29:Small Talk

“So, let me try this again.  Have you ever been here?” the counselor asked after they’d been seated in one of the furthest corners of the upstairs patio and ordered their drinks.  

The décor in this Martha’s Vineyard institution was nothing to speak of, and the menus were standard copy paper tucked inside sheet protectors, but the view couldn’t be faulted.  They were sitting on the edge of the harbor, flanked by a bevy of sailing vessels whose masts looked like soldiers defending the island.

Busy jockeying himself into a position that would allow him to remain incognito by facing away from most of the diners, Jon absently responded, “No, but it’s good for a sunset dinner, according to the internet.”

She hitched up an intrigued eyebrow as he scooted his chair closer to hers.  “Did you actually Google places for a sunset dinner?”

“Don’t start, Chiara” he admonished in a voice that wouldn’t carry beyond their table.  “This is my muzzle, remember?”

“Since you were screaming when you made that point, it would be kind of hard to forget,” she acknowledged wryly.  “And I realize I threw my muzzle overboard, but even a bitch has to give props where they’re due.  That pro bono prostitute thing was priceless.”

“Yeah, well.  You make me crazy, so I say crazy shit.”  Leaving that as his only justification, Jon glanced over the dinner offerings.  “Since you ate shrimp at the house, I assumed seafood was acceptable?”

“Sure.”  Following his lead, she picked up her menu and let her eyes drag over the print. 

The other diners’ laughter and chatter was offset by the occasional seagull caw overhead as the sun began to sink over the horizon, and the two of them added nothing to the clamor.  Comfortable silence reigned until the server returned with their drinks.

Once he took their dinner orders and vanished, Jon kicked one ankle onto the opposite knee and drank his wine while thoughtfully watching the counselor do the same.

He found himself looking at her in a different light now, but not in the way she presumed downstairs.  Her “groupie” status didn’t faze him because, quite frankly, there was no way in hell that she was part of that cattle call that he remembered from back in the day.  The majority of those women hadn’t moved on from their glory days of chasing a tour bus, and the same hair and makeup wasn’t keeping them young; it was aging them by decades.

Chiara didn’t fit the profile.

That’s what had him speculatively considering her as she popped an olive between her lips and slid it free from the toothpick.  For the first time, instead of despising her or his attraction to her, Jon found himself intrigued by her in a non-sexual way that had him wanting to know something… more.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Her eyes darted up from the olive, showing that the request surprised her almost as much as it did him. To her credit, she recovered quickly and dunked the remaining olive back into the booze to create a salted whirlpool.

“Are you asking for my political views, what I’m looking forward to back on that boat or just how I’m mentally passing the time?”

He would shoot himself before discussing politics with her.  With the way they fought, the hotbed of climate change and the national deficit could result in bloodshed, and he didn’t need to know what she wanted in bed.  He was doing just fine on that front without her guided instruction.

“Passing the time.”

Her brow crinkled in a brief display of bewilderment, but she shrugged it off.  “Your house.”

“Why?  And which one?”

“I don’t know if you remember me mentioning it, but I’m in the middle of rehabbing a brownstone.  I love historical structures, particularly once they’ve been restored to their former glory.  Dorothea mentioned that yours was restored instead of renovated, so I’d like to see it.  Lily Pond Lane, not Graceland.” she clarified with a wink. 

There was only one way she could’ve known that he thought of High Point as his Graceland, and her initials were Dorothea.  “I see restorations aren’t the only thing you talked about.  What the fuck happened to lawyer-client confidentiality?  I could have her suing your ass over that shit.”

“She would be well within her rights to do so, but she still thinks it’s as funny as I do.”

“You’re a bitch.”

“I’ve never denied that,” she conceded with a sly smile.  “Occasionally regretted it, but never denied it.  We are what life makes us sometimes.”

That was an escapist’s reasoning.  If he believed that, there never would’ve been a Bon Jovi.  They certainly wouldn’t be here almost three decades later, even in a slightly modified form.  He also wouldn’t have the privilege of asking “which house”, because he’d be damn lucky to have one. 

No.  Life wasn’t the dictating force here.

“I disagree, Counselor.  Life is what we make of it.  Blaming a lackluster existence on anything other than your own laziness is a cop out.”

