Vera nearly shuddered in relief when she entered the ’Croft’s warm confines. Here everybody was everybody’s friend—almost everyone in the place, staff too, greeted her as she hung up her overcoat. Being here suddenly reminded her of the other less admirable bars in the area, and that reminded her of Paul, and the series of articles he was writing about local singles bars. Part of her didn’t like the idea of her fiance surveying such places on his own, but that was selfish. Jealousy was one of many negative emotions that had never shown its face to their relationship. He was a professional writer; he’d been commissioned to write the series, and he was therefore committed to do so as effectively as possible. His dedication to his work was just more proof of his love. Before, he’d endeavored to be a good writer for himself—now it was for Vera too, and for their future together. She’d never had such easy mutuality in a relationship before, nor such unselfishness. It made her feel very stable with Paul, a verifier of his love.
It made her very happy.
Vera scanned the modest crowd. Down the bar three guys proposed a toast with Windex shooters. A couple at a side table leaned forward to kiss, while two art students argued over who was the more important writer: William Faulkner or Kathy Acker.
A smudge of darkness seemed to move, nearly glimmering; Vera sensed more than saw the squat figure rise. The back corner table by the fireplace, over which hung the ’Croft’s famous painting—a classically depicted nude woman lying in the woods before a ram and a goat. Feldspar, in his black Italian suit, smiled subtlety at her and bid the table with his jeweled hand.
“I got out a little early,” Vera hurried to explain. “I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Feldspar replied. “And again I’m grateful for your time. Please.”
Vera took her seat. Feldspar seemed to sit himself with some difficulty, as if he had a trick knee or something. It was the diaphanous black material of his suit that gave his shape the elusive shimmer. “I realize your time is precious,” he went on, finally settling himself. “But first, what would you like?”
Feldspar was drinking a Chimay Grand Reserve: Trappist ale in a huge bottle. He’d had several Courvoisier’s at the restaurant, plus two Remy’s, and now this. Yet he didn’t appear fazed at all. If Vera had drunk all that, she’d be on the floor.
“Fine.” Feldspar signaled the tablehop and ordered. He wasted no more time with subtleties. “I work for an investment company of sorts, one department of which is involved in exclusive resort facilities. We’re opening one in this propinquity.”
Vera opened her mouth, then closed it.
He’d nearly flinched, as though the confession were absurd. “What I mean is, my superiors are opening a similar resort nearby. We’d like you to run it, or I should say, we’d like you to run the resort’s restaurant.”
Before she could make any response, the waiter brought her Grand Marnier. She sipped from the large snifter, luxuriating in the sharp taste and aroma. “I need to know more—”
“Details, but of course.” A thread of foam touched one side of his moustache when he sipped his ale. The ale looked murky, nearly crimson, with
