The Chosen

accused me of now.”

Vera set down her fork. She tried not to appear floored, but she was. She tried to think of something diverting to say. “I don’t think Mulligan was accusing. Just implying.”

“You’re too kind.” Feldspar smiled again, very faintly. “I’ve told you that I was accused. Aren’t you going to inquire as to whether or not I was guilty?”

“No, that’s your—”

“I was, quite guilty. At least in an indirect sense. However, I was never charged.”

If he was never charged, why did he tell me all this? Vera now wondered. Why practically verify to me that Mulligan’s suspicions are right on the money? This made no sense at all.

“Which is hardly an excuse,” he continued. “Guilt is guilt. Guilt by association, in my case. Now, though, as I’ve stated, The Inn is absolutely legitimate, and I can guarantee you of the same in regard to Magwyth Enterprises, Ltd.”

Some dinner, she thought. Some date. She couldn’t imagine anything more awkward, or more difficult to maneuver through.

“I cannot prevaricate,” Feldspar said then. “Not to you, at any rate.”

“I don’t understand,” Vera told him, for lack of anything else.

“After all, you’ve made quite a sacrifice for me: coming here cold, running a restaurant for an enterprise you know nothing about, giving your all. It would be immoral of me to leave you uninformed. I appreciate your loyalty and discretion, and I’m grateful to you for handling this unpleasant business with the police. You know as well as I, loyalty is perhaps the most essential interpersonal element in this kind of business. Your loyalty will not go unrewarded, nor will your outstanding performance.”

At first, this depressed her, because it sounded as though he were merely patronizing her, for getting Mulligan off his back. But as she watched him, and continued to assess his demeanor, and the manner with which he expressed himself, she began to doubt that patronizing her had any part in what he’d just told her. But what is his motive then? she wondered, sipping her Montrachet.

Perhaps there was no ulterior motive at all. Perhaps he was coming clean with her for the reasons he’d just explained.

“So much for confessions.” Now Feldspar leaned back in the plush armchair, his smile going wan. He diddled with an ash in the ashtray, almost as if he felt embarrassed now. “It must not be an easy thing to reckon,” he said.

“What?”

“To suddenly become aware that your employer has a bit of a checkered past.”

But Vera couldn’t help continuing to think: Select clientele. Mafioso, money laundering. “I don’t guess anybody’s slate is perfectly clean,” she excused.

“No, perhaps not.”

Another glass of the fine Montrachet. God, she thought. She was getting drunk. The wine left her buzzing, warm inside, but remotely unhappy. She had a parfait for dessert, while Feldspar ordered expresso and smoked. Afterward, he paid cash for the meal, which seemed odd. He owned The Carriage House. Why pay? Vera supposed he was just trying to seem gracious. It depressed her further, though. The meal had been outstanding, yet Feldspar made no comment whatever. At least Donna was happy. She bubbled enthusiasm in silence, upon discovering Feldspar’s fifty dollar cash tip in the leather tab