The martini glass hovered just in front of her mouth, frozen in time just like everything else about her.  Arms, legs, head, torso – everything was utterly still except for her eyes.  Those blinked slowly across the table at him, and Jon presumed that she was rehearsing some kind of contradictory rebuttal.

“You know how there are those moments?” The frozen stillness melted under the weight of her quiet voice, and she put down the martini to lean in his direction.  “You hear the same song over and over and think nothing of it, but then there’s that moment when you finally understand the lyrics?”

He hadn’t had one of those moments in a long time, mostly because today’s music wasn’t all that profound – or maybe because he didn’t keep up with it.  Back in the days of Dylan and the Beatles, though, of course he had.

“Yeah?”

“I just had one of those."

Without the ability to see inside her thoughts, Jon couldn’t truly grasp the significance of that “moment”, but she was grasping enough for both of them so he was fine with it.

“I assume that’s a good thing?”

“Yes and no.”  Her eyes broke away from the sunset-painted harbor to land on his, and a slow smile overtook the lower half of her face.  “It's good to keep touch with reality, but it's also depressing as hell.”

“I guess so.” Rather than continuing the moment that felt a little too deep for his comfort, he steered the conversation in another direction that the water brought to mind.  “What the fuck were you talking about earlier with crocodiles?”

The smile blossomed into full-fledged laughter, putting Jon on the outside of an inside joke.  

“’Never Smile at a Crocodile’,” she sang the words as though that would magically illuminate a lightbulb over his head.  “It’s a Disney song from Peter Pan.  Something along the lines that you shouldn’t smile at a crocodile when they smile at you, lest you get lured in and eaten.”

Peter fucking Pan?  At least it's not climate change.  Just go with it.

“I think we’ve already established that you’re going to get eaten,” he joined the whimsy with eyebrows that waggled with innuendo. 

“So you keep threatening.”  Recovering the rest of her drink with a bored sigh, she airily stated, “I’ll believe it when I feel it.”

He loved good sexual banter as much as the next person, but the two of them weren’t secluded in a quiet niche of the restaurant that would allow them to work each other up without calling attention to themselves.  They were on an open patio with about fifty other people.  His boner would be obvious to the waiter and everybody else, and with his luck, it would end up on TMZ within the hour.

Time for another change of topic.

“Let’s get the facts straight, Counselor.  You’ll scream when you feel it.  Now let’s move on so that I don’t walk funny when I get up.”  Clearing his throat he proceeded in a more light and friendly direction.  “I did a song for a recent Broadway thing based on Peter Pan, actually.  Finding Neverland.  Really good show.”

“Don’t tell me anything about it!” she ordered with an upheld hand, leaving no doubt that she would physically quiet him if necessary.  “I’ve been dying to see it, but between work and renovations, there just hasn’t been time.  I’m hoping to talk my sister-in-law and her daughters into going with me once my guys leave for Stanford.”

Family.  Another good, dinner-friendly subject.

“Is this the same sister-in-law that asked me about ‘Bed of Roses’ and said you were too uptight?”

“Jesus, no.” Her eyes crinkled at the corner with laughter.  “Trying to imagine them being the same person gives me a migraine.  I’m referring to Izzie.  Vivi is the pit bull who cornered you because of Jeanette Rizzo, who apparently vows that she was the inspiration for that song.” 

“Mm,” he hummed into his drink of wine before swallowing.  “Everybody vows to be the inspiration for that song.  The day I lay somebody on a bed of roses is the day I go senile.  I can write some romantic shit, but living it is beyond me.  Crude motherfucker to the core.”

“Yet you Googled sunset dinners,” she teased, flapping a hand when he opened his mouth to argue the point.  “Relax.  I’m not one of those women who craves romance and I sure as hell don’t expect it from you.  If there’s no bloodshed, I’ll consider it a win.”

His mouth twisted into a wry smirk.  He might actually have a good time tonight.

“So, back to sisters-in-law,” he redirected yet again, this time to escape the subject of romance – or lack thereof.  “I think your Vivi is my Lilah.” 

“I can’t understand why you don’t love Lilah, but I suppose so, yeah.”

“Nuh, uh, uh.”  One admonishing finger waggled in her direction.  “Never said I didn’t love her.  She’s the best thing that ever happened to my brother and for that I do, in fact, love her.  Doesn’t stop her from being a pain in my ass, though.”

