Chapter Seventeen: “The Proposal”
Chapter Seventeen
“The Proposal”
THEY DOCKED AT THE ISLAND FIFTEEN MINUTES AFTER LEAVING ST
. Mark’s, disembarked, and walked toward an outbuilding to the right of the sprawling hotel. Stu led their small group like a puppy that may have been trained to heel, but was incapable of obeying when excited. “I promised Marilyn I wouldn’t spoil this by telling you anything about it. But, come on, can you believe this is a Marriott? Okay, I’m shutting up now, here comes the hostess.”
As if conjured by Stu, an elegant woman appeared in the warm glow of the pathway’s lights. She called them forward and Sewanee let Marilyn and Stu take the lead, hanging back with Nick.
They had wordlessly gone to their separate hotels to get ready and by the time they’d each arrived at the pier, Stu and Marilyn were waiting. They’d all climbed aboard the boat and Stu had sequestered Nick at the bow to talk about dolphins, so she hadn’t been able to check in with him.
“Are you okay?” she whispered.
He nodded, but said, “I wish we’d had a few moments at the dock before–”
“Me too. But can we put everything aside for tonight and–”
“Of course.” He gave her a small grin. “We can fight later.” Sewanee matched his grin and felt her shoulders loosen.
Stu teasingly yelled, “You two coming or do we have to get you a room?”
“I only stay at Hiltons,” Nick yelled back and they picked up their pace, joining a laughing Stu at the open door of a terra-cotta brick structure that might have once been a barn. It had floor-to-ceiling windows banded with black iron every six feet or so. Once inside, the soft illumination of candlelight and chandeliers off to the right beckoned them into the dining room.
But the hostess instead ushered them to the left, bringing them into a lushly understated bar. “Ooh, a cocktail, yes please,” Sewanee murmured.
“Oh, Swanners,” Stu enthused, “you’re about to–”
“Stuuuu,” Marilyn warned.
He zipped his lips, but turned to Nick and side-mouthed, “Just you wait.” The hostess offered them a tray with four reddish-brown golf ball–sized orbs on it, each sitting in its own delicate cup. She instructed them to put the entire ball into their mouths and be prepared for a surprise. They clinked the cups together and did as told. Sewanee felt the hard shea butter exterior instantly collapse and a gush of sweet, tart, perfectly balanced liqueur burst to life, coating her tongue. She was stupefied. The splash of flavor had cleared her mind and awakened all her senses at once, like jumping into a cold lake.
“What’d I tell you, huh? Well, I didn’t tell you, but when have you ever had
that
happen in your mouth?” Stu held up a hand. “Don’t answer that.” Nick and Sewanee laughed as Marilyn slapped his arm.
The hostess led them through the bar, out a door, and into the garden behind the restaurant. As they strolled the meandering path, she pointed to specific produce they would be consuming
that night. Every so often, there was a tree stump and on it was a little taste of something. A mushroom puff pastry. A caramelized turnip in a single leaf of arugula. An aperitif glass containing an anise liqueur with a cherry at the bottom.
By the time the hostess took them into the restaurant and relieved them of their coats, Sewanee’s senses were strung tighter than a bowstring. There was the faint smell of woodsmoke and garlic, but also an undernote of something floral. Everything was intentional.
They were handed off to someone else and swept to a table by the windows. The tabletop was glass. The ceiling, thirty feet above, was mirrored. The windows offered a view of the garden they’d just toured. Beyond the sparse landscaping lights, the Venetian night was a black void.
Stu directed Sewanee and Nick to sit on the side that allowed them a view of the entire restaurant, the entire show. Marilyn and Stu sat across from them and Stu could not stop smiling, though it did vary; from gentle to impish to full-on clown.
Three more people appeared, one bringing a glass bottle of water, a waiter who confirmed they were doing the tasting menu, and a sommelier who confirmed they were doing pairings with the tasting menu. Stu didn’t let anyone answer before saying, “Absolute-mente!”
“Fantastico.”
The sommelier smiled politely. He pulled a bottle from behind his back and said it was off the menu, but he had it open and wanted them to try it. He poured a splash into each of their glasses and departed. They raised them, clinked, and took a sip.
“What do you think?” Stu solicited, before they’d set down their glasses.
“Yummy,” Marilyn enthused.
