The Lion's Den(63)

He looks to her across the long table for confirmation he may reveal the number, and she rolls her eyes. “Cinquantaquattro! Fifty-four! And glad of every year!”

“On her fifty-fourth birthday,” Charles finishes.

She blows him kisses and we all drink. “Grazie mille.” She raises her glass to us. “And to all of you, for making it a party. I do love a party.”

We drink again, then take our seats. Immediately, as if in one motion, the staff places our plates in front of us. The steward announces, “Bresaola, arugula, Grana Padano, and fresh lemon.”

I lose count of the perfectly timed number of plates, each small enough not to be intimidating and big enough that I am full before we’re halfway through but keep going nonetheless, unable to turn down the experience of each delectable dish.

This is the first dinner I’ve had on this trip during which the conversation is not moderated by our patron, and it’s lovely. There is actually an exchange of ideas, witty repartee.

But like Victorian children, John’s girls are meant to be seen and not heard, to speak only when spoken to. I’ve been trained by the conditions of the past few days (was it only a week ago that I was in the bohemian cocoon of my apartment, packing for this trip?), and I know better than to make waves.

This, of course, does not stop me from engaging in conversation with my new friend Michael, who, it turns out, is a big fan of Hunter’s music and is ecstatic when he finds out I’m friends with him.

“I love Hunter Rogers!” he enthuses. “He’s so dapper, and his voice is sweet and smooth, like molasses. And he’s gorgeous.”

“He would be thrilled to hear you say that.” I laugh.

The best way I can describe Hunter’s music is Cole Porter goes to Ibiza. Original songs in a jazz standard format, set to dance music. He’s not hugely famous, but he does have a loyal following among Broadway fans and dance music lovers. So, mainly gay men. Which, of course, suits him just fine.

“You have to introduce us,” Michael begs. “Maybe he’s my soul mate. We could have a wedding right here on the boat. You could be our maid of honor. But I’m getting ahead of myself. How did you guys become friends?”

“We met doing a musical in college. Grease. I was Sandy and he was Danny. Then we lived together till he had to move to New York for his first Broadway show.”

“I live in New York! Where does he live? Not that I’m gonna stalk him or anything, of course.” He winks.

“He has a loft in the Meatpacking District.”

“I’m in SoHo! Seriously, you have to call me next time you’re there. We can all hang out. I swear I won’t be weird.” He lowers his voice. “I’m gonna go smoke some hash before dessert. Wanna come?”

I glance down the table to where Summer is sitting. She’s engrossed in conversation with the bejeweled wife of the American that Marlena was debating taxes with earlier, her back to us. John wouldn’t notice if I fell off the boat, and Wendy is across the table to my left, but she’s so captivated by Leo that she hasn’t glanced at me since we sat down. Claire is their third wheel. Brittani, Rhonda, and Amythest are doing shots of limoncello, and Bernard and Vinny are nowhere to be seen.

I turn my attention back to Michael and grin. “Sure.”

Indeed, the only person who notices as we push our chairs back and exit down the spiral staircase behind the table is Marlena, who meets Michael’s eye and nods.

On the lower deck, Michael sinks into one of the couches and lights the spliff. “Your friend Wendy is in for a disappointment if she’s looking for more than a night of fun. Leo’s a trophy hunter.” He inhales.

“She has a boyfriend at home anyway,” I say, suddenly defensive of poor Wendy, so desperate to start a family.

“Don’t they all?” He blows smoke rings as he exhales.

“Neat trick.”

He passes me the joint, and I inhale the taste of tar and tobacco. Hash is a different beast than California Kush, and while I personally prefer the green stuff, I’ll take what I can get.

“My mom taught me,” he says.

I laugh. “Your mom’s pretty cool.”

“When I was younger, I was super annoyed that she wasn’t like the other moms. But then I figured out that I wasn’t like the other boys, and we’ve been tight ever since. I mean, she always encouraged me to be whoever I wanted to be, but she was secretly so relieved to have a gay son. She abhors all the traditionally male things, like sports and cars and hunting…”

“Hunting? Who in New York City hunts? That’s where you grew up, right?”

He nods. “In all the traditional places, there’s always the head of some poor beast staring down from on high while you eat his brothers. A reminder to all the men they are kings of the jungle.”

“I’m surprised your mom goes to those places.”

“Oh, she avoids them like the plague. My dad drags me along every so often. He went there with his dad…he likes tradition. I have no idea how the two of them work, but they do.”

“They probably balance each other out. It’s nice to see a couple who actually love each other in this environment. Most of the other romantic situations seem so overly…complicated.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Like your friend?”