Chapter 32 The Archnemesis
The Archnemesis
It wasn’t the diamond that shone. It was Alice. The girl could still command a room, be it a coffee shop or a fancy restaurant, by simply walking into it. Renzo admittedly had a way about him, too, so smooth and effortless, a model right out of GQ.
Harold was minorly relieved when the host guided Alice and her evil guardian to a table on the other side of the restaurant.
“What’s wrong?” Bianca asked him, then followed his gaze. “Ah. Is that the redhead you talked about yesterday?”
A nod.
As Renzo helped Alice into her chair, he happened to glance up and see the table of gawkers staring at him. A second later, he locked eyes with Harold. The man confidently extended his middle finger.
“Ouch,” Bianca said.
“Asshole, right?” Harold said, incredulous. This wasn’t even about Alice. Not now. If anything, this was more about Renzo and Harold than Alice and Harold.
“I can’t believe they’re here,” Moira said. “What are the chances?”
Harold was trying not to look, but he noticed Alice pull her napkin onto her lap, then say something to the server. He hoped she was ordering that fancy Arctic water. The least she could do was waste Renzo’s money.
Harold had gotten over her. Aroldo would want her back, but only for the game of it.
And it didn’t matter because Aroldo was dead.
Alice had never really known Harold and certainly had never loved him.
And now he wasn’t even sure he’d ever loved her.
Only in the last day or so had he felt like himself, and she hadn’t held much weight in his mind.
“This must hurt,” Sandy said. Everyone at the table was silent, picking at tentacles and oysters, sitting in the discomfort of this unfortunate coincidence.
“Oh, c’mon, guys,” Harold said. “We’re having so much fun.
Anyone else have another secret worth sharing?
I wish I could say something like I was undercover right now, busting bookstores that didn’t have romance sections.
But I have nothing else. A few days and I’ll be back in my mom’s house and trying to figure out how to pay her and the credit card companies back for financing my trip.
Then maybe I can take out some loans for college. ”
Sandy seized that nugget. “And what will you do with a degree, dear Harold? I’m proud of you, by the way. We’re going to miss you here. Who else will I tango with?”
Harold dipped a spoon into the sea urchin.
After a bite that was somewhere between delicious and bizarre, he said, “That’s very sweet of you, and you know what, I did have a fleeting thought, that despite my clumsy sensibilities, I might find a dance class back in Denver. The tango resonated with me.”
“Let me tell you something. And I promise I’m not sugarcoating. You have an innate talent on the dance floor. I so hope you’ll keep dancing.”
“Thanks, Sandy. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”
Two courses later, Chef Corrado appeared at the table. “How’s everyone enjoying the meal?”
George gave a thumbs-up and swooned over the slow-cooked scorpion fish ragù. It was the most normal and delicious course so far. Sandy and Bianca golf-clapped and professed their love of everything.
Harold had to ask, “Just curious. See that couple over there? How’d they get into your special night? Friends of yours?”
Corrado looked over, then: “Yes, Renzo. He built the hotel, so he receives good treatment. Do you know him?”
“Barely.” He only tried to ruin my life and is now taunting me.
Corrado left with, “If I can do anything for you, let me know. The best is yet to come.”
The five of them returned to their remaining courses. A duck liver paté, a roasted pigeon breast scattered with cocoa nibs. Foods that Harold had never even heard of before, but he tried them with an open mind.
“What do you think about all this?” Moira asked Harold on the seventh course. The others had fallen into their own conversation.
“I think I’m drunk and can’t eat another bite.”
“I’m a wee bit tipsy too,” she whispered. “I can’t believe we have two more courses to go.”
“That’s almost as shocking as you dropping the biggest nuclear bomb of a secret in the history of secrets.”
“I know, I know. Regret is currently nipping at my heels.”
Harold rubbed his belly. “Would it be strange if I stuck my finger down my throat in the bathroom? Just so I can keep going.”
“No, I think it’s a great idea. You could even start all over.” She chuckled. “No, Harold. No fingers down your throat. It’s not even funny.”
“It kind of was, though, right?” Harold said. “Don’t get all prim and proper now. Your dark sense of humor is one of your most appealing qualities.”
“That right?”
“And now I know where you get it from. Married to the English mob. Is it called the Mob in England? Or Mafia? Or is that only Italian?” He leaned closer. “You have to tell me more. I mean, don’t tell me your name. Or his name. Unless you want to.”