“Wow,” Sewanee and Nick said and then, under his breath,
Nick murmured, “It’s tight, it needs to open,” and Sewanee’s cheeks had never heated faster and Stu said, “Sorry, what?” and Nick answered, “Just right, doesn’t need to open.”
“Oh! Do you enjoy wine, Nick?”
“I’ve been known to diddle. Sorry, dabble. Diddle’s the Irish.”
Sewanee bit her lip.
Stu snapped his fingers. “I thought that accent was Irish!” Which prompted Sewanee to playfully explain how it was much more pronounced when he hit on women in bars and no true Dubliner had that accent anyway. Which prompted Nick to oh-so-innocently ask Sewanee which part of Texas she was from again, and–short of kicking each other under the table–they moved on.
Nick quickly lifted his glass. “Can’t thank you enough for letting me join in tonight.”
“I’m glad you’re here, Nick! And so happy you’re here, Swanners! What a night. Special night.”
Stu’s spirited embrace had Sewanee relaxing further and she could feel the same thing happening to Nick. An uncomplicated, pleasure-seeking father figure seemed a foreign, but welcome, concept to them both. Their fight faded into the recesses of their better selves and Sewanee had the urge to take his hand under the table. But she didn’t.
A flurry of servers presented the first artwork of a course and the sommelier poured a white. Nick was about to dig in, but Stu clucked his tongue. “Whoa there, cowboy, everything comes with an explanation.” The head waiter launched into a detailed description of what sat before them. This was immediately followed by the sommelier telling them why he chose this specific wine to “not only complement the dish, but to create a relationship with it.” Sewanee thought, if this were Los Angeles, it would be pretentious, artificial, chi-chi. But here, in Venice, on an island, it was earned.
They took a sumptuous bite and chased it with a healthy sip of wine. All four sat in a moment of silence. The kind of reverence reserved for prayer, as though they had never eaten before this moment.
“That is . . . this is . . .” Nick murmured, the first to attempt articulation. “What the hell
is
this?”
Stu banged the table. “And it’s a goddamn Marriott!”
Each subsequent course somehow surpassed the last. Number seven arrived and was served with a beautiful orange wine which, until tonight, Sewanee hadn’t known was a color of wine that existed. The conversation partnered with the food and drink as if it had asked the meal for a dance.
Currently, they were discussing the June French project, and Nick’s relationship to his aunt, and what it was like being raised by a writer, which had Marilyn asking, “Have you ever wanted to write?”
“No. Well, I guess if you count songwriting then sure.”
“Hold everything.” Stu quickly swiped his napkin across his mouth. “You’re a songwriter?”
“Sort of.”
“And does that mean you’re a musician?” Stu smiled wide.
“I was in a band, in another lifetime.”
Stu beat his chest. “I used to have a band.” Marilyn chortled. “What? So it was in high school and a year or two in college, it’s still a band!”
Nick grinned. “What do you play?”
Stu twinkled all ten fingers. “Keys. You?”
“A little guitar. Sing a bit.”
“And you wrote your own songs? That’s huge. We never got that far.”
Nick nodded. “A few of the songs. My best friend was the lead
singer and did a lot of the writing. He’s the real talent, I . . . I do what I can.”
“Did you have any success?” Stu asked, popping the last piece of perfection on his plate into his mouth.
“We had a record deal. A hit song. We were touring.”
“Oh, what I would’ve given. Living the dream! What happened?”
“Well. My best friend drove that dream faster than he could handle it. Crashed and burned.” Nick looked at his plate and Sewanee could feel him warming to the topic, could sense him wanting to tell this story. “’Course we had our ‘people’ saying, keep going, this is what makes it great. But I watched him almost die one night and that was the end for me. Got him to the hospital in time–pure luck–and as soon as they released him, took him straight to rehab. Burned a lot of bridges, broke a lot of contracts.”
“Did he make it out?”
“He did.”
“You still friends? You still play together?” Stu demanded, fully invested.
“Thanks for asking, yeah. He followed me into audiobooks, actually. Became my proofer then June scooped him up as her producer. He has one of those magic ears, you know? Perfect pitch and such. Gearhead, too, on the tech side. A total sound wizard.”
“That’s one hell of an impressive friend you got there. You saved more than a life, chief. You ever pick it up again?”
“Not for about five years. We’d noodle around when we were in the same city and send each other licks, random stuff, but we weren’t in it. Then, end of last year, after June . . . passed, he started talking about wanting to try again. I was thinking it
might be worth a go. So we found a drummer. New keyboardist.” Nick tipped his head across the table. “Wish I’d have known, Stu.”
