Edward Lee - The Chosen

And as if on the command of her desire, the hands, now slick with her sweat, slid down her hips, joined at her prickling sex, and then lifted her buttocks up until she was on her knees.

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GRAND OPENING

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Jesus,” Vera muttered under her breath. She stood in wait at the hostess station, but there seemed little to wait for. Opening night was halfway over, and they’d served a grand total of nine dinners.

The Carriage House glimmered in candlelight. Beyond the east wing’s opulent bay windows, the winter sky winked with stars and a high, bright moon. From hidden speakers, Beethoven’s String Quartet No. 15 threatened to put her to sleep in its lilting, quiet strains.

Damn good thing Feldspar turned down my request for a waitress, she thought, looking around. Packing them in like this, Donna waited all the stations, ran the service bar, and still had time to stand around. Vera’d nearly thrown a fit when Feldspar had buried her suggestion of running an advertisement in the local newspaper, The Waynesville Sentinel. “Oh, I don’t see any necessity in that,” he’d told her. “We’re booked solid.” No, The Inn’s booked solid, she’d wanted to counter. But my goddamn restaurant’s only got two reservations for the first weekend!

The previous weeks had been hard and fast. Setting up deals with decent suppliers had been like pulling teeth, but eventually Vera had managed to stock a quality inventory. The liquor order had come in yesterday, and half of their posted wine list remained to be seen. You don’t post Kruge, Perrier-Jouet, Dom Perignon and then reveal to customers on opening night “I’m sorry, sir, our champagne shipment didn’t come in, but we have a delightful, zesty little local wine called Squashed Grapes Red, and it’s only $5.95 per bottle.” No, seekers of fine dining did not want to hear that. Vera had had no choice but to pull all the wine lists.

The sleek, leather-bound menus looked good. She’d copied the biggest draws from The Emerald Room and used some of Dan B.’s own culinary inventions such as Crown Roast of Pork with Cajun Mustard and Sweet Potato Puree, Spiced Crepes Julienne, and Angel Hair Pasta Lobster Cakes in Lemon Butter. He was back there right now, probably leaning against a Cress-Cor prep rack, trading cuts with Lee and wondering when his next order was coming in.

“Don’t look so discouraged,” Donna prompted, stopping on her way to the only four-top they’d filled tonight. She was carrying smoked scallop salads and more drinks. “It’s opening night. Nobody knows about us yet.”

“I know,” Vera replied. “I just hoped the turnout’d be a little better than this.”

“Once word gets around, you’ll see. And who knows, maybe we’ll get a bunch of late diners from the room reservations. Mr. Feldspar told me all the rooms are filled.”

“Yeah, but only the third and fourth floor suites. None of ours. And I haven’t seen a single person at the reception desk. The desk isn’t even staffed.”

“I’m sure someone’s keeping an eye on it, you can’t expect too many walk-ins at a place like this. Don’t worry!”

Donna traipsed off. At least someone’s enthused, Vera considered. She knew she was overreacting; The Carriage House, after all, was a new business venture, and all new business ventures started slow. Vera was used to a big rush every night; she’d simply have to adjust.

“At least what we’re getting leave good tips,” Donna happily reported on her way back. “Big wheels, too. That guy at table seven is the mayor!’’

Vera smiled. Whopee, she thought. The mayor of Waynesville, population four thousand. They’d also had a few town councilmen, the fire chief, and a podiatrist. Vera doubted that many more residents even existed in Waynesville who could afford to come here. What, tractor repairmen? Farmers?

And what of Feldspar? This was opening night, and he wasn’t to be found. In fact, she’d scarcely seen him at all during the past two weeks. “He’s busy with client promotion and the room reservations,” Kyle had told her, implying that the restaurant wasn’t important enough to warrant Feldspar’s time. Up yours, she’d gestured in thought. She hadn’t seen much of Kyle, either, so at least she had something to be grateful for.

Or so she thought.

She remembered her first night here, and Kyle’s overt sexual moves. Initially, she’d scoffed, had even been repelled by these presumptions. She’d expected him to persist.

But he hadn’t.

She knew she didn’t like Kyle, but for some reason that didn’t matter. Kyle had laid off, and as illogical as it seemed, this fact left her feeling flustered and even insulted. What’s the matter, Kyle. I’m not good enough for you to lust after anymore? Asshole. Not that she’d ever let him lay a hand on her, she felt irked that he was playing hard to get. She could think of no other reason for his lack of persistence. But, Grow up, Vera, she thought now. Women were notorious for double standards, but she tried not to follow suit. Yeah, Kyle, you’re an asshole for putting the make on me, and now you’re an asshole for not keeping it up. It made sense to her.

She was also, to herself, embarrassed, but not for any reason that anyone could know.

The hands, she thought now. Suddenly the dining room blurred in her eyes. Yes, the hands, the fantasy. I must be more sex-starved than I think. Every night was the same. After work, she’d retire to her room, have a short Grand Marnier or two, take a hot bubble bath, and go to bed. And in bed, as sleep encroached, the fantasy would return. In her mind, the hands would lay her out, on her belly, and begin their slow, meticulous caress. Eventually, the image would wind her up so intensely that she’d further the fantasy in her mind, to intercourse with Kyle, on her hands and knees. It infuriated her. Vera wasn’t a dreamer, she was a realist. She had no use for fantasies, especially masturbatory ones. Yet the more determined she became to resist it, the fantasy also came to her. Hot, tactile, erotic. Every night.

And every night, afterward, she fell into a sated sleep and she dreamed.…

Goddamn! What is wrong with you! She gritted her teeth and blinked hard; the recollections vanished. I’m standing at the hostess section of my restaurant, on opening night, and all I can think about are dirty dreams.

And dirty they were, like none she’d ever had in her life. She blushed just thinking about them—she felt tingly and hot, even now. Her panties dampened.

“I’d just like to say,” a voice asserted, “we think your restaurant is outstanding.”

Vera snapped out of the lewd daze. It was the mayor who was passing the hostess station—a corpulent, red-nosed man in a disheveled suit—and his wife. He complimented further, “I can’t remember the last time we’ve dined so well. Give our compliments to the chef. Lobster cakes! What a simply ingenious idea!”

“Thank you for the kind words,” Vera replied.

“It’s about time someone opened a good restaurant in our town,” the over-made-up wife contributed. “I can’t wait to tell all my friends.”

Oh, please, Vera thought. Tell them all. Even tell people who aren’t your friends. We need some receipts! “It’s been a pleasure being able to serve you. Please come again soon.”

She received several more such compliments as some of the other diners left. At eight-thirty three more couples came in, but that was it for the night. Vera meandered back into the kitchen. Lee and Dan B. were playing blackjack on the butcher block. “Hey, Dan B.,” Vera motioned. “You Lobster Cakes in Lemon Butter are a big hit.”