Dante pulled one of the plates toward him and Claire, while Mary reached for the other plate. From a foot away, Claire regarded the oysters dubiously. They were a grayish color tinged with green, darker around the edges. They smelled like the sea, but that wasn’t a smell she associated with hunger. She had another thought, a worse one. Could raw mean alive? Dante answered her question by squeezing lemon juice over the oysters. When the droplets landed, she distinctly saw one of slimy-looking blobs quiver.
With thoughts of teenagers in the Fifties gulping down wiggling goldfish, Claire quickly drank the rest of her third glass of wine, hoping it might further numb her tongue. What if she threw up instead of swallowed? That certainly wouldn’t bode well for Dante’s getting the job.
“There’s nothing better than oysters in their liquor,” Mary said.
Dante must have seen the confused look on Claire’s face. “It’s just another name for their own juices,” he murmured sideways. He was good at murmuring, Claire thought hazily. It was probably the kind of thing you learned when you worked in a museum, where the galleries were filled with visitors talking in hushed voices.
Mary lifted the shell to her lips, tilted her plump neck, and slurped back the oyster with lustful abandon. With a click, she set the now empty shell back on the plate.
Figuring that she who hesitated was lost, Claire picked up one of the blue-black shells.
“Don’t chew. Aim for the back of the throat and swallow,” Dante whispered.
Claire closed her eyes, tipped back her head, and tilted the shell, trying to ignore the briny scent. The combination of her position, coupled with closing her eyes, screwed up her eye-hand coordination, which had never been very good to begin with. Rather than plopping on her tongue, the oyster landed with a slap between her breasts. Then it promptly slid, cool, wet and disgustingly slippery, until it lodged somewhere in the region of her bellybutton. It felt like a giant slug trailing slime – and it was moving ever lower.
Squealing, Claire lurched forward, trying to claw the oyster out of her scooped neckline. Instead, she began to lose her balance. Trying to catch herself, she dropped her wineglass, which splashed Mary’s long skirt before bouncing twice and the shattering on the flagstone floor. Despite her mad scramble, Claire still managed to tip over her chair and land flat on her ass.
She leapt up, her face burning and her eyes nearly squeezed shut with humiliation. How could she have done something so stupid, so – she searched for the right word – gauche? The oyster was still skating ever lower on her belly, but she no longer cared. Everyone in the room seemed to be staring at her, from the waitresses to a too-cool couple in their sunglasses. Claire ran toward Mercury’s bathroom, half-hoping there might be a window she could crawl through,
In the stall, she pulled up her skirt, peeled the oyster off her skin and let it fall into the toilet with a plop. Suddenly feeling the pressure of all the beer and wine she had drank, she sat down on the toilet. While she peed, she blearily regarded the paintings on the inside of the stall. The extremely detailed and realistic depictions of spiders, beetles, and other insects didn’t seem conducive to a relaxed bladder. Maybe the Mercury’s owners secretly hated women. After all, it wasn’t kind to make your waitresses dress up like bondage babes. By the end of the night, their feet must ache from the sky-high heels.
Claire realized she couldn’t put off making a re-appearance much longer. With a sigh, she stood up, then stumbled sideways when she stood on one foot to flush the toilet. Great. She was clearly both drunk and stupid.
Until she came out of the stall and saw Mary standing at the sink, Claire hadn’t realized the other woman had followed her in to the restroom. With a handful of wet paper towels, Mary was swabbing at the wine on her skirt, making it even wetter and leaving behind little shreds of white paper.
Claire met the other woman’s eyes in the mirror.
“I’m really, really sorry. Oh, God, that was so embarrassing.”
With a smile, Mary said, “Go back and laugh at yourself. Better that than wasting time apologizing. Everyone does something stupid now and then. There’s no point in taking this all too seriously.”
“But I wanted Dante to get this job!” Claire wailed. Now that she could feel it slipping away, she was suddenly certain that was what she did want.
Mary said calmly, “Allen’s very interested in your boyfriend’s idea for a joint show, especially with the Met. And Dante will get the job or not get it on his own merits, not yours.”