“You better watch yourself, Nickster, or you might have some old geezer show up sometime.”
“Anytime.” They shared a nod of musicians’ camaraderie, even if only one of them was a professional musician.
The next course arrived. Stu held up his hands. “Question: Anyone happen to notice the
bread
?”
Marilyn tried to, yet again, pull up his reins. “Stuuuu.”
“What? We’re on number eight and nobody’s said anything. I’ve been patient.” Stu turned back to the kids. “So, the breads. Anything?”
Sewanee entered in. “Well, I did notice them changing the bread a few times over the course of the dinner.”
“A few times? Every time! Every course comes with its own bread. You get what I’m saying? It’s like with the wine. They pair it! And again I have to say–”
And all together, they said, “It’s a Marriott!”
When he’d stopped laughing, Stu continued, “Okay, back to the band. You got a name?”
Nick took a bite. “We have a temporary name. It’s a joke mostly, an inside thing, a reference to spending the last five years doing Romance novels.”
Sewanee raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”
Nick paused. “The Bodice Rippers.”
Sewanee laughed into her napkin.
“Ooh!” Marilyn exclaimed. “How about this? How about The Notorious Rakes?”
“Or just The Rakes,” Sewanee put in.
Nick looked at her. “The Rakes. Aye, that could work.”
“What kind of music do you play?” Marilyn asked.
“Americana, roots. But a bit indie. Singer-songwritery. Kind of.” He looked at Sewanee. “Jaysus, I’m terrible at this.”
Stu asked, “You got anything we can listen to?”
“Oh, no. We’re just getting going again, it’s not ready–”
“You gotta start putting stuff out there.”
“Ha, yeah, no. I’m not even sure I’m good enough to make this kind of music yet. But if something does come of it, I’ll definitely pass it along.”
“What do you mean, not good enough?” Stu went back to his plate.
“Just . . . it’s new for us. For me. It’s a sound that demands much more of myself than I’m used to and it’s, uh . . . got a high level of risk, you know?”
“So?” Stu asked, focused entirely on getting the right combination of flavors on his fork.
“So . . . I don’t really do risk.”
Sewanee could feel Nick choosing not to look at her.
“Why?”
“Because I’m not too keen on losing everything again.”
“How are you gonna manage that, chief?”
Nick chuckled. He took a self-deprecating breath. “Can’t fail if I don’t try.”
Now Stu was looking back up, smiling. “That’s a neat trick.”
“Ta, I think so.” He picked up his wine, grinning. “You’re dying to sort me out, aren’t you?”
“Who, me? No way. I got enough to deal with right here.” Stu brought a knuckle to his head, tapped it. “But you did say something that struck a chord with me–musician to musician!” He burst out laughing. “I didn’t even see that one coming!”
Nick joined in. “I think you see everything, Stu. What’s the chord?”
This had taken on the air of a friendly ping-pong match, as
if each man had picked up a paddle after a few drinks and said, let’s see what you got. Sewanee and Marilyn watched avidly, spectators in the stands, enjoying every volley.
“You’re ass backwards.”
Nick threw his head back on a laugh. “Am I now?”
Stu chuckled. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, buddy boy.”
Nick stuck out his hand, welcoming Stu’s response. “Hit me.”
Stu sucked a tooth, took a moment. “You’re absolutely right. You’d regret trying and failing. But I’ll do you one better. If you don’t try, give it all you’ve got, you’ll regret the hell out of never knowing if you would have succeeded.”
Nick smiled. “Helluva chord, mate. Look, you’re right, I give you that. But it’s still scary.”
“So what? So it’s scary, why’s that such a big deal?” Nick was silent. “I’m not trying to put you on the spot, Nickster, I–”
“No, man, I know. I just can’t think of a good–”
“Because regret haunts you for the rest of your life,” Sewanee chimed in from the cheap seats. She hadn’t intended to say anything, but as soon as she felt the answer it was out of her mouth. She caught Marilyn’s eye. Her mother smiled sadly at her. “It’s like a ghost that refuses to leave your house.”
Stu bugged his eyes. “Why’s it gotta leave? What, you think you can get through life avoiding regret? Avoiding failure?” He laughed. “Spoiler alert: life is regret, life is failure. But like that ghost, you learn to live with it. Because failure makes success matter.”
