“I’m not sure I’m ready to be seen in public. I’m still waiting for that burqa I ordered to arrive,” Barbara explained to Grant, only half-jokingly.
Debbie had also been ambivalent about attending the event, but like Grant, Ray had countered, “People like Warren Bradley are not going to spoil this, or any night in Sausalito, for us.”
Now that they were there and the evening air was so pleasant, and the wine and covered dishes they had brought were so delicious, the four friends relaxed. Barbara noticed a few raised eyebrows, mostly coming from Robin Mitchell and others seated at the Ladies of Liberty table. There were a few whispers into cupped ears and nods aimed in their direction, but Barbara disciplined herself to focus on the music and the setting, pushing every other thought aside.
During intermission, the four friends noticed Warren buzzing from table to table like a busy bee pollinating half-truths, smiling, laughing, and greeting those he considered his social set. With each of Warren's extended chuckles, Barbara suspected that she and her husband were the targets of most, if not all, of his quips. Again, she pushed aside her irritation and willed herself to ignore a nagging sense of humiliation.
It wasn’t until later, after the final aria of the evening when everyone was packing up their blankets and picnic baskets, that Grant walked over and tapped Warren Bradley on the shoulder. If Barbara, Ray, or Debbie knew what Grant was about to do, they would have made every effort to stop him.
Perhaps his original intent was, as he explained later, to say hello to a few of his fellow arts commission members. But when he passed so close to Warren, he could feel his anger rising like a force of nature desperately seeking release. Grant could not hold back.
Warren’s look of feigned innocence and barely disguised delight added to Grant’s fury. The social gadfly reasoned he was safe while surrounded by so many of his fellow citizens and devoted admirers. Grant’s right hand formed into a fist. How easy it would be to permanently wipe that smirk off Bradley's face. But inside, he could hear that controlling half of his mind shouting, No, you cannot, must not, do that!
Instead, Grant settled for dressing down his nemesis: “That was a cheap shot you took at me in your column!”
Sausalito’s core group of busybodies scattered around the two of them, hoping to appear as if they were looking away while desperately trying to hear every word and witness every action.
“Now, Grant, calm down!” In truth, Warren was thrilled that Grant had risen to his bait. All night long he’d whispered this mantra to any ear open to hearing it: "Grant Randolph is a dangerous, reckless hothead, who should take his ill manners and questionable breeding back to New York City."
“Don’t tell me to calm down,” Grant growled. “You knew what you were doing when you wrote that bullshit about my not being available for comment. You didn’t want to hear what I had to say because the truth would have damaged your snide, slanted little story.”
At this point, Grant’s voice was loud enough for fans of both opera and local drama to hear. Given an audience, Warren said in a raised voice, “Would someone please tell a police officer that I’m feeling threatened by this man?”
Ray walked over and took Grant’s arm. Instinctively, Grant jerked it away.
Everyone held their collective breaths just as Chris Harding stepped in. “What seems to be the problem, Mr. Bradley?”
Warren, much relieved to have the tall, muscular, young police officer at his side, used the opportunity to pour a little salt into Grant’s profoundly wounded reputation. “Officer, Mr. Randolph seems to be agitated about my column in The Standard this week. I’m beginning to fear for my safety!”
If looks could kill, Grant’s anger would have dispatched Warren to a better—or perhaps a far worse place, at that very moment.
Nonchalantly, Harding declared, “Okay, well if we’re done here, let’s just pack up and move along.”
Anxious to get his friend away from Bradley as soon as possible, Ray put his arm around Grant. “Come on, let’s get out of here. This is enough excitement for one night.”
For a few moments longer, Grant stood his ground. Finally, he turned his back on Warren and walked away, aware that the muscles in his arms were twitching and his fists clenching.
As Grant moved along, he scanned the people around the small park, all of whom were staring back at him. But it was Barbara and Debbie’s horrified expressions that validated what he already knew: he’d taken a bad situation and made it worse.
Grant was still steaming the next day when he and Ray made their daily pilgrimage to Gold’s Gym. Again, he thanked Ray for taking hold of him. “I so wanted to wipe the smirk off that idiot's face. Thanks for coming over and saving me.”
“Nothing you wouldn’t have done for me. Listen, if you want to step on this knucklehead’s throat and you’ve got a few bucks lying around, talk to a lawyer. Find out if you can sue him and the newspaper that prints his column.”
It was an idea that Grant, in all his anger, hadn’t seriously considered.
Later that night, he went online to Martindale.com and checked the reviews of several local attorneys. Finally, he chose one to call to arrange an appointment. He decided to keep mum about it to Barbara, though, because he wanted to present her with the possibility of taking a civil approach to beating that irksome, mean-spirited man.
“But look what this guy did to
