CHAPTER SIX
On the corner of Fifty-Seventh and Fifth, nestled among the surrounding luxury of Tiffany, Louis Vuitton, Gucci, and Prada, was La Bo?te Dorée—a lounge and coveted place of respite among shoppers with substantial credit lines.
Inspired by the culinary prestige of France, the class of England, and the debauchery of America, La Bo?te was known for their finger sandwiches, pastries, caviar, and champagne available at all hours.
It was, in Larkin’s opinion, a haughty and ostentatious café in the throes of an identity crisis.
In the time it’d taken to drive to Midtown and park the Audi in a garage half a block west, the morning had finally given way to gray overcast. It was hot, hazy, sticky, and Larkin had been pacing back and forth in front of La Bo?te for the last forty-six seconds.
Doyle stood off to the side, saying nothing as he smartly let Larkin work through the myriad of emotions all vying for dominance.
So calm, Doyle asked, “Do you want to leave?”
Larkin scoffed.
“I know I’m not familiar with your family dynamics, Evie, but you don’t owe anyone your time or energy if the relationship is this toxic.”
Larkin’s throat worked and his left eye began to twitch, like a compulsive tic, until he jabbed his thumb into the corner and pressed hard.
Chaotic stimuli of the tourist-heavy neighborhood bore down on Larkin like an oncoming freight train—the two women striding past them while laughing and talking animatedly, the shrill whistle of an officer directing traffic, a ConEd crew dragging a manhole cover across asphalt—all of it sent sharp, white-hot sparks up his spine and through his brain, and he’d have given anything for a Xanax right then.
Doyle’s smoky-smooth baritone broke through the clamor. “Is it all right if I touch you?”
Eyes still closed, Larkin shook his head.
“Okay.” His brief silence had a thinking quality, and then Doyle asked, “How can I make this easier?”
Lowering his hand, Larkin said, “I ignored Noah this morning and now he’s weaponizing my mother to relay his message, knowing full well that my relationship with her makes it difficult to say no, and I’m—I’m so fucking frustrated that he doesn’t get it.
” Larkin heard the break in his voice, but he didn’t care.
“No matter how many times I ask him to respect my boundaries, to understand I cannot simply drop what I’m doing to listen to him complain one more time about this divorce…
. I feel like—like I’m misreading the situation.
Like I don’t quite understand the emotional expectations. Like I’m doing it all wrong.”
“You’re not misreading anything.”
Larkin adjusted his suit coat and fixed the cuffs of his shirtsleeves. He looked back at the high glass walls of the café while pressing the back of his hand to his flushed face. “I just want it to be over.”
“Would you like me to go inside with you?”
“My mother is unkind, Ira. I don’t want it to be open season on you too.”
Doyle smiled assuredly and said simply, “Don’t worry about me.”
Larkin opened his mouth to further deter Doyle’s white knight sensibilities, but a fat drop of rain hit his nose, and that seemed to be all the confirmation Doyle needed before walking to the door of La Bo?te and holding it open. Larkin reluctantly moved forward.
True to its name, La Bo?te Dorée was fitted with gold.
Lots of gold. From the wallpaper to the light fixtures to the flatware, the impression of luxury was loud and insistent, like the interiors of mansions from New York’s past. There was also that small detail regarding menus…
they were only available in French. And for a city that boasted a population of merely 80,000 who spoke French at home—according to the Census Bureau’s 2015 American Community Survey—presenting a situation in which one was to order food in a language relatively uncommon to the general population was just another outdated ploy at maintaining certain levels of elitism and classism.
Larkin was unaffected by the intimidation tactic, however, responding in kind when the ma?tre d’ greeted them in French, and asking that they be directed to his mother’s table.
“Wow,” Doyle whispered, a step behind Larkin as they followed the young, clean-cut host toward a length of tables lining the glass wall. “Can you do that sexy R roll too?”
Larkin glanced back at Doyle. “It’s called a voiced uvular fricative. And yes, I can.”
Doyle winked.
And the way that Doyle could refocus Larkin’s stressors with a passing tease, a smile, a twinkle from those pyrite eyes….
Larkin’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. He continued toward the table the ma?tre d’ now stood beside.
Sitting before a lavish three-tier stand of elegant finger sandwiches and decadent desserts, a glass of champagne bubbling at her side, was Jacqueline Larkin.