Stu threw his hands up, out, encompassing the whole restaurant. “This kid, this twenty-eight-year-old chef with a Michelin star. You think someone just stuck it on him, like they used to do in grade school?” He gestured at his now-empty plate. “You think he made this, whatever-it-is, foam-cloud-thing, perfectly
the first time? The tenth time? This is a plate of failure. Now, I’m not saying we’ll all get a Michelin star if we just persevere, rah-rah-rah. More often than not, things don’t work out. Speaking for myself, I flat-out failed way more than I succeeded.”
“But you were successful.”
“At times.”
“Overall,” Nick argued.
Stu shook his head. “But life’s not a straight line, senator. You go up, you get smacked down, you get up, you get knocked down. I put in forty-seven years with Nike, went from shoemaker to senior VP of yaddayaddayadda. And truthfully I was almost fired as many times as I was promoted.” Stu took a moment to think and drink before leaning into Nick. “I’m gonna be the old guy here and give you some blunt advice you didn’t ask for: Take the risk. Fail.” Stu turned to Sewanee. “And let regret come along for the ride.” He held up a finger. “A passenger, not the driver.” He sat back. “I’ve seen too many people get into midlife crisis territory wondering where the time went and why they didn’t do anything with it. You two are still young enough to avoid all this crap. The world is your oyster!”
“Oh, Nick hates oysters,” Sewanee said, side-eyeing him, smirking.
Nick bit back a laugh and said to Stu, “You have regrets, then?”
“You kidding? My backseat’s full. And the trunk! Look, I loved my job, but I loved it so much my real life passed me by. Never had a woman sitting next to me for the long haul.” He flung a hand. “Never had a Sewanee sitting across the table. Never had this magnificent creature, this beautiful timepiece that I got to nurture and watch grow and who now calls me just to see how I’m doing. I mean”–he reached over and tweaked her chin–“how could a stupid job making shoes compare to one of these?” He
and Sewanee smiled at each other and he mused, “It can’t. I’ll never see myself in anything other than a mirror. And now all I see is this.” He pointed to his balding head and Nick chuckled.
He took Stu in and then he looked down at the table, contemplating. “Wouldn’t it be grand if we could have multiple lives to live? Do it a few different ways and then pick the best one?”
“Oh, Nicky.” Stu gave him a fatherly smile. “All I know is–” He broke off and looked past Nick’s shoulder, into the back of the restaurant. He sat up a bit straighter. “Ah,” he mumbled. “Here we go.”
The waiter placed a gorgeous mirror-top chocolate cake in the center of their table. It had white piped writing on it. Sewanee craned her neck, looking at it upside down. “What does that say?” She glanced at the waiter, who was worrying his fingers and, for the first time that night, wasn’t forthcoming with an explanation.
“Your mother’s gotten quite good with her Italian,” Stu said, and Sewanee’s eye went to Marilyn, whose hand had gone to her mouth.
“Stu,” she exhaled.
“What does it say?” Silence. “Mom?”
“Sposami.”
Marilyn barely got the word out.
Sewanee was about to say “what” once more, but then Stu slipped off his chair, got down on one knee, and pivoted toward Marilyn, bringing a small velvet box out of his jacket pocket.
“Holy shit!” Sewanee shouted and the entire restaurant hushed. She slapped a hand over her mouth, the mirror image of her mother. One of Marilyn’s hands reached for her daughter’s. Sewanee clutched her mother’s trembling hand and watched her life change.
“Marilyn,” Stu said, then his voice softened: “Love.” And Sewanee heard the sob that came from her mouth before she felt
it. “You are the surprise of my life. I never imagined this old sneaker-maker would–Jesus.” He chuckled and glanced at Sewanee and Nick. “That sounds like a slur.” They all laughed through their blossoming tears and Stu turned back to Marilyn. “That I could end up having what I’d given up on. Someone who makes me happier each day than I was the day before. And I want that someone to be my wife.” He opened the box.
Marilyn stared at him. They waited. She uncovered her mouth, put her hands on her hips. “Well, other than a slice of that cake, I can’t say I’ve ever wanted anything more.” They both smiled tearfully. “Yes. I would love to be your wife.”