“I can’t. You’d have a proper shock reading about it. We were all over the place back in . . . Well, anyway. And no, I wouldn’t call it the Mafia, but it’s similar. How about organized crime?”
“Look at you, the wife of a—”
“Ex-wife.”
“Ex-wife of an organized crime boss. A librarian, no less, who took down an entire organization? Sent men to prison. And here I am, departing after a few months playing a digital nomad on a stage without an audience. A residency, if you like, and now I’m heading back to my mom’s basement, where we will watch Bob Ross and eat microwave dinners.
I don’t even have a right to sit next to you. ”
“That’s not true,” she said quietly, their exhilarating conversation shrouded in secrecy. “Will you stop it? Didn’t you learn anything from Bianca yesterday?”
“I did. And I get it. No more Aroldo if that’s what you mean.
Still, in the competition for most interesting at this table, you’re lengths ahead.
I’m dying to know what your real name is.
Can we play the name game? Because I think a person’s name typically captures them well.
You might be a Ruth? Or a Dolly? No, something more British?
Jane or Elizabeth? If I were a British librarian, I might be a . . . Francis? Or a Sarah?”
Smirking, she pushed the plate with the pigeon away and set her fork down. “I don’t think you want to know.”
“I kind of do if we’re going to be friends forever. Am I supposed to keep calling you Moira? Who came up with Moira, anyway? Your handler?”
“She’s not a handler; she’s a case manager.”
“Not as glamorous. But I do like that she’s a she.” A conversation they’d had earlier in the summer came back to him. “Sidebar,” he said. “Remember that night when we were at the wine bar. You’d said you were from Bristol, but then all of a sudden you were from Dorset.”
A flash of knowing came over her. “You were onto something.”
“Ah, I should have been paying more attention.” He leaned in closer. “Don’t worry, I am taking this seriously. I won’t ever utter a word to anyone.”
Interrupting, the collection of servers brought them each a plate with a small square on it, something that looked like dessert.
“This is a towel to clean your hands; please don’t eat it,” the lead server said, then lifted up a kettle and poured hot water over Harold’s square. It expanded like one of those bath toy sponges that grow into dinosaurs.
Moira sat back so the server could transform her square into a towel next.
“You know what? When you’re being yourself, you’re curious, incredibly funny, and handsome too.
I love how your brain works, the way you’re onto one thing, and then onto another before you finish.
You’re such a bright guy, Harold. And I think whatever it is you do, you’ll be great at it. ”
“You have me confused with someone else,” Harold said, reaching for the warm towel and unraveling it.
“Stop it.” Moira gestured across the dining room at Alice, who was stabbing at something on her plate. “Trust me, one day, after their divorce, she’ll be craving someone who actually loved her.”
Harold cleaned his hands and then patted his lips with the towel. “I don’t know if I loved her. I really don’t. I look over there now, and I see a stranger. It doesn’t matter what she thinks, anyway. I’ve moved on.”
Moira took her towel off the plate. “Just like that?”
“Believe me, I have no feelings at all toward her. Nada.”
“That’s Spanish. Try niente.”
“Niente,” Harold said, perhaps too loudly. Everyone at their table, and the surrounding tables glanced over.
Brave and drunk Harold said again, “Niente!” Then he pointed at Renzo, sitting there guzzling wine, and repeated, “Niente!”
As if only to draw a reaction from Harold, Renzo reached for Alice’s hand and started to pet it. The large diamond shone under the light. Then he looked back at Harold and winked.
A fucking wink.
Next thing Harold saw was a piece of focaccia crossing in a grand arc over three tables, spinning like a ninja star and striking Renzo in the side of the head. It then tumbled onto the table.
Renzo whipped around, his forehead so tight the skin might tear.
“What a jerk, taunting you,” Moira said, a sinister grin lighting her face. She’d done it, thrown the focaccia. This girl was full of surprises. If she wasn’t careful, Harold was going to fall in love—the real kind.
Then Alice called out, “Harold?”
He raised a drunken wave, still dumbfounded by the fact that Moira had just slung a piece of bread across the dining room of the fanciest restaurant Harold could ever have imagined. All for him!
Bianca, George, and Sandy were now involved, wondering what was going on.
“I better go say something,” Harold said, the wine giving him ample courage.
He rose and planted a surprise kiss on Moira’s mouth; she gasped. Even Aroldo didn’t have that in him. “Thank you for defending me,” he said. “Be right back.” He crossed the restaurant to the rhythm of the silky bossa nova track that played in the background.
Reaching their table, he said to Alice, “Buonasera.”