The Restaurateur Page 3

  “I’ve been trying to make your father an offer.”

  “It’s not for sale.”

  “It sounds like it is,” I say.

  The frown deepens. It should be ugly, but it’s exactly the opposite.

  “Look, Liz …”

  “Elizabeth,” she snaps.

  “You don’t go by Liz? Didn’t …” I’ve lost something. “Didn’t you introduce yourself as Liz?”

  No. I remember now. She introduced herself as Elizabeth, and I thought it sounded like a mouthful, four whole fucking syllables. I wondered why she just didn’t go by Liz, then I started to think of her as Liz. For a while she was particularly bitchy, I entertained a private mental joke where she liked that big, long name specifically because it was a mouthful. Good old Liz loves having a mouthful, and it was funny for a while but isn’t now, as she’s staring right into my soul.

  “Liz is a cocktail waitress’s name,” she says.

  “How so?”

  “Well, do you know any cocktail waitresses named Elizabeth?”

  “No. Do you know any named Liz?”

  I guess not because she keeps staring at me. I wonder why she’d make that specific argument without having anything to back it up.

  “Please just hear me out. Elizabeth.” I try not to say her name condescendingly because I’m honestly not mocking her. I might hate this woman more than I’ve ever hated someone on sight before, but my ability to close the mountain deal depends on her. I don’t want an enemy. I need to suck it up. Make her like me, even if it means eating a tiny bit of crow.

  “Look. Your father says you have plans for the mountain.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you mind if I ask what they are?”

  “Frankly, yes.”

  Long pause.

  “Well, can you at least tell me —”

  “I don’t need to tell you anything, Mr. Saint. It doesn’t matter what plans I have, or if I have plans at all. I … excuse me.”

  The waitress returns mid-sentence. Elizabeth glares at her until she turns to go, away from her but not from me. I give the waitress a wink and a smile, encouraging her to stay. I spent years waiting tables myself and have a great rapport with the servers I know from my restaurants today. The service industry is built on the backs of people like this young woman, and yet they get no respect at all. PEZA has made it a mission to change that.

  “The point is that it’s my family’s property,” Elizabeth continues, “and we don’t need a reason not to sell.”

  “You haven’t heard my offer.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s refused.”

  I give her an offer anyway — only after it’s out of my mouth do I realize it’s well above the highest I wanted to pay. I’m getting desperate. The waitress, now filling my water and trying to ignore all the irritation in the air, catches my eye when she hears the number. Again, I smile.

  “It’s not just about money. I’ll be buying your father out of his day to day.”

  “My father is fine. No, wait, I’m still eating that.”

  The waitress retracts her hand, leaving the almost-empty plate in front of Elizabeth. The poor woman gets the irritated glare that’s meant for me. She mutters an apology, then she’s gone, and Elizabeth’s attention returns to me.

  Fuck it. Time to pull out the big guns.

  There was a span of just seconds before my mind registered Elizabeth’s chill, when I thought I could sweet talk her. Maybe even bribe her. It’s hard not to pick up my phone, call Damon, and insist that he be a fucking man and decide for himself, rather than letting his spoiled little bitch of a daughter determine his fortune and how he spends his time.

  But none of those things worked or will work, and it’s quickly becoming apparent that nothing I can do will save this situation. Why hold back? Time to say some of the things I want to say, seeing as my perfect mountain is lost anyway.

  “Maybe you should let your father make his own decisions.”

  I get a stare from those hard, green eyes as if she can’t believe her ears. “He makes his own decisions.”

  “Seems to me you’re making this one.”

  “I’m giving my opinion.”

  “It’s pretty clear that you’re the gatekeeper.”

  “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “I’m the guy who wants to do a mutually beneficial deal with your father, yet for some reason needs your approval after I’ve already gotten his.”

  Her face turns to murder. Those perpetually downturned lips press together, turning white at the center.

  “You don’t already have his approval. I can’t stop him if he wants to do something.”

