Chapter 12
Rayne and I walk down the street to DiSanto’s, one of my favorite Italian restaurants in Manhattan, to grab lunch. During the walk, Rayne keeps trying to tell
me about events I have on my calendar, but I tune the work talks out.
She and I have been spending a lot of time together since she started working at the office. I can hardly deny that I like her anymore. As much as I wish I could tell
her, I really can’t. But we can still be friends. I can find out what her favorite foods are, what roles she has always wished she could play, and her favorite spots
in the city. There are no rules against us being friends.
“Mr. Mason called yesterday and wants a meeting soon,” she breathlessly rattles off as she tries to keep pace with me.
“Okay,” I reply absently. “Oh, did I tell you the Metro-graph will be screening The Princess Bride?”
“No, you didn’t. I just need to know when Mr. Mason can come in,” she continues.
“It’s one of my favorites,” I continue, ignoring her work comments.
She sighs and sits across from me in the booth at the restaurant. What I love about DiSanto’s is how quaint it is. Hands down, it has some of the best food I
have ever eaten, all made in-house from scratch. Yet the restaurant isn’t always packed like so many others in Manhattan. Its design is hardly anything special,
exposed brick with some paintings of Italian vineyards and pictures of famous people who have eaten here hanging alongside them. Small figures of plump
chefs carrying bottles of wine, pizza, or plates of spaghetti line shelves and rest on the occasional table. There is a bar with racks full of DiSanto’s wine, which is
surprisingly delicious. It is unpretentious and underrated in every way, and coming here is like an escape from the rest of the city.
But I own it so I might be a bit biased. I bought it a few years ago when it was going out of business and helped revitalize it to stand on its own. So I may
be the only customer this restaurant ever has, but I would still say it was a sound investment, and the food is fantastic.
We order our lunch, and Rayne rests her hands on the table staring at me as if she were waiting for an answer.
“What should I tell Mr. Mason?” she asks again.
“Schedule him for some time tomorrow,” I concede. “I’d rather not talk about work right now, alright?”
She nods her head and looks around the restaurant. It’s kitsch, and most people in my circle would be judging it and looking down on the people who
patronize it. But Rayne isn’t.
“Ashton Kutcher ate here,” she says, pointing at the photo wall above my head.
“Would you look at that,” I laugh, smiling at her. “How’s the move been treating you? Are you all settled in yet?”
“Don’t get me started,” she sighs, taking a deep breath. “I’ve been living with my mom and house hunting, but I just can’t find a place. It’s either too far
away, way too expensive, or the school district is bad.”
“Where are you looking?” I ask, leaning forward just a bit.
“Somewhere in Queens, most likely,” she replies.
The server brings us our food, and we both start eating. I am happy to see that she is enjoying her gnocchi, and my Alfredo is delicious, as always. An idea
strikes me in the middle of our meal. I have the perfect place for Rayne to stay.
When I was just getting into the real estate industry, I bought a brownstone in Astoria to flip and resell. I loved the house so much that I could never part
with it. However, I still visit it occasionally to escape from the bustle of the city.
“You know, I have a house not too far from here that you could rent if you want it,” I offer.
She shakes her head back and forth, finishing with a bite of food. “Do you think it’s wise to mix our relationship like that? You’d be my boss and my
landlord. It might make things complicated.”
“At least see it before you shut it down,” I say. She shrugs her shoulder and nods her head.
We finish eating, and Rayne pulls her wallet out of her purse to pay the bill. I nod at the server, and they respond with a smile. They will just add this to my tab.
“Absolutely not,” I say, and she freezes her movements. “It’s already taken care of.”
“Leonard, you don’t have to. How much was it? I’ll pay you back,” she protests.
I shake my head, stand up from the booth, and walk towards the door, completely ignoring her demands to pay for her lunch. When I get outside, I call for a
car to come to pick us up so I can show the brownstone to Rayne.
“Leonard, you have to stop doing that,” she sighs at me when she meets me outside. “What’s this house like, anyway?”
“It’s really special. I think you’ll love it. It’s a wonderful place to raise a child too, and the school district is great,” I say.
The car arrives and we both hop in. The drive to Astoria doesn’t take long and when we pull up to the brownstone, I watch Rayne’s face as she takes it in.
She is clearly enamored just by the outside, impressed by the beautiful exterior and large windows. I want her to live here. Knowing someone I care about is
filling the rooms with laughter would make giving this place up worth it.
Right when you enter the house, there is a large curving staircase leading to the second floor. The living room is directly to the left of that. The sun shines
through the bay windows and against the ebony-stained wooden floors. The walls are painted a bright white to make it appear larger than it is, but what it
lacks in space, it makes up for in charm. Next, we walk down the hall to the kitchen and dining area.
“This is stunning,” Rayne says as she traces her fingers over the rustic wooden island at the center of the room. Pots and pans hang on a rack above, and
new appliances fill the room alongside large white cabinets with glass cutouts. “But there is no way I can afford this.”
I walk over to the backdoor and look outside at the backyard. It is smaller than some of the yards in the area, but having this space in the city is rare
anyway. “It needs some work,” I lie, hoping she’ll believe me and accept the offer to live here. “If you take care of the work, I can give you a low rate.”
She looks around her, sizing the place up. “This place is flawless, Leonard,” she counters.
“You know, I’m not happy with it,” I say, looking around and shaking my head. “For starters, the walls need to be painted. Then, the cabinets are stained,
and the yard needs to be manicured.”
“If you want that done, you could hire a contractor,” she replies.
“Hire a stranger? I don’t think so,” I protest. “I’d rather have someone I know and trust here anyway.”
“I just feel like it would be taking advantage of you,” she sighs.
“Rayne, you’re not, I promise you,” I quickly respond.
We continue the tour of the house, and I show her the upstairs of the brownstone. There are three bedrooms. The master is outfitted with large windows
and a master bathroom with a large claw foot tub and rain shower. The other two rooms are much smaller but definitely roomy enough for a room for Charlee
and an extra office or guest room.
“So, what do you think?” I ask her when we finish the tour.
“It’s perfect,” she says, gushing over the large open spaces. “Are you sure about this?”
I smile while I watch her take in the details of the master bathroom and nod my head. “I’m positive. I’d be happy to have you guys here.”
“Thank you,” she whispered to me, an excited spark in her eyes.
“Also, by the way, we’d be traveling together this weekend. I have an investor meeting. A 5-day trip, we leave on Sunday evening. It’s a bit impromptu.” He says
as he walks towards the door.