Chapter 30 #2
The car pulls up to an enormous, glass building that sits overlooking the bay.
The modern structure has a marbled wall, with black lettering displaying Twenty-Two Liberty.
The whole thing oozes class and money. A doorman instantly welcomes me inside the breathtaking premises.
From the colossal decorative planters to intricate chandeliers, the lobby entrance is swankier than any hotel I have ever stayed in, but this is a place people live!
My heels click along the smooth floors as I make my way through the vast room and over to the concierge.
“Welcome, Miss Mari. Mr. Murray is expecting you.”
The suited man with note-worthy posture escorts me to the elevator, holds the doors open as I enter before he swipes a card onto a reader.
The light inside indicates we're heading up to the top floor. As we ascend, I wonder if Eamon’s monthly rent is more than a year’s worth of the place Andrea and I split.
How can the owner of a rundown bar and boxing club do this well?
The elevator dings upon reaching the twentieth floor.
The poised man once again, politely holds the automatic doors for me.
I’m pretty sure the censors don’t allow the mechanism to squish people.
Having an escort for guests is a tad excessive.
Exiting the lift, I find myself inside a well-lit, contemporary apartment with trendy art and windows as far as the eye can see.
The water below looks like paintbrush strokes from an impressionistic painting.
Boats bob on the water, as the last traces of warmth disappear below the horizon.
Lights from residing buildings emit gold and traces of yellows against the contrasting black and blues, of the choppy waters beyond.
I would never leave this place if it were my home.
This view is everything Boston has to offer.
Banging pans in the kitchen bring me farther into the apartment, toward its source. “Hello?” To my surprise, Connor pops around the corner, holding a wood crate.
“Hey, Cindel. Just dropping off some bottles of whiskey for the boss.”
It makes sense that Eamon would not only want his bar well stocked, but also his own. I wonder if he entertains often. Am I just one of many? Not sure how I feel about this realization.
“Enjoy your little soirée."
Holy hell, now everyone knows Eamon is hosting me. He rushes to the elevator, sliding a card much like the attendant, and disappears behind the closing doors.
“In here!”
I round the corner to find Eamon in the kitchen, with what I can only assume is his entire collection of pots and pans, littering the pristine, marble island.
“Wow!” He proclaims. “You look magnificent.” Stepping toward me, he opens his arms in greeting.
This is new. The hug is almost awkward, we are trying to decide between facing each other fully or a quick side squeeze. In the end it was a mishmosh of both, but he quickly remediates by leaning in and kissing my cheek.
He’s dressed smartly. Crisp white shirt, slightly rolled up sleeves, showing off just his wrists, and black slacks that are tailored so dangerously perfectly; it should be a sin.
Eamon returns to rummaging around the kitchen, pulling out various ingredients from the fridge.
I find myself appreciating his backside for probably longer than I should have.
“I wasn’t sure if you wanted steak or pasta, so I picked up all the ingredients. I can make both, if you’d prefer.”
I fight back a laugh, trying to be polite with my response. “Both?”
He nods. “So, what will it be?”
I tap my finger on my chin as I consider. “Well… I never say no to pasta.”
He smiles, revealing an adorable cheek dimple; I never noticed prior. “Of course. Pasta it is!”
I take that as my cue to take a seat at the island to watch the man work his magic.
A faucet above the stove pours into a large stainless-steel pot, as Eamon washes ripened tomatoes at the sink. When the pot is nearly full, he turns the lever, then proceeds to dice the red fruit atop a wooden board. It’s like watching a cooking show, but with a painfully handsome chef.
“You must be quite the chef in a kitchen like this,” I remark, as I scan the massive room that’s probably the size of our entire apartment. The place is brimming with state-of-the-art appliances, including gadgets I’m not even sure I know how to use.
“Actually, I’m not much of a cook. I usually eat on the go.”
His response astonishes me, seeing how incredible the kitchen is. “You’re kidding, with a space like this… I could be the next Martha Stewart!”
The newly discovered cheek dimple deepens.
“Yes, I know… shocking!” He jeers, looking up at me briefly ahead of returning to his chopping.
The next words come out with an unusual level voice.
“The last person I was with liked to cook. We were always in the kitchen together. Frankly, this room has sat untouched for quite some time.”