  “Funny. That’s exactly what it looks like you’re doing.”

  I can see her trying to process this. I get the feeling that not many people stand up to Elizabeth. I also get the feeling that she’s always gotten what she wanted. I struggled growing up. Pain leaves scars, but I see none on her smooth, privileged face.

  At this inopportune moment, the waitress arrives. We almost don’t notice because we’re locked in a death stare, eye to eye. She doesn’t see the standoff until it’s too late, and she can’t leave. Her little notebook is shaking. The chatter of her pen as it rattles against its edge feels like the only sound in the room.

  “What?” Elizabeth finally hisses, turning her eyes toward the waitress.

  “Are we saving room for dessert?”

  Elizabeth slowly returns her eyes to me, as if I’m to blame for this.

  “I think we’ll skip dessert today, thanks,” I say, perhaps too brightly. I’m trying to make this moment less uncomfortable for the girl, and I know that my cheer will piss Elizabeth off even more.

  “I think we’re through here,” Elizabeth tells me when the girl scuttles off.

  “So, I was right. You don’t want dessert.”

  She’s picking up her purse. Zipping its top.

  “Just tell me one thing,” I say.

  She looks over.

  “What business is it of yours?” I hold her for a second, letting my words sink in. “I don’t mean that disrespectfully. It’s a genuine question. I know he owns the mountain. I’ve seen the recorded deed. I also know he works the land, and he told me you almost never go up there. So, what business is it of yours?”

  “It’s my family’s land.”

  “Not according to the deed.”

  “You know what I mean. It’s been in our family for generations. Doesn’t matter if he’s the one who technically owns it. My grandfather owned it, and my great-grandfather before that.”

  “So what? I’m not hearing any reason why you should care about it now, as it exists today.”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “Please,” I say, forcing a smile. “I can’t rest until I know, at least, why I’m being denied.”

  There’s a long pause. We’ve come down some, but our earlier raised voices attracted a lot of attention. Diners are trying not to be obvious while looking at us, but we’re in the middle of the room, both standing, exchanging laser heat rays. It’s like one of us is strapped with a bomb, finger on the trigger.

  “I want to build something at the top. Something new. Something that matters a lot to me, but that you wouldn’t understand.”

  “So, a Prada store. Or a day spa.”

  That does it. Now she’s going to kill me.

  Elizabeth’s lips open. I actually see her teeth. But before she can get out more than “You—!”, the waitress returns to set the check on the table like Indiana Jones swapping a bag of sand for an idol.

  Elizabeth snatches her purse close and spins on her heel, the waitress’s arm is below hers at that exact moment. The two collide. The waitress jars forward, smacking the leather-bound check folio into Elizabeth’s water glass. It teeters briefly toward me, then overbalances in the other direction as Elizabeth’s admittedly fine ass strikes the table. Thanks to constant refilling, the glass is ful
l. An ice-cold deluge consumes her napkin, then spills down Elizabeth’s long, high-heeled legs.

  The waitress freezes. Then Elizabeth. I freeze too, hand near my mouth to throttle my laughter. We’re a diorama designed by some kid with a twisted sense of humor. The position of the wet spot — darker blue amid the lighter fabric — is perfect. It looks like Elizabeth peed herself right through her dress.

  “What the hell is your problem?” Elizabeth shouts at the waitress. She looks down, kicks her shoes away before too much water can reach them. They must be made of fairy wings and gossamer, like Elizabeth herself. “Can’t you watch where you’re going?”

  “I-I’m sorry, Miss. Let me get some extra napkins!”

  “Napkins? Oh, motherFUCKER!” She’s noticed her purse. It bore some of the brunt, and the little thing looks like it might be suede. She looks back up at the waitress. “Can’t you see where you’re going? Can’t you pay attention to your job for one goddamn minute?”

  “I’m sorry. I … Let me help you.” She’s dabbing the purse, but Elizabeth is swatting her away.

