Drinks are brought on a tiered cocktail tray; Benji’s gin and tonic is mixed at the table with a glass swizzle stick. The bread basket features warm, fragrant rosemary focaccia, homemade bacon-and-sage rolls, and twisted cheddar-garlic bread sticks that look like the branches of a tree in an enchanted forest. Under other circumstances, Celeste would be committing all this to memory so she could describe it for her parents later, but she is preoccupied with the one sentence written on the note that was slipped under her door. In case you have any doubts, I’m in love with you.
Their appetizers arrive under silver domes. The server lifts both domes at once with a theatrical flourish. The food is artwork—vegetables are cut to resemble jewels; sauces are painted across plates. Benji ordered a wine that is apparently so rare and amazing, it made the sommelier stammer.
Celeste doesn’t care. Shooter’s absence is more powerful than Benji’s presence. She does a desultory job on her appetizer—summer vegetables with stracciatella cheese—then excuses herself for the ladies’ room.
On her way, she walks past a window that opens onto an intimate enclave that has five seats at a mahogany bar, a television showing the Red Sox game, and a handful of tables with high-backed rattan chairs. The bar has a clubby, colonial British feel that is a little cozier and more casual than the dining room.
Shooter is sitting at the bar alone, drinking a martini.
Celeste stares at Shooter’s back and does a gut check. Talk to him or leave him be? Talk to him! She will tell him she feels the same way, and then later they can make a plan to be together without hurting Benji. But before Celeste sets foot in the bar, a woman appears. She’s wearing black pants, a black apron, a white shirt open at the collar. Oh, she’s the bartender, Celeste thinks with relief. She’s quite attractive, with short, dark, bobbed hair, cat’s-eye glasses, and dark red lipstick. She approaches Shooter and he gives her a hug, then pulls her into his lap and starts tickling her. She shrieks with laughter—through the closed door, Celeste can just barely hear it—and just as Celeste’s emotions are curdling into hurt and rage, the bartender stands up, straightens her apron, and gets back to work.
Celeste slams into the ladies’ room, startling a woman applying her lipstick at the sink.
When Celeste returns to the table, Benji stands up. He is a gentleman, she thinks. And she will never have to worry about him.
Between dinner and dessert—they have ordered the soufflé, which takes extra time to prepare—Benji pulls something out of his coat pocket. It’s a small box. Celeste stares at the box almost without seeing it.
She realizes she knew this was coming.
“I didn’t go golfing today,” Benji says. “I flew back to the city to pick up a little something.” He opens the box to reveal the most insanely beautiful diamond ring Celeste has ever seen.
She bobs her head at the ring once, as if being formally introduced to it.
“Will you marry me, Celeste?” Benji asks.
Celeste’s eyes fill with tears. Not only did she know this was coming but Shooter did too. And yet he still took her to Smith’s Point, still showed her how to ride the current, still bought her a birding book, still called her Sunshine, and still made her feel like she was, in fact, the brightest light in the sky. And then he slipped that note under her door.
In case you have any doubts.
He didn’t mean in case Celeste had any doubts about him. He meant in case Celeste had any doubts about marrying Benji.
I’m in love with you.
Shooter is a gambler. He’s throwing the dice to see if he can win. It’s a game to him, she tells herself. His feelings aren’t real.
With her napkin, she blots the tears that drip down her cheeks. She can’t look at Benji because if she does, he’ll see they are tears of confusion, but right now he must be assuming—or hoping—that they are tears of overwhelmed joy.
The whole thing is a mess, a giant, emotionally tangled mess, and Celeste has half a mind to stand up and walk out on both men. She will get herself home, back to Easton, back to her parents.