“They work, they work,” Irene said.
Somehow, Frances pushed herself up from the couch and went to change clothes. And while she was at it, she took a second dose of pain medicine. She was taking too much, she knew, but this was an emergency.
She would call Amani first thing tomorrow.
Twenty-eight
The hostess wanted to seat Frances and Edie as far from the entrance as possible.
“Should we hand out toilet paper, too?” Edie asked, eyeing the very close proximity to the bathrooms.
“Pardon?” said the young woman.
“Hon, this table won’t work for us,” Edie said. “It’s the acoustics. We’d like something in the middle of the room.”
“Certainly.” The hostess looked a bit miffed but turned around and headed for a table in the middle of the room.
“Acoustics?” Frances asked laughingly as they took their seat.
“Yeah, well, I’m not as quick on my feet as I once was,” Edie said. “And really, the acoustics in here are terrible. I could hardly hear her. But look, it worked. To your left.”
Frances turned her head. There sat Rocco Vitali in a round booth, squeezed in with two males and two females, all of them dressed to the nines. Rocco was wearing a suit that looked too shiny to be fashionable, sitting with both arms splayed across the back of the booth like a king, observing the room and his companions. From his vantage point, he could see everything.
Frances turned her attention to the menu. She pointed to her sleeve. “Is your microphone working?”
Edit touched something on her sleeve. “Absolutely,” she said, her voice coming in loud and clear.
“God, Nana, turn it down.”
They both started at the sound of Marcy’s voice blasting into their ears. Frances glanced over her shoulder to see Marcy hand her fake fur stole to the maître d’ while Edie futzed with the tiny wire at her sleeve to turn down her mic.
Marcy glided to a stool at the bar and settled in. “I can see him in the mirror behind the bar,” she whispered. “Looks like he’s gained weight.”
“You need to get his attention,” Edie said, as if talking to Frances.
“Don’t worry,” Marcy said. “I will. Yes, a lemon drop martini, please?”
“I wouldn’t drink if I were you,” Edie said.
“Really?” Frances asked, looking up from the menu.
“I mean Marcy,” Edie clarified. “You need all your wits about you.”
“I’m fine,” Marcy said dismissively.
Frances noticed a single man at the bar was watching Marcy. “Looks like you’ve already got the attention of a guy on your right. I knew you had your grandmother’s genes. Don’t look. I’ll—”
“Good evening, ladies!”
A waiter had suddenly appeared at Edie and Frances’s table. He whipped out the napkins from their rings to lay in their laps. “My name is Tavon, and I’ll be your server this evening. May I interest you in a cocktail? A glass of wine?”
“Tavon? What sort of name is that?” Edie asked.
“Oh my God, Nana,” Marcy hissed into their ears. “You can’t ask questions like that.”
“Why not?” Edie asked.
“Pardon?” Tavon said. “I … I think my mom just made it up.”