  “Get the hell away from me! Is this your first day? Why can’t you pay the slightest bit of attention to what’s happening here? What makes you so damn blind to what’s going on at this table that you can’t take a hint when—!”

  “That’s enough,” I say.

  Elizabeth turns to me.

  “Leave her alone.” Now the shoe is on the other foot. I’d never, ever hit a woman who wasn’t trying to kill me, but I want her to shut the fuck up, and sit the fuck down. “It was an accident.”

  “She’s been in my way the entire—”

  “She said she was sorry.”

  “Sorry doesn’t pay for my purse! Sorry doesn’t let me walk out of here without—”

  I shake my head. “You people.”

  “What does that mean, ‘you people’?”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “Why don’t you tell me, seeing as you said it.”

  “Maybe you think about it for a second.”

  “You said it first.”

  My face scrunches. I can’t believe this. “What are you, four years old?”

  “You have something to say? Say it.”

  “Oh, I have plenty to say about you.”

  “Tell me, then. Tell me what you think you know.”

  My head bobs. “Okay, then. You’ve always gotten everything you wanted because Daddy bought it for you. You were the first kid in your class to get a car, and it was a brand-new Beemer. Probably had people waiting on you hand and foot your entire life.”

  “That is so not—”

  “And whenever you go out, the little helpers you run across are all present to serve you. Doesn’t matter if it’s the clerk in a store or the lady who polishes your princess toenails. Waiters? Waitresses? Fuck them, and their feelings. They don’t work hard at thankless jobs, serving people like you. They’re just there to make life easy for Queen Bee, aren’t they?”

  “You don’t know a damn thing about what you’re—”

  “I’ve worked in the service industry my entire life. The restaurant business is hard. Know why? Razor-thin margins keep the pay low, meaning everyone from servers to busboys relies on the charity of people they’re not paid enough to serve. Terrible hours, because during the best times, when everyone wants to relax, you’ve gotta be kissing asses, hoping to eke out a few extra bucks without pissing them off by sticking their martini olive too far through with a toothpick. But you wouldn’t know about that, would you? I’ll bet you’ve never had to work. Never had to be nice to people who treat you like hell, eating their shit, just to get stiffed on the tip and not have enough to feed your family.”

  I turn to the waitress and finish with, “THANK you.”

  The entire restaurant is staring at the show. The girl was holding more cloth napkins, which I’ve snatched. I shove them at Elizabeth’s chest, making contact, causing her to wobble. Her glare has turned shocked, and for a long moment, I see the woman under the ice.

  Good. Fuck her.

  Elizabeth waits. I seethe. I don’t usually lose control, especially in public. My emotions are all mixed up. I’ve lost my center. Fury blends with awareness and something that couldn’t possibly be lust.

  Staring at Elizabeth, I suddenly realize that she’s the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen. I’ve never hated a girl so much while also wanting to bend her over the table and teach her a lesson.

  But that’s a psycho’s thought, so I force it from my head.

  Elizabeth is ugly inside. I’d never touch her. Even if, inexplicably, I feel my cock growing hard as she looks at me in that new, shattered way. Even if I’d swear she was looking at me with the same mix of fire and ice.

  Then it all passes. I no longer see vulnerability or a real person. Just this railroading bitch who is throwing napkins at me, flying around my head like doves.

  “Lunch is on you,” she spits.

  She turns. Walks out.

  I look down at the water beaded folio, then reach for my wallet and to no one in particular say, “My pleasure.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ELIZABETH

  “JUST STOP.”

  I LOOK UP to see Blake’s giant eyes staring at me. They seriously occupy half of her face, and she always rings them with dark liner. You’d think it’d be a bad look, but Blake is adorable. If I were a guy or a lesbian, I’d totally be into her.

  She puts her hands on her lips. Her dress looks like it belongs in the junior miss department. You’d think she was sixteen. She’s my age, 25. And one of the smartest people in most rooms, though nobody sees it coming.

