CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Chef Renault’s new restaurant in the West Village was the most sought-after spot for millions of tourists in the city, thanks to his reality TV fame.
We strolled past the bright windows, doing our best to look relaxed while paparazzi followed us.
As we reached the entrance, an elderly couple stopped Rocco.
“Rocco Marini,” she said. “We loved The Age of Sin.”
Rocco smiled at her. “Thank you. I’m glad to hear it.”
“I used to be a costume designer,” the woman said. “For Pallo.”
“A Lover’s Tale?” Rocco asked her.
She beamed. “Yes.”
“Beautiful work,” Rocco said. He touched my arm. “I’m sorry. We must go inside.”
“Congratulations, Mrs. Marini,” the woman said. “I hear you’re expecting.” Her eyes shifted to my belly.
I smiled, running my hand over it. “Yes, I am. Thank you.” Just then, a striking man in a sharp three-piece suit, with sleek dark hair and a roguish grin, walked up to us. “Bienvenue, Marinis.”
“This is Chef Henri Renault,” Rocco announced.
“Entrepreneur, not only a chef. I’ve diversified, like you,” Henri addressed Rocco, though his eyes went to me.
He took my hand, brushed my knuckles with a swift kiss, and surveyed me with a slow, appreciative glance.
I felt a flicker of intrigue, mixed with a touch of apprehension; his magnetic, unsettling attention drew me in against my better instincts.
My heart was racing, a quiet thrill tempered by an undercurrent of caution.
I wondered if Rocco noticed this silent exchange, or if he might later take issue with Henri’s overt charm.
“My brother Tomas’ suit, Givenchy,” he said in a confident tone.
And I nodded. “Yes.”
I wore a tailored suit and a silk Givenchy shirt, crafted by his brother Tomas, still the creative force behind the house and a collaborator with Nadia Crane. Rocco had insisted on kitten heels “for the baby.” I suspected this was only the beginning of my compromises.
“Enchante.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Renault,” I said.
“Henri,” he purred. “For you, Henri.”
I laughed, and Rocco put his arm around my waist. “Only for me.” He sounded somewhat amused, and Henri just chuckled, shook Rocco’s hand, and led us inside the restaurant.
Every table was packed, yet we were shown to a private circular booth tucked into an alcove.
The room gleamed with classical chandeliers, ornate moldings, and crisp linens, each detail pristinely exhibited, akin to the polished guests in the upscale eatery.
The air was thick with the scent of simmering sauces, making my mouth water.
The hostess skipped menus, instead presenting Henri with a bottle of wine, then pouring for Rocco, and offering me a sparkling orange juice.
“George contacted me about investing in his studio,” Henri spoke frankly and right to business.
“And? I don’t care about George,” Rocco said in a bored tone.
“He’s not serious,” Henri said and sipped his wine. “But he’s eager to build his studio first.”
“No, he’s not, but if you like to waste your time, he’s your guy,” Rocco said in an even tone.
“My time is far too precious for him.” Henri’s focus shifted to me. “Our brioche bread and butter pudding will transport you to heaven, or perhaps you’ve already visited, no?” His words dripped with double meaning, and to be sure I caught it, he arched an eyebrow at Rocco.
Rocco didn’t answer, nor did he react. Of course, why would he be upset if my being with him was compared to heaven?
“I’ve been,” I teased back. “But I’m definitely willing to go again.”
“Well, I, too, am heaven,” Henri said, holding up his wine glass. “So, I can relate, but the pudding is definitely close to it.”
“Then, I must have it,” I said, and Rocco tapped my knee under the table.
“I’m having sole and salmon terrine,” Rocco told Henri. “We also don’t party.”
Henri’s expression turned playful. “I don’t party with those I’m doing business with.
But we can all relax and have fun.” He paused, assessing our reactions.
“Success is intoxicating,” he added with a casual shrug.
Henri spoke rapidly in French to a hostess, ordering swiftly, with authority behind every word.
Our eyes followed his, catching the efficient flow of the restaurant’s staff.
The hostess nodded, and when she left, his wide lips stretched into a broad smile.
“Now, let’s leave pleasures and return to business,” he suggested, his gaze sharp.
“Renault Catering is an enormous success. No one has ever reached our numbers so fast.”
“Henri, you don’t have to convince me. This collaboration matters to both of us. We both stand to gain a lot, especially with our reputation for building brands. We’re ready to offer an investment, a share of profits, stocks, futures, and exclusive catering for twenty years. Let’s make it happen.”