“I’m pretty sure she feels the same way about you, and your clarification means you’re right.  My Vivi is definitely your Lilah.”  After biting off the second olive, she hummed as though she remembered something.  “Hey.  That phone call earlier.  Is everything okay?  I guess that was about Vancouver?”

“You mean the phone call you were ‘distracting’ me from?” he quoted dryly.  “Yeah, I guess.  Matt didn’t call back but, then again, he didn’t want to call in the first place.  He knows where I am and who I’m with.”

“So we both have a brother that knows we’re having a vacation fling,” she sighed and raised a hand to their passing server.  “I think I need another drink.  How about you?”

 “Yeah.”  Looking up at the young man, he instructed, “Just bring a bottle.”

Charlie thought that she might end up an alcoholic before this evening was over.  Musicians, crocodiles, pivotal life moments, nosy family.  It was a diverse and oddly interesting outline of the evening, and she wondered if she should push the limits of her martini and go for broke. 

He’s been incredibly mellow so far.  Why not?

“Can I ask you something in all seriousness?”

Jon flicked blue eyes from the nautical fleet below to her and back without moving his head.  “Is this going to start an argument?”

“No.”

“Then go ahead.”

Leaning forward to prop her arms on the edge of the table, she twirled the stem of her martini glass between her fingers so that it danced on the tablecloth.  She hoped she didn’t regret doing this. 

“Are you planning to take advantage of what I said earlier?”

“You said a lot of stuff earlier, most of which I don’t wanna remember, much less take advantage of.”  Draining the dregs of this round of wine, he stretched out an arm and deposited the glass before turning to regard her with question marks in his eyes.  “What, specifically, are you talking about?”

“On the sofa.  During.”

“That?” The downward turn of his mouth and accompanying head shake came without hesitation.  “No.”

Presuming there would be more, she waited for the explanation that might convince her of his sincerity, but he didn’t offer one.  Of course this wouldn’t be easy.  Nothing between them ever was, after all. 

She breathed in through her nose and twirled her glass more determinedly.  “Why not?”

“Why would I?” he countered in all earnestness.  “So you like to talk.  And maybe I like making you.  So what?”

Lifting an overly casual shoulder she looked out over the water while their second round of drinks was served.  In that same nonchalant vein, she slid one of her martini olives off the toothpick with her teeth and chewed contemplatively for a moment. 

“Some men might use that situation to their advantage, particularly if it involved someone whom they feel has slighted them in a similar manner.”

“Is that your lawyer-ese way of saying that you’re worried I might take what you said in a very vulnerable moment and use it to even our score?  Again?”

She put down the glass and swallowed.  “Pretty much.”

“Christ,” came the weary sigh.  “Okay.  I didn’t realize I needed to spell this out, but let’s lay it on the fucking table.   And pay attention, because I’ll only do it once.

“What we do in the bedroom stays there, Chiara, without a goddamn bit of judgment for two consenting adults who get off the way they get off.  It’s just that simple.  Now...”  Dropping his foot to the patio floor, he leaned in to speak quietly into her face.  “You didn’t show a single fucking inhibition the first time you spread your legs for me.  Don’t think you’re going to start now because of the stupid idea that holding back during sex will protect you from future embarrassment or some such shit.  I won’t put up with it.”

There was not a doubt in the world that this man meant exactly what he said.  His voice didn’t waver.  His eyes didn’t waver.  He didn’t waver. 

It was enough to get Charlie’s heart beating a staccato rhythm that strongly resembled a cha-cha, and damn if she hadn’t just soaked a clean pair of panties. Tossing her now-empty toothpick onto the table, she nodded and said, “Thank you for clarifying.”

“Don’t give me that counselor shit,” he bit out with disgust.  “You’re a woman tonight, not a frigging lawyer.  Act like it.”

Here they went with the masculinity thing again.  She hadn’t heard him mention anything about her desire to be a man since they’d started having sex, but the topic was still obviously hanging around his subconscious and it irritated the hell out of her.  After the things they’d done together, how could he even go there with a straight face? 

“Let me tell you something, Bongiovi.  Doctor, lawyer, or Indian chief doesn’t matter.  I’m more woman than you know how to handle.”

Rather than annoying him, his wide grin lit brighter than the setting sun, and Jon’s glass tipped toward her in a silent toast as he ruefully conceded, “You might be right – but I'm always up for a challenge.”