  “What?”

  Blake rolls her eyes.

  “I’m not doing anything!’

  “You’re thinking about that guy from the restaurant. Letting him get to you. What good is that doing you, Liz?”

  “I hate it when you call me Liz.”

  “Deal with it, Liz. Considering the amount I plan to charge for consulting in six months when things are set up I won’t let you waste a bunch of expensive extra syllables saying your name.”

  I look up at her. She puts her hands on her hips. I know now that I shouldn’t have sat. To someone like Blake, it’s a sign of weakness.

  “Stop giving him your mental energy,” she says. “I need your focus here, with me.”

  “I’m not giving him anything. I’m not thinking about him at all.”

  “Bullshit you’re not.”

  I give up. I stand, but I also throw my hands in the air.

  “Okay. Fine. I’m pissed. I had a pretty good day, before meeting with that asshole.”

  “It’s over. Let it go.”

  “I told you; I let it go!”

  “I can see it on your face, Liz! He’s just some douchebag your father works with. Not your problem. You told him off, and your dad won’t sell without your okay — not if you’ll tell him what you have in mind. So, it’s settled. Done.”

  “I don’t want to tell him, Blake. Dad’s never understood this kind of thing. He’ll think I’m just on to some new thing.”

  “Probably because you usually are flighty, and on to some new thing. But how much money have you made for him, just tweaking his business?” Blake claps me on the back of the neck, then shakes me a little. “Don’t worry about it. If you don’t want to tell him until it’s farther along, then don’t. God knows it’ll take you a long-ass time to raise the capital. Any leads on where you’re planning to get that much money?”

  I shake my head. One frustrating problem at a time, please.

  “I don’t know.”

  Blake lets me go. “Well, there’s no rush. He knows what that land means to you. Hell, what it means to him. If you sold, would he … you know … have her moved?”

  Ugh. That, I don’t want to think about. When Mom told us she wanted to be buried on the mountain, I’ll be honest; I did think of this. Dad’s always said he didn’t want to own it forever.


  What if the new owners want to stick a ski lift on top of your grave, Mom?

  It seemed like an inappropriate thing to say at the time, but now I wish I had. Deep down, it always felt like the problem would go away if I pretended the day would never come.

  Blake seems to sense this was a poor question to ask. I go to the windows and look up at the peaks. We’re far from my mountain, but we can see it from here. “Do you think I’m spoiled?”

  “Definitely.”

  I turn around. “You’re supposed to say no.”

  “School told me I had a 178 IQ when I was twelve years old. Knowing that has warped my sense of modesty. If you want fake answers I suggest you talk to Rueben. I don’t know how to behave around people less awesome than me.”

  “Seriously,” I say.

  She sighs. “Yes, Liz. You’re spoiled. Because your dad got rich before you had to take the usual lumps. I worked at a Burger King. Do you know what they make you wear at Burger King?” She shudders. “Where did you work?”

  “I worked for my dad.”

  “Did you hate it?”

  “No. It was great.”

  “Then you’re spoiled, sweetheart. But so what? You can’t help it. You’re still awesome. Still super kind.”

  “Mateo said I was a monster, the way I treated people.”

  “Wait. Mateo?”

  “Yes, that’s his name.”

  “Mateo Saint? Is Mateo Fucking Saint the rich investor who wants to buy your dad’s mountain?”

  “Yes. So?”

  Blake is tapping her chin. Pacing, the way she does when she is at the edge of an idea.

  “What?”

  “He’s hot, is all. You've seen the videos of that guy rock climbing?” She makes a cat-clawing gesture, then a rowr.

  “What else, Blake?”

  “Nothing.”

  But it’s not nothing. This is the way Blake works, and the last time she had a big idea, the telecommunications world took a leap forward. It’ll take time for her seed of an idea to fully bloom, but in a few years mobile web browsers might just skip a generation or two.