Chapter 7
She drags her fingernail along my shoulders as she steps before me, bringing her hands together in front of her. “Yes, Mr. Mercer? Can I get you anything else?”
From my spot at the bar, I smile at Dana, the newest waitress at this location. I have a hiring manager that oversees all hiring, but after their first week here, I always have the final say.
I sip my gin, and lower the sweating crystal glass to the red paper napkin. Stroking my hand down my face, I let out a sigh and pat the stool next to me, urging her to sit.
“Dana, Velvet Whisper is about discretion. It’s about having folks enter into a high-end restaurant only to catch a glimpse of what’s truly inside.
When that painting swings open,” I say, nodding to the classic entry of all of my speakeasies, “that’s when their minds open.
That's when they see that things aren’t what they seem, and that anything is possible.
That cracked open door showing a sliver of what’s inside changes their perception, and they come into the bar without limits, because we’ve already blown away their expectations. ”
She smacks her gum and nods her head while still giving me her fuck me eyes. “Uh-huh.”
“Once they’re inside Velvet, the bar itself is the magic. The details inside this space, with the music and drink menu, are what make it come alive. Patrons are taken back in time and allowed to be any versions of themselves they want, in this capsule of a moment that we provide here.”
She digs her thong out. “Totally.”
“So you see, here at Velvet Whisper, less is more.” I weave my fingers together, resting them over my beltline, and watch her eyes fall there.
I’m not a stranger to the look she’s giving me, because I’ve been pretending to admire, capture and desire that look for years.
These days, it feels harder and harder to even feign interest. I smile.
“The experience touches the customers. You don’t have to. ”
She pops her gum, her penciled brows pulling together. “Flirty is my style.”
“Flirty isn’t Velvet Whisper’s style, though, you see?” Another smile as I slip out of my barstool, and leave her sitting as Magda, the manager of this location, takes my spot. She pats Dana’s hand. “Let’s chat.”
I tip my head, and leave Magda to iron out the details with Dana.
I give everyone a lot of chances, and just because Dana hasn’t exactly figured out the energy of Velvet, doesn’t mean she won’t.
After all, she’s been a waitress at gentleman’s clubs in the past, never a high-end drinking and music establishment like this. She can learn. I believe in her.
“Mercer,” calls a voice from behind the bar, and I turn in the doorway, about to leave. Damien nods, catching my attention, and I drift back toward him, and shake his hand.
Damien has been with me from the start, and he tends bar at each location when it opens for the first few months, to get the staff on their feet. The menu at Velvet is rich and somewhat complex, therefore the bartenders need more training than a typical bar.
“Well? How do the numbers look?” he asks, wearing a familiar smirk.
I’ve heard from Damien and Magda both that this particular location has opened with wildfire success, with people lining up to make reservations to the restaurant, to simply access Velvet.
The restaurant we partner with, Nineteen20, captures the essence of wealth during the age of prohibition, serving classics like Rockefeller Oysters and Waldorf salads, with extravagant desserts and a full smoking bar.
Finding Nineteen20 was kismet in itself, as there is no other establishment that could possibly pair better with mine.
Bringing my closed knuckles to the lacquered walnut bar top, I rap them a couple of times and wink. “You’re magic, Damien.”
He smiles, which is rare. “It’s the location, I think we both know,” he says of the new spot on Pier 15, which was lacking in fine dining and social drinking. “But I’ll take the accolades,” he beams.
“You–”
My phone rattles in my pocket. After having to take over cake tasting the other day, I’m quick to answer my phone in the event Kat needs me to step in for something else.
She’s focused on her career and as much as I find value in wedding planning and the ritual of bonding through the planning, I do realize she wants to support her partner and their future.
I also realize it could force me into a situation with Juliette again.
But then it’s her name dancing across my screen.
Juliette.
As if I’ve dreamed it, or conjured it up.
I nod to Damien, fully abandoning our conversation for Juliette. I’m pretty good about wrapping up conversations and then calling people back, preserving my manners as much as possible. But I find myself unable to ignore it.
“Juliette?” I answer, pressing my finger into my opposite eardrum, hoping to hear her better amidst the early pandemonia of Velvet.
She stumbles through a sentence or two, something like an apology for the call, but I’m too busy pushing through the space to the back office, nudging the door closed with my foot as I sink into the high-back chair behind the desk.
“What do you need?” I ask, cutting through the sudden silence on the line.
Juliette called me.
That’s…. Never happened. I wasn’t even sure she had my phone number. Of course she’s programmed into my phone. And my chest squeezes each time I scroll past her to find Kat.
“Advice,” she says, as plain as day, surprising me. But after a split second, I reason that this is likely advice on something wedding related for Kat and Zen, like perhaps a speech, gift idea or… I don’t know, some other surprise.
“I, uh, meant to call my dad,” she starts, and right away I realize this isn’t for Kat and Zen.
There’s no way Juliette, who I’ve always known to have a somewhat distant relationship with her folks, would be calling her father for life advice.
As long as I’ve known her, she’s not relied on them for guidance.
She’s her own beacon, her own guidance, and I’ve always admired that about her.
“Ah,” I say, stacking my feet on the desk, causing the computer to come to life.
“How is Paul?” I ask, envisioning her father from years ago, standing on the porch with a scowl, pieces of hair combed over his shining head, hands stuffed in khaki pockets.
He was never a bad guy and still isn’t, but he was cold and hands off, and I always felt that Juliette needed more.
“He’s good. I was just going to pick his brain for some portfolio advice,” she says, the words crammed into another, rushed and nervous…almost like she’s not telling the truth.