“Sometimes I think I’m a detriment to him. He doesn’t need me. He needs one of those trophy wives, you know, someone who’s a size four with a trust fund and perfect hair and capped teeth. I’m too messy, I grew up in Minor, and nobody in my family ever went to college.” With effort, Claire made herself stop babbling. She thought of the Latin saying Charlie had taught her, “In vino veritas,” which translated into something like “In wine lies truth.” Claire hoped the truth wasn’t that she was a clumsy, unsophisticated idiot.
“I’m sure if Dante really wanted someone like that he would already be with her. He’s smart, he’s funny, and he’s the kind of guy that every woman in this restaurant has already noticed. If I were you, I would just figure he has made his choice and stop second-guessing it.” Mary pushed the air dryer button and then held the folds of her skirt up to it. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the whooshing sound. “Besides, if you are so worried that what just happened might cost him his job, then why did you return the ring to us?”
“Of course I returned it. It’s not mine.” A heartbeat later, Claire realized it was too late to protest that she didn’t know what the other woman was talking about. “So you recognized me.”
In the mirror, Mary eyed her shrewdly. “Those black-framed glasses looked so out of place I took a good look at the face that was underneath. Your face.”
“What about your husband? Does he know?”
Mary shrugged. “Who knows what Allen knows? He holds his cards close to the vest, even around me.”
“The reason I did that was it was just a coincidence that I found the ring. I didn’t want to screw up things for Dante by telling you who I was. This is probably the only opportunity we’ll have to live in the same city.”
“Why don’t you move to New York? To me, it seems like a position at the Metropolitan Museum of Art would be a curator’s dream job.” The blower shut off, but Mary’s skirt was still wet. She pushed the button again.
“I don’t want to move because of Charlie. She’s been more than a friend to me, more like a mother. After all she’s done for me, I couldn’t just go off and leave her. She doesn’t have any one else in the world.”
Claire changed the subject. “You can tell your husband loves art. His face really lit up when he talked about it.”
Mary nodded. “He loves the idea of a building with his name on it even more. Just the same way people say there are going to the Schnitz when they mean the Arlene Schnitzer Auditorium, Allen wants people to say that they are going to the Lisac. We weren’t blessed with children, so this is his bid for immortality.”
Talking about immortality made Claire think of the long line of Lisac women, stretching back a century or two, who had worn the ring she had found. “Will you wear the ring now that it’s turned up?”
Mary shuddered. “No. Allen and I are in agreement about that. I don’t know what we’ll do with it, but I’m not putting it on my finger. Not when Elizabeth might have been killed for it.” The blower shut off again, and Mary left it off even though her skirt still had a dark stain. “I was always surprised that Warren, Allen’s father, didn’t make a fuss about the ring when it turned up missing. He had been the one who insisted that Austrid give it to Allen to present to Elizabeth. Austrid had been loath to part with it, but Warren said it was time to hand it down to a new generation. Maybe Warren just figured it was cheaper than Allen buying an engagement ring. Warren was a mean, mean man, with a calculator for a brain. It s
erved him well when it came to making estimates at job sites, but he was a terrible human being. Nothing Allen ever did was good enough for him. And Warren was manipulative, and he was vain. He used to fancy himself a real stud, eyeing all his son’s female friends. And some of them reciprocated.” She pressed her lips together and shook her head, as if thinking better of adding anything more.
Nova, Claire guessed. Charlie had said that Nova was a wild one, with a taste for married men. Had that taste extended to her best friend’s future father-in-law?
“Allen only came to terms with his father after he died, a year after Liz did. It’s a lot easier to forgive someone if they aren’t still around, acting like an asshole. But since you brought the ring back I don’t think he’s has slept for more than a couple of hours. I’m not sure he really believes that Elizabeth didn’t commit suicide, but I know he keeps thinking about it. It stirred up memories that he had tried to forget. I used to be able to jolly him out of a bad mood, but now he won’t let me. It’s like he’s punishing himself all over again for Liz’s death. He suffered so much after she died.”
Had he really, Claire wondered? Or could Allen’s suffering have been the pangs of a guilty conscience?
“Come on,” Mary said, tucking her hand companionably under Claire’s arm. “I don’t think we can hide out in here any longer. Let’s go see if they’ve finally brought dinner.”
