The Lion's Den(61)

I accept a sliver of grilled octopus, which melts on my tongue, and follow it with crisp champagne, amplifying the nutty flavor. A striking woman who looks to be in her late forties approaches us, smiling. Her dark hair is short in the back and longer in the front, streaked with a dramatic blue that accents her slate eyes, her tanned face clean of makeup save a bright-red lipstick. She is dressed in a cream modified leisure suit, which sounds awful but looks incredibly stylish on her slim frame.

Summer lights up at her approach, clearly pleased when the woman takes her hands and air-kisses her cheeks three times before looking her in the eye and saying in Italian-accented English, “Summer, so lovely to see you. And John, of course, always a pleasure.” She turns to the rest of us. “I am Marlena.”

As we introduce ourselves, she grasps each of our hands in turn, meeting our eyes with interest.

“Thank you so much for inviting us,” Summer croons when the introductions are over. “And for letting my friends come, too.”

Marlena envelops us in her radiant smile. “Welcome aboard Tyger.”

“‘Tyger, Tyger burning bright’?” I venture, ignoring the sharp glance from Summer.

“‘In the forests of the night,’” she confirms.

The other girls look at us blankly.

“I noticed the spelling when we boarded,” I explain. “May I ask why?”

“It is between my husband and me a—how do you say—private funny?”

“Inside joke?” I suggest.

“That’s the one. Thirty years I am married to an Englishman, and still the words escape me.” She takes my elbow and steers me toward the bar. “You must come and meet my husband and my son.”

Marlena beckons for the others to follow, looping her arm through mine as we traverse the deck. Trailing behind us, the girls fan out around John like the petals of a flower.

“It’s such a beautiful evening,” I remark.

“Isn’t it?” Marlena agrees. “It never becomes old. Every night I am here, absorbing this beauty. It is so important to be in life, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely.” I like this woman.

She slips her arm around a wiry, intelligent-looking man about her age and gives him a kiss that leaves a lipstick stain on his cheek. His curly hair falls in front of his glasses as he turns to us with a lopsided smile. “This is my husband, Charles.”

“Hello, ladies,” he says. “And John. I’m glad you could make it on such short notice.”

“Impromptu parties are the best parties.” Marlena taps the shoulder of a young man in a seersucker suit who is deep in conversation with the bartender. “Darling, I hate to interrupt, but you must meet our guests.” And then to the bartender. “And, Emelio, I’d love a martini.”

“Mother doesn’t drink champagne,” the young man says, turning toward us with his father’s lopsided smile. “I’m Michael.”

Michael is about our age, good-looking and coiffed beyond metrosexuality. A paisley silk pocket square adorns his seersucker, and underneath he wears a pink button-down, open deep enough to show his hairless chest. He raises his champagne glass to us, and we reciprocate. “Cheers,” he says.

The photographer snaps more pictures as we sip our champagne and gaze at the sunset, mesmerized by the view. Summer hangs on John’s arm while he chats with Charles, her eyes sliding helplessly toward Marlena. But Marlena is far less interested in idle chitchat with Summer than in telling bawdy jokes with her son and the bartender, who appears to be his boyfriend.

A few additional guests filter in, but it’s an intimate gathering, and our group of ten will likely take up half of the dining table. Claire is confiding in me about how much she misses her boyfriend when I notice Wendy talking with an unusually tall man on the other side of the deck. Their backs are to us, but I can tell she’s in flirt mode as she smooths her glossy black tresses over one shoulder and places her hand lightly on his arm, hanging on his every word.

“Wendy seems to have found a friend,” I say.

Claire follows my gaze. “Yeah, she said she knew him from somewhere, but I can’t remember where. I think Summer knows him, too.”

Wendy leans her back against the rail and meets my eye. She beckons for us to come over, and he turns as we move toward them, flashing a smile. He looks familiar, but I can’t place him.

Wendy’s face is lit with delight as we approach. “Belle, Claire, this is Leo Martin.”

My hand swims in his paw. He must be six foot six, but he’s not gangly; he’s well proportioned, fit, and sharply dressed.

“My pleasure,” he says.

“You remember Gianni?” Wendy asks.

Gianni, the Italian designer Summer dated in the small pocket of time between when Eric moved to New York and she met John. He wasn’t around long. I only met him once or twice. It ended badly, but I can’t quite remember the details.

“And remember Gianni’s birthday party,” she continues, “at that beautiful home down in Newport Beach, when everybody jumped in the pool at the end of the night?”

Ah, yes.

“That was Leo’s house! He’s friends with Gianni. He was throwing the party for him.”

It’s all coming back to me now. Leo’s rich. Like, John rich. A count or a baron or something, far richer than Gianni, and better-looking, too. Summer got uncharacteristically sloshed at the party and threw herself at Leo, who rebuffed her in deference to his friend.