She was sixty-three years old but told everyone she was fifty-three, petite in both stature and height, and boasted the same ash-blond hair and gray eyes as her son.
She wore a calf-length dress with short sleeves in an earthy off-white color, the cut a timeless and classy A-line silhouette, as well as stiletto heels with a pointed toe in a pinkish blush.
Jacqueline looked intimidating, important, and rich.
Nodding to the ma?tre d’, Larkin said, “Hi, Mom.”
“Everett, darling, I’m so glad you could make it.” She bussed his cheek when he leaned down. “You look tired.”
“I’m fine.”
“I can give you the number of my medical spa on Seventy-Fifth.”
“ Mom .” Larkin straightened and motioned Doyle forward. “This is my partner, Ira Doyle. Ira, my mother, Jacqueline.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Doyle said, reaching a hand out.
Jacqueline smiled politely as she allowed her hand to be briefly held. “Nice to meet you. Can I get either of you a drink?”
“We’re on the clock,” Larkin said as he took the seat on Jacquline’s left, his back to the glass walls. “What did you need to talk about that couldn’t wait.”
“Your manners have become so plebeian, Everett,” Jacqueline chastised in a hushed whisper. To Doyle, she asked, “Tell me about yourself, Mr. Doyle. You’re a police officer too?”
“Yes, ma’am. A forensic artist.”
She feigned mild interest. “Do you go to school for that?”
Doyle’s fingers tapped in an off-beat rhythm against his thigh—not from nerves, Larkin knew, but his natural tendency to fidget while sitting. “I did my undergrad at SVA.”
“I’m not familiar with them.”
“It’s an art school. On East Twenty-Third.”
“Oh. An art school.” Jacqueline picked up her champagne flute and took a sip.
There was no way Doyle hadn’t caught the subtle shift, the quality of distaste in her attitude, but he persevered as if he hadn’t just been insulted. “And I did my master’s at NYU.”
“Isn’t that lovely,” Jacqueline said, concluding the conversation that simply as she turned her attention onto Larkin. “I spoke with Noah this morning, darling.”
“About what.”
She made a moue of disapproval. “I hadn’t expected you to bring company. Private affairs are hardly a matter to be discussed in front of strangers.”
“Ira isn’t a stranger. He’s my boyfriend.”
“What?”
Slower, and stressing each word, Larkin repeated, “Ira is my boyfriend.”
Jacqueline’s eyelashes fluttered. “I raised you better than this.”
That was a laugh, Larkin thought, considering this was the same woman who’d hired a private doula to advise her on the best time to conceive, so Larkin would have that coveted autumn birthdate and always be the most developed child in his grade.
This was the same woman who’d hired a play-date tutor to provide feedback on his spontaneous play deficiencies when he’d been a four-year-old in order to shape him into the ideal candidate for elite pre-K academies on the Upper East Side.
This was the very same woman who’d hired Larkin a sports coach at six years old when he’d asked his mother to teach him to ride his bike at the park.
Jacqueline hadn’t raised a child—she’d gotten herself a participation trophy.
And she’d kept it polished and shined, touting it about town whenever she needed a vehicle in which to preen and accept accolades, and all the while, Larkin had been denied an upbringing founded in the principle of love and had instead only known unattainable expectation.
Larkin met Jacqueline’s cold stare and asked, “Better than what.”
“To be flaunting your homewrecker .”
“We’re leaving,” Larkin said, pushing his chair back and getting to his feet.
“Sit down,” Jacqueline hissed. She glanced toward nearby tables before whispering, “You’re being a brat.”
The insult was like a slap, and Larkin’s cheeks stung with humiliation as he sank back into his chair.
Jacqueline stared at him for a long, withering minute before turning her attention to the finger sandwiches, picking at them. “You know, Everett, there’s a vulgar saying: Don’t—you know what—where you eat.”
“I’m not shitting where I eat,” Larkin replied.
“ Language ,” Jacqueline reprimanded. “Honestly, you sound like you grew up in the public school system.”
“I was a public school kid,” Doyle stated.
Jacqueline looked across the table, staring at Doyle as if he were an unwelcome guest who’d shouldered his way into a private conversation.
But Doyle continued, “Born and raised in Hell’s Kitchen, in fact.”
Nonchalantly, she replied, “It shows.”