Chapter 31
RONDAVU
Claire managed to make it through the rest of the meal without any more mishaps. She had expected Allen to regard her disdainfully when she and Mary returned from the bathroom. Instead, it was Dante who sat stony-faced and Allen who seemed to view her escapade with the oyster with amusement. Desperate to leave as soon as possible, Claire ate her main course as quickly and neatly as she could. Despite Allen’s offers to pour more wine for her, she drank nothing, and then refused all offers of dessert.
Dante kept silent while they waited outside the restaurant for the valet. When he offered up the keys, it was Dante who put out his hand.
In the car, Claire said, “I am so, so sorry for the way I acted tonight. I promise to never have more than two drinks at any one time again.” She tried out a laugh that sounded false, even to her own ears. “In any one week again!”
Dante kept silent.
“How long are you going to be mad at me for?” Closing her eyes, Claire rested the side of her head against the chill of the window. She was beginning to feel more and more sober now, as well as more and more stupid. Like a beginning skier so afraid of falling that she sits down in the snow, Claire had sabotaged herself. She had worried that if Dante moved here, their relationship might fracture and break. So instead she had done her best to break it herself.
Dante sighed heavily. “I don’t understand, Claire. I wish you hadn’t gone to the Lisacs after you told me you wouldn’t.” He sighed, and signaled for the Multnomah exit. “And now I’m starting to get cold feet about the Oregon Art Museum.”
Claire felt even sicker. “Why?”
“Something Allen said tonight raised a red flag for me. What do you bet his ‘friend’ helped him find the person who evaluated the collection?”
“But he’s got a reputation as a savvy businessman. Wouldn’t he realize that was suspicious?”
“Does Allen Lisac strike you as a modest man? They appealed to his vanity. When people get greedy, they stop thinking clearly. Maybe I’m wrong and the works were even genuinely appraised. There’s just something too – too good about the whole thing.”
When she got out of the car, Claire put her key in the lock and opened the front door without knocking, forgetting that Tom might still be there. The flames of two tall white candles guttered in the sudden breeze. Charlie and Tom hastily pulled their hands from each other’s grasp, while Claire and Dante pretended to notice nothing.
“How was dinner?” Charlie said with what was clearly feigned interest.
“I’m certain it wasn’t as good as yours, Charlie,” Dante said.
Tom got up from the table. “You’re just in time to sample some of my dessert.”
While Charlie got plates and forks from the buffet, Tom set the pan in the middle of the table, and took off the lid to reveal a tart. It looked like something from an upscale restaurant’s pastry chef. The cream-colored filling was decorated with alternating circles of regular red raspberries and golden ones. He carefully cut four slices.
“My God, it’s so beautiful I wouldn’t feel right eating it,” Dante said, then picked up his fork as the others did the same.
The buttery crust crumbled at the touch of the tines. The rich, creamy filling had a tang that was nearly grassy, a flavor Claire couldn’t quite place.
“Can you guess what’s in it?” Tom said, looking proud.
“Sugar, butter, eggs …. “ said Charlie. “And something else.”
“Ground pine nuts.” He sat back with a satisfied smile.
“This is delicious.” Claire used her finger to maneuver the last bite on her fork. “I’ve never seen yellow raspberries before.”
“I think they actually have better flavor than the reds. They’re sweeter. I swapped them with the guy at the next stall over.”
“You have a stall?” Claire asked.
“I’ve got a little stand at the Hillsboro farmer’s market. It’s called ‘Toms-atoes.’ My kids thought of that.”
Kids, Claire noted. So there must have been a wife once. She hoped for Charlie’s sake there still wasn’t one.
Tom went on. “I sell mostly organic tomatoes, as well as other produce. I like all the old varietal vegetables, Five Color Silverbeet chard, Golden Sweet pea pods, but I concentrate on tomatoes. I swap cuttings and seeds with people. I like the heirloom stuff, a lot of it, although some of it is just plain ‘bite and spit.’”
“‘Bite and spit’?” Dante repeated.