When you’ve known someone for a long time, you usually know their tells. But when you’ve not only known someone as long as I’ve known Juliette–and watched her blossom from teen to woman–her tells are pretty much ingrained in me, same as Kat’s and Cade’s.
Paul Wilson is a fine man, though based on watching him wear shades of brown and only shades of brown for over ten years, something tells me that Paul isn’t the guy to call when it comes to an artful eye. Not to mention…
“How’d you accidentally call me, unless…
tell me you’ve finally changed his contact information from Paul to Dad?
” I tease, calling back to a moment last year when I saw her father’s contact information in her phone and was blown away to discover he isn’t entered as Dad but instead, his legal name.
Kat and Cade have me as FORD the DADDIO and POPS, respectively.
Juliette’s laugh is clipped, and almost forced, as if whatever she’s about to say isn’t going to be the truth.
And why would Juliette lie about this? “I finally made the leap,” she says, stiffness in her forced laughter.
My brow flatlines. Why does Juliette feel like she has to lie to me?
I scratch at the side of my jaw, focusing on the tip of my Greggy-Chic Oxfords and the reflection of the overhead light, and try to figure this out as she continues.
“I changed him from Paul to Father, and here we are.”
I’m not going to press this dishonesty. For some reason, she doesn’t feel comfortable admitting that she called me. I don’t believe for one moment that Paul is suddenly “Father dearest” but for whatever reason, Juliette Wilson called me today, and I’m going to hold onto that with two hopeful hands.
Secretly hopeful hands, but of course.
“Well, now that you have me, what’s the conundrum? How can I help?” I loosen the tie at my neck, waving Magda off when she pops in with papers in her hand.
“Well,” she starts, hesitance thick on the line.
“Juliette,” I say simply, urging her to share, hoping that she called because she can share with me, not because it truly was some fat finger mistake.
“I want to add some pieces to my professional portfolio that are more creative and unique than my current work.” She sighs.
“Today I took brochure photos for an office, and they came out great but… if that’s my portfolio base, then that’s all I’ll get hired to do, you know?
So I just wanted to add some artful pieces to show future clients that I have a range. ”
A range. As far as I’ve known Juliette, her photographic skill does not lie in a range of things, which isn’t to say it couldn’t.
Juliette Wilson could do anything she put her mind to, of that much I am absolute goddamn certain.
What I mean is, she’s taken some absolutely stunning portraits of Kat, and I’ve seen her photo installment of door knockers.
She’s got an eye for capturing things that make people inquisitive and attentive, and that’s the gift every photographer needs. She’s got it.
“Office photos, hm?” I hedge, wanting to know what led her to such a creatively sterile choice. That’s so unlike her.
Another heavy sigh fills the line, and it’s the type of sigh that makes me want to hug her, to wrap my arms around her and let her pour her worries out and get lost in me.
I scrub my hand down my face, shocked by the ease of which that vision came to me.
She and I on a couch at my place, our embrace warm and tight, not a care between us.
Just melded bodies and fused lips, and happiness. So much happiness.
Keep it on the rails, Ford. She’s calling for advice.
“I… didn’t necessarily want to take them but I needed to start taking paid gigs. Without paid photography jobs I’m not a photographer I’m just an unpaid dreamer, you know?”
My feet hit the floor with a clatter as I sit up, the wrongness of her words causing me to right myself in the chair.
“No, Juliette, I don’t know. Your art form is not something that can be forced or rushed.
When you have the right subject, you’ll take stunning photos to fill your portfolio with the work you’re known for. Breathtaking, captivating photos.”
The line is silent, and I wonder if I’ve upset her because that is never my intention. But I don’t see why she’d waste time on commercial photography when she is so very clearly gifted.
“I know you’re right. I just… I convinced myself that without a varied portfolio of paid work, I’m just a hack.”
Now I’m on my feet, pacing the dark space, walls lined in merlot colored velvet, keeping the theme of ornate speakeasy, even in the back office.
My eyes fall to the gold accented vintage Dauphin desk, the very piece Elle and I selected at a flea market and had professionally refinished for this very office.
The desk is the exact style as the framed art between Nineteen20 and Velvet, and an idea occurs to me.
“Come to Velvet’s new location tomorrow, the one on Pier 15.
” I swallow against the sudden knot in my throat.
Nerves? Anticipation? Arousal at the idea of her coming here without Kat or wedding-related reasons?
I don’t know but I foolishly hedge forward.
“Photograph the passage entry point to Velvet. I assure you it will be an incredible piece for the portfolio, if not a focal point. Show people what you can really do, J. Come down tomorrow.”
“Okay,” she says, sounding a little out of breath, a little distant, too. “What time?”
I’m eager as fuck. “Right before opening. Afternoon, say one? We don’t open until two.”
“Okay,” she agrees, zero reluctance in her tone. “Thank you, Mr. Mercer. You know, for helping me.”
With my free hand, I button my suit jacket and pull open the office door, lingering for a moment. “Do you need me to send a car?”
“No,” she replies quickly. “I’ll Uber. Don’t send a car. That’s too much. As it is, you’re already solving my creative issues.”
“You’re the one taking the photos, not me.” I close the door behind me and head out, a renewed pep in my step. “Okay, no car,” I note, fully intending to send the car to her apartment regardless. “See you tomorrow then?”
I see her smile in my mind when she replies, “Yeah. See you tomorrow, Mr. Mercer.”
I can’t stop myself. The words are out and the call ends before I can rethink it.
“See you tomorrow, sweetheart.”