“That’s great.” She smiled again. “You guys are the best.”
“It’s mostly Deb,” I said. Beside me, Deb blushed, clearly pleased. “Turns out she has a lot of model experience.”
“Thank God somebody does,” Opal replied. “Maybe now Lindsay will relax about this whole thing. Do you know she keeps calling here? It’s like she’s suddenly obsessed with this project.”
I glanced at my Dad, who picked up his wineglass, taking a sip as he looked out the window. “Well,” I said, “she should be happy next time she stops by.”
“That,” Opal said, pointing at me, “is what I love to hear. She’s happy. I’m happy.Everybody’shappy.”
“Oh my goodness,” Deb said, her eyes widening as Tracey came toward us with a heaping plate of fried pickles, placing it right in front of Opal. “Are those—”
“Fried pickles,” Opal told her. “The best in town. Try one.”
“Really?”
“Of course! You too, Dave. It’s the least we can do for all your hard work.” She pushed the plate down, and they both went over to help themselves.
“Wow,” Dave said. “These are amazing.”
“Aren’t they?” Opal replied. “They’re our signature appetizer.”
Wow, indeed,I thought, looking at her as she helped herself to a pickle, popping it into her mouth. My dad was still looking out the window. “So the meeting went well?” I asked.
“Better than well,” Opal said. She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Nobody’s getting fired. I mean, we presented our arguments, and he just . . . he got it. He understood. It wasamazing.”
“That’s great.”
“Oh, I feel so relieved!” She sighed, shaking her head. “It’s like the best I could hope for. I might actually sleep tonight. And it’s all because of your dad.”
She turned, squeezing his arm, and he finally turned his attention to us. “I didn’t do anything,” he said.
“Oh, he’s just being modest,” Opal told me. “He totally went to bat for our staff. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he actually didn’t want anyone to get fired either.”
I looked at my dad. This time, he gave me a shrug. “It’s over,” he said. “That’s all that matters.”
“Is that Mclean I see?” I heard a voice boom from the back of the restaurant. I turned, and there was Chuckles, huge and hulking and striding right toward us. As usual, he had on an expensive suit, shiny shoes, and his two NBA championship rings, one on each hand. Chuckles was not a believer in casual wear.
“Hi, Charles,” I said as he gathered me in a big hug, squeezing tight. He towered over me: I was about level with his abs. “How are you?”
“I’ll be better once we tuck into that buffalo,” he said. Dave and Deb, standing at the bar, watched him, both wide-eyed, as he reached over with his impressive arm span to pluck a pickle from the plate in front of them.
“Chuckles just invested in a bison ranch,” my dad explained to me. “He brought ten pounds of steaks with him.”
“Which your dad is going to cook up as only he can,” Chuckles said, gesturing to Tracey, who was behind the bar, for a wineglass. “You’re joining us, right?”
“Sure,” I said. “But I need to go home first and change. I’ve got model dust all over me.”
“Do it,” Chuckles said, easing his huge frame onto a bar stool next to Opal as Tracey reached over with the wine bottle, filling his glass. “I’m just going to hang here with these gorgeous women until my food’s ready.”
My dad rolled his eyes, just as Jason stuck his head out of the kitchen. “Gus,” he called. “Phone call.”
“I’ll see you in a half hour or so?” he said to me as he got up. I nodded, and he walked back to Jason, taking the phone from him. I watched him say hello, and a grimace come across his face. Then he turned, and walked back toward his office, the door swinging shut behind him.
“I should go, too,” Deb said, zipping up her jacket. “I want to get home and whiteboard my ideas for the model while they’re still fresh.”
“Whiteboard?” Opal said.
“I have one in my room,” she explained. “I like to be ready when inspiration strikes.”