She stood, gave Stu a helping hand up, and he gently worked the ring onto her finger. Then they kissed, and held each other, and kissed and held each other as Nick hooted and Sewanee batted away the joyful tears streaming down her cheek. The entire restaurant applauded and Stu’s hand found its way onto Marilyn’s ass and she gave it a playful slap and everyone laughed.
A silver tray appeared next to the table, hosting four glasses of champagne. They took them up. Stu paused, steadying his voice. “It took me a lifetime to find my place in this world, but it was worth it, because it’s with you.”
They all drank and the whole restaurant cheered again, offering congratulations in many languages.
Caught up in the collective vibration of the room, Sewanee looked around and saw the waitstaff clustered in the door to the kitchen, watching, their hands up at their chests, their smiles wide as the Grand Canal.
ON THE TRIP
back across the lagoon, Sewanee and her mom chose the warmth of the small cabin and Nick and Stu braved the late-evening chill, planting themselves once again next to the captain at the bow. As Marilyn told her about their next port of
call, Bari, Sewanee watched Nick and Stu converse. When they docked, Sewanee saw the two men hug, a sight that felt like an extra bite of dessert.
They stood on the St. Mark’s dock, waving, as the boat took Stu and Marilyn back to the cruise ship.
Nick turned to Sewanee as she turned to him, an expectant look in her eye. She didn’t know what to say first. She wanted to apologize for everything she’d said earlier. She wanted to relive every taste of the night. She wanted to cry over how happy her mother was. She wanted to thank him for being a perfect date tonight. She wanted to kiss him, Lord, did she want to kiss him. But before she could broach any of it, Nick deadpanned, “Well, thank God that’s over.”
She burst out laughing. “Insufferable. Have you ever met anyone more boring?”
“I was this close to pushing him over the side of the boat.”
“Ugh, and that food? It just kept coming and coming and coming.”
“And being forced to sit through some lame proposal? It was like we weren’t even there.”
“We should do something to celebrate it being over.”
“Amen.” Nick smiled down at her and her stomach flipped. “What should we do?”
“What do you want to do?”
“We could fight again?”
She chortled. “Pass.”
“Well, what then?”
She lifted a slinky shoulder. “I’m open.”
He cocked his jaw. “And I’m not touching that.”
“Yet.”
Nick chuckled softly, reached out and took her fingers, looked down at them. She felt herself being pulled closer to him, but couldn’t
be sure the sensation was entirely physical. “Sewanee,” he sighed, looking up. “I so want to . . .” His eyes went dark. “You know exactly what I want.”
She thrilled at that. “Do I?” She hoped the coquettish tone covered any insecurity that might reside in the question. “You haven’t tried to make a move once.”
He entwined their fingers. “We’ve been a wee busy, haven’t we?” His face puckered. “Besides, what are you talking about–I proposed to you this morning!”
Sewanee raised a teasing brow. “
Maybe
I’ll take you down to City Hall,
maybe
, who knows, oh never mind, don’t listen to me, I’m
jet-lagged
? I’m positively aflutter. Downright twitterpated.”
“Fine, I could have polished it up a bit. But, in my defense, I didn’t know Stu was gonna upstage me!” They laughed and pulled closer together. “Rest assured,” he murmured, “I want a reprise of everything we had in Vegas. I want to push you up against a Venetian wall, a real one this time.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?”
Nick took a deep breath. “But.”
“Not another but,” Sewanee groaned.
He squeezed her hand. “But! Not tonight. Tonight, I’m going to make sure you get back safely to your place. Might even go so far as to get you ready for bed–”
“I’m already ready for bed,” she husked.
“Christ, this was already going to be hard and you’re determined to make it harder.”
“You mean your
reaction
?”
“Cute.”
She pushed into him, bringing them flush.
Nick bowed his body away from her, like a child trying to wriggle out of a car seat. “Buuut,” he huffed on a laugh. “I will be leaving you alone tonight. I have something to do.”
She leveled him a look. “No you’re not and yes, you do.”
“Yes I am and no, it’s not you.”
They stared at each other, eyes twinkling with challenge and mischief and longing. It occurred to her that, for the first time, she felt truly comfortable with him, even though her body was a live wire of need. How could he have this effect on her? How could he so thoroughly wind her up and simultaneously put her completely at ease? A dangerous combination, she thought.
“Well,” she said haughtily, “we’ll see what happens when we get to my hotel.”
“That we will.”
Sewanee took Nick’s hand and they began walking, the sound of their footsteps on the wooden pier filling the midnight mist.