“Jewish,” Steve said.
“Episcopalian,” Victoria said.
“Catholic,” Bigby said.
“One of each?” Kranchick asked, clearly confused.
“We need to talk about the bridesmaids' dresses.” Jackie desperately tried to change the subject. “Empire waists? Canary yellow and sunset orange? I'm gonna look like Kilauea.”
“Bruce chose them,” Victoria said, then realized she'd made a mistake.
Kranchick's high forehead furrowed. “Mr. Bigby, you outfitted the bridesmaids?”
“Yes, because…” Bigby began, then stopped. Stumped.
“Because…” Victoria said.
“Because…” Jackie said.
“Because Bruce is gay,” Steve volunteered.
“Oh, my,” Kranchick said.
“Was gay,” Bigby corrected.
“Until he met me,” Jackie said, stroking Bigby's cheek.
They were somewhere between the tofu and the tamales. Bigby was going on about the tragedy of medfly infestation, Kranchick listening as if he were revealing the mystery of Creation. Bigby's arm was still draped over Jackie's shoulder, so why shouldn't Steve keep up his own massage? With Victoria's back growing warmer under his touch, he nuzzled her ear and whispered, “For what it's worth, I think Bruce is the luckiest guy in town.”
“Do you mean that?”
“I'm green with envy, as green as my daiquiri.”
Leaning toward her, Steve's hand moved farther under the fabric, slipping around her rib cage and coming to rest just below her right breast. A perfectly fine, naturally firm, small but shapely, non-Rudnick breast, which now rested on the top of an index finger. She didn't move away, didn't call a cop, didn't slug him.
For a moment, he was fifteen again, in the balcony of the theater on Arthur Godfrey Road, wondering what Sarah Gropowitz would do if he cupped her 32A in his hand. As he recalled, he did nothing for so long that his arm fell asleep. The pain had been so severe, he'd thought the evening might end with amputation.
Steve sneaked a glance at Victoria. She was blushing, the color starting at the base of her neck, moving like the incoming tide until her cheeks were ablaze. A moment later, she discreetly reached behind her back, removed his hand, and slid her chair back. “If you'll excuse me a moment…”
She bolted from the table, avoiding eye contact with Steve. His eyes were trained on the front of her singlet, where her nipples propped up the silvery mesh like roof shingles in a hurricane. He ordinarily hopped to his feet when a lady left the table. But he couldn't stand up just now, not with his napkin pitched like a tent over his crotch. He shot a nervous look at Bruce, who was offering Kranchick a two-bedroom apartment at Bigby Resort amp; Villas, lakefront view at no charge. Then a peek at Jackie, who was watching him, eyes keen as talons. Smiling devilishly, she dangled a maraschino cherry by its stem, rolled it on her tongue, and bit into it.
“Mr. Solomon, I must say you have wonderful friends,” Kranchick said, breaking away from Bigby's sales pitch, “and your fiancee is both beautiful and charming.”
“Sometimes I feel like pinching myself, asking if it's all real.”
“It's real, old chap,” Bruce said heartily. “And you deserve it all.”
Old chap? Maybe it was the yacht club surroundings, or maybe he'd overdosed on daiquiris. Still, Bigby was a decent guy, and for a moment Steve felt guilty about the strange brew of feelings he had for the man's fiancee. The guilt, however, was pretty much drowning in a deep pool of desire. With Victoria still nowhere in sight, Steve excused himself from the table.
He searched the bar area.
No Victoria.
He went to the ladies' rest room, knocked on the door, and called her name.
No Victoria.
He ducked into the kitchen and looked around.
Where was she?
He went onto the patio and followed the path to the pier. And there she was, walking along a row of power boats. He caught up to her next to the Whiplash, a Fountain speedster owned by a personal-injury lawyer.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I just needed some air.”
She was staring across the bay and wouldn't look at him. He came closer. The only sounds were the clanks and groans of the boats in their moorings and the far-off caw of a seabird. The sun had set, and an evening breeze chilled the air.
“You're cold.” Steve took both of her bare arms in his hands and felt the goose bumps.
“What were you doing in there?” Sounding angry. Ready to unload on him. “Just what the hell were you doing?”
“I'm sorry. You're helping me. Big-time. So if I was out of line. ..”
“And in court, massaging my neck?”
“It won't happen again. Scout's honor.”
“I'll bet a year's pay you were never a Boy Scout.”
“I was till they caught me peeping into the girls' bunkhouse.”
“And what are you doing now?”
He hadn't realized it, but his hands were rubbing her upper arms. “Just keeping you warm.” But in reality, he simply couldn't keep his hands off her. “I apologize. Really, I would never-”
“Shut up, Solomon.” She threw her arms around his neck, pulled him close, and kissed him.
He was so startled that it took him a second to kiss her back. But he did. At first, soft and tender. Then deeper, hungrier. Lips melting, tongues circling, it was a long, sigh-filled, sweet river of a kiss that left them both gasping. He held her close, and for a long moment, neither moved.
He tried to fathom his longings. Why did this feel so different than all the rest? Why did this woman matter?
Suddenly, she pulled back and turned away.
“That didn't happen,” she said.
“Yes it did.”
“I'm drunk.”
“Don't think so.”
“Or it's some chemical thing. I'm light-headed from not eating.”
“You want the paramedics?”
“Or it's propinquity. We work together every day, so naturally some feelings arise.”
“That's gotta be it.”
“Or it's reverse chemistry. We really don't like each other, so this is some mutually codependent, destructive urge that manifested itself simultaneously in both of us.”
“Or a rational, synergistic coupling,” he said, using her own words against her.
“I doubt it.” She was hugging herself with both hands.
Steve came to her, put his arms around her from behind. “Whatever it is, why not go with the flow?”
She wheeled to face him. “And where will that take us? Besides your bedroom?”
“I don't know. I just thought-”
“Isn't that just like you, Solomon? Do what feels good and damn the consequences.”
“Do what feels right. And this feels right. Why fight it?”
“For one thing, I'm engaged.” She held up her ring finger.
“A lawyer would notice you didn't say, ‘I'm in love with someone else.'”
“That's implicit in ‘I'm engaged.'”
“Love's never implicit in anything.”
“Okay, I love Bruce. I love him a lot. I'm going to marry him. Satisfied?”
“If you are.”