“One bite and you’ll spit it out. Some of the old stuff wasn’t grown because it tasted all that darn good. It might just have been hardy. But most of them are pretty flavorful. I’ve got the traditional tomatoes, you know, Early Girl, Mortgage Lifter, Yellow Pears, but what I really like are the unusual ones.” He reeled off the names. “Amana Orange. Black Krim. Cotoluto Genovese. Cherokee Purple – which even when they’re ripe are really pink, brown, or green.”
“Are those the green tomatoes, you know, like in that movie?” Claire asked. Feeling more sober, she was alert to the way Charlie looked at Tom whenever he spoke. She’d never seen Charlie look like that before. Underneath the table, Claire crossed her fingers that it would turn out all right.
“No, Cherokees are ripe even if they’re green. The movie green tomatoes are basically just plain old red tomatoes picked before they are ripe. If you haven’t ever had them, you should try some. Fried up in bacon grease and finished off with some cream gravy – it’s worth what they will do to your cholesterol.” His smile was contagious. “And now that I know you like raspberries, Claire, I should bring over some of my green tomato and raspberry cobbler.” So Tom was planning on returning.
“Where do get all these different kinds of tomatoes?” Dante asked. “Can you just buy the seeds or the plants at the store?”
Tom shook his head. “You can get some through heirloom seed catalogs, but mostly I get mine from people who come to the stall. Old people stop to talk to me because they’ve got plenty of time on their hands. If they tell me they’ve got something unusual in their garden at home, I ask if they can bring me a cutting. The old guys – the Italians, the Russians, the Mexicans – they’ve got some of the best-kept secrets. It’s only been in the last couple of years that people have even realized that agribusiness is not about growing what tastes good. The big boys are more worried about yield and shipping endurance than flavor.”
“If your stall is in Hillsboro, do you live there, too?” Claire asked. Hillsboro was a good thirty minutes away, and the light was fading. She hoped Tom had what Nova seemed to deem the most unusual o
f qualities in an old man: the ability to drive at night.
“I’ve been out there for fifteen years now. My children are always after me to come live near them. Gregg is in Los Angeles, and Betsy finally settled down in Dallas. Those aren’t the kinds of places I want to live. Of course, Hillsboro’s changed a lot since I moved there. A lot of Mexicans have moved in, and it makes some of the old timers nervous. Me, I kind of like it. I like their food. They appreciate fresh,” he said, waving his hand in a half-circle to take in the their bare dessert plates, which shone as if they had been licked clean. “They don’t always run to the cupboard to get out a can.”
“Where did you learn to cook?” Dante asked.
“From this girl right here.” It took Claire a half-second to realize he meant Charlie.
“Charlie showed me some pictures of when you all used to be friends,” Claire said. “Do you still keep up with anyone from the old days?”
Tom shook his head. “They weren’t really my friends. They were more Charlie’s.”
Charlie’s expression was serious now, aging her back into the 81-year-old she was. “I told Tom about about how the blood on Elizabeth’s head must have been from something that happened before she died. And about her pregnancy. Go on, Tom, tell them what you told me then.”
Tom took a long sip of coffee before he spoke. “I remember the blood, too. Her scalp there was all soft and – pulpy. She might have had a skull fracture. I didn’t dwell on it because I was so ashamed that we had maimed her even further. But now Charlie tells me that must have been there before we even found her. And there is … something. Something I told Charlie about tonight.”
“What?” Dante asked, leaning forward. He didn’t seem nearly so skeptical now.
Tom rolled his coffee mug in his hands. “I hadn’t thought about this for years until Charlie started asking me questions tonight. There was something I overheard while I was working on the wall. I remember it was a warm afternoon, maybe two weeks before Elizabeth kill – I mean, died. Austrid had gone downtown, shopping the way she always did. Elizabeth was the only one in the house. At least that was what I thought. Then I heard noises through the bedroom window – the guest bedroom Elizabeth had been staying in. The window had been left half-open. Probably she had opened it up at night to let the cool air in, then forgot to close it when the day began to heat up. And what I heard was, you know,” he dipped his head, “noises. The sounds of two people making love. I figured Allen had snuck home in the middle of the day to do what he couldn’t while his parents slept under the same roof.”