I watch on as he absently scrapes the tomatoes into a shiny sauce pot and pushes them around. He hasn’t wanted to be in his own kitchen since his last relationship? How long ago was that? Eamon seems as though he's drifting away with past memories.
I try to pivot the conversation. “Well, I bet you could run circles around Martha,” I remark matter-of-factly.
His smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes, but I’m hoping it’s moving things in the right direction. Eamon punctures a package of premade Italian meatballs, instantly making me eat my words. Premade? Oh man, he really wasn’t kidding about the whole not cooking thing. It’s like a crime against Italians!
In a skillet, he works to brown the abominable meatballs while forming a thick sauce with olive oil, tomatoes, and a little water. While he cooks, I inquire about his other business, the Bay Boxing Club.
Eamon explains how his grandparents acquired the failing gym and how they planned to expand their successes to other parts of the New England area.
Unfortunately, they never grew past Boston.
When he took over the family business, it was his efforts alone which made the gym more profitable than ever.
I knew his family was visiting, but what I didn’t know was that it was more for business than pleasure.
Eamon would like to expand someday, but any conversations of growth have been frozen, until an outstanding issue has been resolved.
Whatever that means. He seems to have a good head for business, although as I learn more, it’s apparent he’d rather spend his resources and energy at the boxing club than the bar.
Will he ultimately close the bar once the issue is resolved?
I might need that backup job sooner than later.
What I still can’t wrap my head around is how either of these businesses would merit someone “owing a debt.” Who would have such a deficit that Eamon would have to send his goons to collect?
Obviously, I don’t pry on the subject. At some point during the conversation, he invites me to come by the club sometime for a beginner’s boxing class.
My mind wanders to Brodi, recalling how he too enjoyed recreational boxing.
Would it be rude to ask Eamon about past Bay Boxing members?
Sure, Cindel… let’s see if your last boyfriend went to my club. Okay, okay. I drag myself back from the impulsive thought, as this seems like the wrong time and place, to be thinking about my absent ex.
Abandoning the food, he pours himself a finger of whiskey, adding a perfectly clear sphere of ice in the center. “I remember you saying that you don’t drink… otherwise, I’d offer you one,” he explains.
Now he finally remembers? “Actually, I’ve had a bit of a reawakening. I’m going to try to make some changes, starting by not making promises to myself that hold little merit.”
He instantly takes out another glass, pouring the same amount of amber liquid, and adding an ice ball. All the while his eyes are assessing. I take hold of the drink from his extended arm across the island. He raises his glass to mine, “Sláinte.”
Just then, I notice gray smoke billowing from behind Eamon.
“Is something burning?”
Setting down the glass, he urgently reaches for the cooktop to remove the lid from the skillet, finding the meatballs no more than blackened briquettes at this point.
A procession of unintelligible curses pours from his mouth while he turns every knob to its off position.
Next, he investigates the sauce which had apparently overheated to a rolling boil.
As if this was one of those blundering rom-com moments, the bubbling concoction erupts outward, splattering onto everything in its path… including Eamon.
“Fuck, I’ve ruined suppah!” He faces me with a look of defeat. “Sorry, little fish. Lemme order some Thai.” His entire front, including the once-pristine shirt are covered in a fine spray of scarlet.
I cover my mouth, trying to squelch the laugh, over this usually refined man looking so… normal.
To my surprise he smiles, causing another dimple to appear in his left cheek. There’s two of them?!
Although dinner may not have gone according to plan, he looks at ease. Happy. Like he finally allowed his carefully placed mask to slip away. “I hope I haven’t ruined this night for you.” He stands beside me, towering, even with me upon this extra-tall bar stool.
I have to crane my neck back just to gaze into his eyes. They’re an alluring sage green. Hours could pass, and I would never tire of staring into them. “Of course not. I’m not here to rate your cooking skills, sir.” Holy smokes; this man’s face is all sharp lines and bedroom eyes.
“Oh? Then why are you here, Cindel?” His words are no more than a whisper.
Maybe because we're alone or the smell of burnt meat is going to my head, but I feel bold.
“Well… I’d like to get to know you better,” I propose.
He tilts in and reaches a hand out, only to play with pieces of my bangs that have grown into my vision. We’re only a breath apart.