The Vanishing Year(22)

Javi waits in the truck, honks twice impatiently.

“That’s why you’re not going to tell her.” Lydia kisses my cheek and pats my head. Like I’m a dog. “You were going to go with me anyway. Now you’re just . . . in charge.”

“Elisa’s going to flip shit and you know it. He better be worth it.”

“He’s not. If I’m not home by midnight, I’ve been roofied, okay?” She waggles her fingers at me and is out the door, the tinkle of the bell signaling her exit.

As he steers the van, Javi talks a blue streak, gossiping about Elisa, Paula (his partner-slash-girlfriend), even Lydia. I hmmm-mmm in all the right places, but eventually he gives up and we sit in silence in hot, beeping traffic. Lydia’s right, it’s just a corporate event, but I’m jittery and I wipe my palms on my jeans. I think of all the things I’m going to do wrong. I’ve been working at La Fleur d’Elise for almost three years now, and I still don’t have my footing. My job feels precarious, at best. Charitable, at worst. Most, if not all, of my suggestions are met with an outward sigh. I’m still the new kid, the apprentice.

The dinner is small: twenty-five people in a restaurant called Br?lée in Tribeca. All I have to do is place centerpieces and a podium potted plant and leave. The arrangements are all ugly, corporate and masculine: the rounded globes of hydrangeas, the long tapered gladiolus. Literally, all cock and balls, against deep bloodred table settings. I can almost smell the self-congratulatory sweat.

I position the last table setting, only four in all, and one hand bouquet, presumably a gift. White, lilting, and feminine, I guess it’s for someone’s assistant.

I turn to leave and crash directly into someone coming through the door. A flurry of gift bags scatters on the floor, their contents spreading a remarkable distance, flinging under tables and chairs.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” I panic. This will be the thing that Elisa knows about, that she fires me for.

The man bends over, gathers up the flung silk scarves and pen boxes. His hair is shiny blond and when he looks up at me, he smiles, all teeth and dimples. My heart lurches.

“No worries. Nothing breakable. Help me rewrap?” He motions toward the long table where he stacks ten gift bags in various states of crumpled. I hesitate. Since I’ve been working at Elisa’s, I’ve been around some very rich people. Florists are hired help, as invisible as janitors, maids, and interns. Clients may respect the designers, temporarily treat them as equals, but never the drivers. I’m merely the one delivering the masterpieces of the designer. In this case, Lydia.

The man studies the centerpieces. “Did you design these?”

I shake my head. I can almost feel Lydia elbow my side. If I’m the lead here, I’m the designer. I handle the criticism, take the praise.

He grins. “Good. They’re god-awful. What are these, black flowers?”

“Um, bat orchids. Yes, black flowers.” My tongue feels thick, unwieldy.

He reaches out, taps my arm. “Sit, help me. My assistant wrapped all these. I’m hopeless at wrapping things. You must be good at it?”

“Because I’m a woman?” I wrinkle my nose.

“Because you’re in design?” he corrects, carefully. My neck flushes red.

He leans toward me, his long eyelashes lowered, dusting his cheeks. He smells spicy, full of oak and power and something musky, like the inside of a tree trunk. He passes me gift bags and I carefully wrap pens and silk scarves back into delicate tissue paper. Our fingers touch with each pen box, all ten, and then we’re done. Too soon, it feels like.

I smooth my palms on my jeans and clap my hands together, too loudly, for some weird reason, as though he’s a kindergartner. He gives me an odd look.

“Looks like I’ll be leaving,” I say.

He closes the space between us. “Stay. Be my date for this horrible, boring, boorish dinner. Where everyone will talk about who they’ve fucked and fucked over. You can tell me about bat orchids.”

“I can’t. Tonight? No. I don’t have anything to wear. I have plans. I have a book to read. Just . . . no.” I back up, feeling the wall behind me for the door. “You don’t even know my name?” It comes out like a question, or possibly an invitation.

He laughs, a deep yet light sound. “I’m Henry Whittaker. What’s your name?”

“Henry Whittaker? I know who you are.” I swallow twice, the doorknob under my hand. Working with a high-end event florist means we know who’s who in Manhattan. We gossip about the major traders and real estate moguls the way other millennials follow the Kardashians.

“I’m famous, then? Does that impress you?” He steps closer to me, his face cracked in a grin. He’s joking, teasing me.

“No. You’re a player. That doesn’t impress me.” I turn the handle and back through the door. “Have fun, though, really. I don’t need to be added to the list of women you’ve . . . fucked or fucked over or whatever you said.” I back through the banquet room door and into the main restaurant where wait staff are setting tables for dinner service. A few of them look up, startled. I rush through the dining room and from behind me, Henry calls, “Wait! I was kidding!”

I push through the doors and into the street, where Javi waits with the van, the bass thumping. I fling open the door and heave myself in the front seat. “Just drive.”