“Your grandfather took me to Las Vegas once.”
Sewanee had heard this story many times before and recently. But this was how it went these days and she knew to go along with it. “Did you enjoy yourself?”
“What a night we had! We saw the Rat Pack. Frank, Dean, Sammy, and . . . oh. I can never remember the other one.”
“Isn’t it Peter something?” Amanda had told Sewanee to make Blah use her memory whenever possible, instead of just supplying answers.
“Yes! Yes! Lawford, Peter Lawford.” She muttered, “He was never that important anyway. He didn’t do anything. Anyway, after the show, Marvin took me backstage–it was the Sands Hotel–and introduced me to Frank and Dean. And of course Sammy and . . . shit! Who’s the other one? Doesn’t matter. Frank took my hand and asked me what I thought of the show and I came right out with it, I said, ‘You should have a lady up there.’ Marvin was mortified–he’s always mortified–but Frank and Dean, they laughed their tooshes off!” Blah’s chuckle became a hacking cough. “Frank’s hand is softer than I expected.”
Sewanee noticed the shift from past tense to present and she tried to guide her back. “Didn’t Grandpa know Sinatra?”
It worked. “Oh yes. Frank had done one of Marv’s early pictures, you know, so they went way back. He was awfully sorry for all that McCarthy business. Frank, not Marv. That sonofabitch. McCarthy, not Sinatra.” There was a pause. “Do you want to come over, Dollface?”
“I’m in Las Vegas.”
Blah clucked her tongue. “Christ on a crutch, you just said that. I swear, this old tackle box of a head is nothing more than tangled up lines, lures, and sinkers. Getting old is for the goddamn birds.”
Sewanee smiled. “I’ll come by on Monday for lunch, okay?”
“I wouldn’t if I were you. It’s chicken salad day.”
“I love you, Blah. See you Monday.”
“Love you, Dollface. Now go have fun. You’re only young and beautiful once. Make the most of it.”
“We’ll see–”
“Do it, Swan!” There was a pause. “When can I see you?”
Sewanee took a patient breath. “How about Monday?”
“What’s today?”
“Saturday.”
“Perfect! Though, fair warning, Monday’s chicken salad day.” She made kissing sounds into the phone and hung up.
The waitress appeared with the bill （tucked like a bookmark into a real hardcover–Jane Eyre, she noted） and Sewanee thanked her. She took another sip, leaned over the low table, opened the book, and heard, from above: “Hi.”
Chapter Five
“The Notorious Rake”
SHE LOOKED UP. A RATHER STRIKING MAN STARED DOWN AT HER, hands on his hips. “Uh. Hi.”
“You can’t be leaving. We just met.”
Now that was a smile. It rendered the cheesy line charming.
Oh, God. Swan wasn’t ready for this. This lanky-limbed, broad-shouldered, tanned-wrinkles-at-the-corners-of-his-eyes, eight-o’clock-shadowed, tall-iced-unbrella’d-cocktail of a man.
She made a point of looking back at the bill, but he said, “May I?” and before she could answer, he sat down on the opposite end of the long chesterfield, leaving a respectful distance between them. “Cheers,” he said, and for a stupid moment she thought he was toasting her. But when she looked up at him, he was gazing out into the room. “It’s crowded, yeah?” And she realized he hadn’t been toasting her; he was British. Cheers as in: thanks. Cheers as in: I don’t need your permission, but I’m a gentleman so I asked anyway. Cheers as in: buckle up, toots.
Sewanee returned to the bill, but he loomed in her peripheral. She took a swig of her drink and set it down.
He signaled to the waitress. He unbuttoned the jacket of a nice suit. He loosened his oxblood tie. He shifted his body toward her, tucking one foot behind the opposite knee, throwing an arm over the back of the couch. He moved with a feline simplicity, a traffic cop expertly directing cars in multiple directions, all while asking, “What are you drinking, then?”
Hearing more of the accent, Sewanee revised her previous assessment. Irish.
Maybe she’d been jaded by men like Chuck and Jimbo and the others that came before them, but her defenses were up. So she adopted the accent of the girl at the panel, giving herself some distance, some cover. “Gin.”
“A dry gin, it seems.”