“Yes. I think another renegotiation of the terms is in order in five,” Henri said. “If you agree, you have Renault.”
Rocco shook his head. “Five years is too short, unless you want negotiations to include other companies to bid on contracts.” He paused for a moment, then continued, “And I’ve heard whispers of a new contender in the market who’s looking to make a significant play.”
Henri smiled. “Rumors rarely reach reality. Of course, I’d never allow that to happen. So, let’s just enjoy ourselves for a friendly meal.”
“I could eat at home,” Rocco said and buttered his bread.
“It wouldn’t compare to what we serve here,” Henri shot back.
Rocco smirked. “You’re not pulling a George?”
“I’m not an ass, so no, I’m not,” Henri said. “Besides, I invited you to let you know I’m agreeing to invest in your studio and agreeing to us being friends.”
“Aren’t we friends, Henri?” Rocco asked in a light tone.
Henri smiled. “We are, but I only do business when we’re friendlier.”
“I’m the same way,” Rocco said and held up his glass. “To us, getting friendlier.”
“Indeed,” Henri said, glancing at me. “I would have invited my wife, but she’s moving with her lover to the home she got in our divorce.
” I was taken aback by Henri’s candor. The sharp irony in his words hung in the air, leaving me unsure whether to express sympathy or simply acknowledge the raw truth of his situation.
“Well, at least it’s not a home you want to keep,” I joked.
Henri laughed. “I love her.”
“I do, too,” Rocco said. “More every day.”
I squeezed his knee under the table and whispered. “I love you.”
“How sweet,” Henri said in a flat tone. “We were sweet, too, but that’s what happens when you marry your lover. It kills lust.”
“For some,” Rocco said. “Depends on the person you marry.”
Henri scoffed. “I doubt it. So, what do you want us to do?”
“We’ll release a press statement,” Rocco suggested.
“Oui, faisons-le,” Henri agreed.
“Formidable. On trinque?” I lifted my glass.
“You speak French, Adelina?” Henri said in English.
I shrugged. “Collège francais.”
Henri chuckled. “Hmm, I like this…college French you speak,” he said in an amused tone, and his glass lightly tapped mine.
I glanced at Rocco, and he winked at me.
The server brought our first course.
“So, tell me about your new films and locations,” Henri asked.
The conversation shifted to Rocco’s new films, and the mood lightened. The Renaults might not be as wealthy as the Marinis, but they belonged to the same elite circle. Their publicity was nearly as valuable as their money. It felt like something good was beginning.
I smiled, still uncertain how much Renault would ultimately commit. Yet, we’d shared a public lunch, a hopeful contract, and a declaration of partnership.
Sometimes, that was all that mattered.
Perchance to Dream’s publishing office stood high above Bryant Park, sunlight glinting off its Midtown tower.
After checking in and passing through security, I rode the elevator to the fifteenth floor, where Lily Crane greeted me with a radiant smile.
She wore a lilac turtleneck and dress pants, blending casual and elegant with ease.
A streak of gray in her long black hair was the only sign of her years, while her face glowed with barely a trace of makeup.
“Adelina, it’s so good to finally meet you in person.
” Her smile was so infectious that I couldn’t help but return it as she extended her hand.
“Thank you. I’m so happy to meet you.” I shook her hand, though my heart wanted to hug her. She opened a door to a career I never dared to imagine.
“How was your flight from Florence?”
“Fine. We’ve been back a week now, but we’ll be traveling to Los Angeles soon.”
“Is Rocco filming there, or is it the Oscars?” she asked.
“For films and a fundraiser I’m starting.”
Her brows rose. “Oh, I’d love to hear more about it. But let me first show you to your office.”
My jaw dropped. “I have an office?” I hadn’t expected it since I worked remotely.
“We’re a hybrid office,” she said. “Some of us who live in the city like coming in, and those who live farther away visit for events or meetings.”
To my delight, the office felt more like a sunlit library than a typical corporate maze. Books lined the walls, cubicles sat between shelves, and every desk had personal touches like family photos that made it feel welcoming.
“We try to make it work for everyone. Are you two planning to be based in New York City?”
“We’re considering Florence, to be honest.”
“I love Florence, but the British Virgin Islands is my base. We also have a home on the Upper West Side. You’re in the village?”
“Yes, a loft in Tribeca…” My voice trailed off as I walked in.
The room was spacious, with light pouring through two large windows and a view of the city.
Framed covers of my work hung on the walls, and a small library filled with books on design, Scottish history, and folklore caught my attention. I was drawn to them immediately.