I’ll go, uh, get it.”
“That’d be good.” Devon smiled, a little too kindly, as if Daniel was feebleminded.
He went to the kitchen, pulled out two bottles, one an excellent merlot, the other a decent chardonnay. When he got back to the living room, Corrie was gone, the door was open and Devon waited.
Walking as casually as he could, he closed his door behind him, silently rehearsing his speech about how he couldn’t stay long.
HE WANTED MORE WINE. Lots more wine. Because he needed to be drunk to process this…menagerie.
Corrie was the normal one, and it turned out she was an ex-exotic dancer who’d had to give up her career after she’d broken her leg.
Devon was a bartender at something called a she-been, and his partner, Eric, was a chiropractor who believed in auras and spirit guides. Then there was Anya, whom Daniel guessed was in her seventies. She’d had several long, involved conversations with her pets—three poodles, two cats and a parakeet. Her best friend was Rocco, also in his golden years. He was an ex-boxer, and his whole face, not just his ears, looked like a bruised cauliflower. Rocco watched soap operas, and he knitted. Evidently, he knitted a lot, and all the tenants in the building were recipients of his largesse. Daniel kept trying to take off the floppy yellow cap, and Devon kept putting it back on his head.
The introductions were over now, and all anyone could talk about was the missing hostess. Margot. He’d already learned she was a food stylist. He’d heard of the profession, although he’d never met anyone in the trade. It made him wonder about the market for such a thing. Was the pay very good? By the look of her rather extravagantly decorated apartment, it must be.
Anyway, she was young, talented, witty, bright… going places. He’d love her. Every one of them assured him of that. He wasn’t so sure. But, he had to admit, he was curious.
Just as Corrie came by to fill his glass, the front door swung open and a woman breezed in. To a chorus of applause, no less. She carried a big grocery bag, and her long dark hair billowed behind her as she crossed the room.
So this was Margot. She was taller than he’d supposed, and quite ample, although she wore a scarlet cape, so he couldn’t really see much. Besides, he was too busy looking at her face to be bothered with the rest. She was…striking. A presence. Large eyes, a lush smile that made it hard not to grin in return, high cheekbones. Her hair came down past her shoulders, thick and flowing. Everything about her seemed larger than life.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry. I couldn’t get a cab on 7th, and traffic was hell, but I have everything now so we can get cooking, and I hope everyone’s had wine and isn’t upset and oh, my God.”
This she said when she stopped right in front of him. Staring, mouth open, the whole bit. Talk about knowing how to make a stranger feel welcome.
“You’re…delicious.”
He hadn’t blushed in a long time. Not since college, at least that he could recall. But he was blushing now. Wishing like hell he’d made his excuse about five minutes ago. It wasn’t too late. He could still escape before he burst into flames.
She thrust the grocery bag into Eric’s hand, never once shifting her gaze from him. “I’m Margot.”
“So I gathered.”
In a move that would have impressed Liberace, she whipped off her cloak and tossed it behind her, directly into Corrie’s waiting arms.
Now that he could see more of her, he was struck by how different she was from most of the women he knew. Miles away from those he dated, who tended to be borderline anorexic overachievers with exotic allergies. There was nothing of that in the woman in front of him. Even her dress looked like something a movie star would wear. Long, black and red, with a big glittery pin gathering the material right under her breasts. Which was what they deserved. They were impressive breasts. Bountiful was the word that came to mind.
Her laugh brought his attention back to her face. He cleared his throat, stood up. Held out his hand. “Daniel.”
She looked at his hand, laughed again and shook. “Welcome to the building, Daniel.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ve met everyone?”
He nodded.
“I see Rocco made you a kicky little hat.”
Oh, God. He ripped the cap off his head. “Uh, yeah.”
“Don’t worry. Before you know it, you’ll have a scarf and mittens to match. Come, Daniel. Let’s make pizzas, shall we?”
He nodded again, only then realizing his right hand still held hers. She used the situation to pull him toward the kitchen.
It was as bright and colorful as the woman herself, with lots of knickknacks of the fifties kitsch variety. A display of PEZ dispensers was his first clue. Then there were the turquoise and pink diner accents, like the old-time malt mixer, the napkin dispenser and the pink retro stove. Even the tiles were coordinated. The only thing black in the kitchen was the Felix the Cat clock.
“You can wash the basil,” she said, letting his hand go. “While I prepare the dough. Yes?”
“I’ll be happy to.”
She gave him another of those dazzling smiles. “Good Lord, you’re Studly Do-Right. Fabulous.”
If her eyes hadn’t been shining like that he’d have been insulted. Maybe he was insulted anyway.
She washed her hands, dried them with a pink towel, then handed him the basil as if it were the crown jewels. It was his turn at the sink. His concentration was split between his task and Margot. She had sprinkled flour on two large pizza boards and was folding a large round of dough as if she’d done it hundreds of times.
She cut the dough in six, then brought out a wooden rolling pin and made two ovals. When she turned to the fridge, he went back to the basil, making sure it was thoroughly clean. He wrapped it in paper towels as he watched her once more.
“We’re going to Corrie’s next,” she said. “Then Eric and Devon’s. We’ll have dessert at Rocco’s, which is really a treat, because he cooks a hell of a lot better than he knits.”
“And you do this every Sunday?”
“Yep. These are the regulars, but the rest of the folks in the building join in from time to time. We’re all pretty friendly.”
“So I gathered.”
She put down a large bowl filled with stuff like braided mozzarella, mushrooms, olives and tomatoes and turned to face him. “Tell me about you, Daniel.”
“I’m an architect.”
“Have I seen any of your work?”
“Maybe. I designed the Fourth Street library in Brooklyn Heights.”
“Nope.”
“Uh, the Woolsey building on lower Broadway.”
She shook her head.
“Those are the biggest projects.”
“Are they gorgeous?”
“Gorgeous?” He smiled. “No one’s ever called them that.”
“What have they called them?”
“Practical. Well built. Sturdy.”
She blinked. “Tear them up.”
“Pardon?”
“The basil leaves. Tear them. Into pieces.” Then she turned to the pizzas and started spreading the sauce.
Devon stuck his head in the kitchen. “Hey, we’re starving out here.”
“Then go make sure the grill’s ready.”