The Lion's Den(42)
Wendy catches my eye and looks pointedly at my phone and then nods toward my bag. I dutifully put it away, irritated she’s taken it upon herself to monitor my behavior.
When at last John and his two Italian polo friends arrive and he orders the long-awaited food, it is every bit as divine as the vista. Plates of prickly sea urchin, salt-crusted sea bass, succulent melon with perfectly cured prosciutto. The rosé from the restaurant’s sister vineyard is like sunshine in a glass, so smooth I could drink a bottle on my own without blinking.
I rest my arms on the table and eavesdrop as John and the polo guys schmooze with the Chinese, complimenting them on the success of what sounds like an entire city they built in China, persuading them that what they accomplished there will do even better here. From what I gather, the development John is planning is on the Italian Riviera overlooking the sea, complete with all-new high-end homes, condos, a resort, a spa, shops, restaurants, golf, a marina, and the crown jewel: he’s secured a gambling license, apparently a real feat, which the polo guys are somehow involved in.
The womenfolk aren’t invited to take part in the conversation, of course, but I’m paying attention nonetheless. Here are the titans of industry in their natural habitat, the delicate balance of power shifting among them as they court one another, vaunting their authority and leverage like birds engaged in a bizarre courtship dance. It’s fascinating.
What’s even more interesting is the fact that the men seem to have zero regard for the seven women seated at the table––as though it would be impossible for us to hold opinions on anything they’re discussing. While there’s clearly plenty that’s being left unsaid, I’m amazed by how pragmatically they speak about issues like environmental impact and minimum relocation costs—it’s all numbers to them; they’re not in the least bit concerned about the very real damage to the planet or the disrupted lives of the people forced to relocate to make way for their monster resort.
I don’t claim to be well versed in the ins and outs of Italian (or for that matter, American) business regulations, and sure, none of this may be exactly illegal, but their casual entitlement displays an unmistakable moral bankruptcy. Then again, I suppose it’s par for the course. It’s not like I haven’t seen the Russian billionaire keeping a separate yacht for his wife and kids right next door to his boatload of hookers.
After a good hour of smiling vacantly and downing copious amounts of wine in an attempt to drown out my growing ire, I’ve got a strong enough buzz that I can almost forget the who and why of my situation and simply enjoy the where. But my reverie is interrupted by John, who seems to have remembered that we’re here after all.
“Let’s talk about our mothers,” he instructs us between bites of squid-ink pasta.
Though this edict is directed at the table, it’s clearly intended for those of the female persuasion, for the purpose of entertaining the men—which is, in this world, our sole purpose. Our mothers being a safer subject than our fathers, I assume, who are younger than the majority of the men present.
“Wendy, you start,” he says, unfurling his Cheshire-cat grin.
“My mom is Sandra, and she’s amazing.” Wendy smiles broadly at the table. “You know, my dad’s a senator in Ohio”—yep, there it is—“so she has a lot of social obligations. She’s head of the Cincinnati Country Club Association, the PTA when I was in prep school, and she and I were actually both president of the same sorority. And she has the best taste—I am always raiding her closet when I go home. She’s almost as good at tennis as Summer, and she’s an amazing cook.”
This is all true, though Wendy confessed to me in a moment of weakness facilitated by painkillers after her horse-jumping accident how hurt she was that her mother hadn’t come out for her surgery. She admitted that Sandra rarely had time for her and has always been much more interested in her social status than her only child. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I guess.
Summer raises her glass. “To Sandra!”
We all raise our glasses. The polo players sit next to Wendy, and I am on the other side, so it falls to me to speak next.
“My mom is Beth, and she’s also amazing, but in a different way,” I say. “She’s a nurse, and even when she’s not working, she’s always taking care of everyone. When we were little, we would go to this community pool, and any of the kids who couldn’t swim, she would teach to swim. If a baby bird fell out of a tree, she was feeding it with a bottle till it could fly. And she loves to garden—she can make anything grow.”
“I remember she was always out there with her hands in the dirt,” Rhonda chimes in. “Wearing a sombrero and overalls like she fell off the turnip truck.” She cackles at her own wit.
Oh. Rhonda is drunk. Drunk and throwing shade at my mom. Great. “Well, we can’t all be as fashionable as you, Rhonda,” I say dryly. Oops. Clearly Rhonda’s not the only one who’s had a little too much wine. I paint on a smile and soften my voice, grateful for my acting experience, and continue. “I remember when you guys first moved in, my mom baked a lemon meringue pie from the lemons in our lemon tree to welcome you to the neighborhood. You remember, Summer? We ate the whole thing watching Pretty Woman, and then we were sick to our stomachs. We’ve been friends ever since.”
For a beat no one speaks, and I wonder if I’ve said something wrong again, but I’m relieved when Summer smiles. “I could go for some lemon meringue pie right now.” She shifts her gaze to John. “Should we order limoncello?”