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With the colorful couple seated, I finally have a quiet moment. The restaurant is filled to the brim. Everywhere I look, there are smiles or mouths humming in delight as they taste this season’s new wines.
Olivier has been covering every corner of the restaurant, making sure that our most precious VIPs experience one-to-one connection with the owner. He can really turn on the charm, and his smile glows when he laughs a real laugh. Despite his air of confidence, through the tower of wine glasses, I make out him wringing his hands and wiping his palms against his sides.
He made it clear during our pre-opening staff meeting that tonight means a lot to him. While I’d like to take some credit for the staff being on their best behavior, Olivier all but threatened their lives based on their conduct tonight. Even Camille looked uncomfortable as Olivier insisted that tonight put our jobs on the line.
The light jingle of the bell over the door signals a new customer and my heart jumps. We don’t have space. It better not be a VIP..
“Oh, thank goodness,” I breathe my relief as Laura approaches the podium. “It’s no one important.”
“Gee, thanks.” She makes a face at me and then observed the orderly bedlam around us. “How’s it going? Oh, check out that tower of wine glasses.”
“Chaotic, and I really don’t have time, but I guess you wouldn’t come unless it was important…”
“I figured you wouldn’t answer the phone tonight,” she says, leaning over the podium. “Wow, it’s packed. I’ve never seen it like this before.”
Olivier walks in our direction. I’ve got to speed this up before I get in trouble. “What do you need, Laura? Make it quick before the boss gives me a lecture for socializing during the most important night of the season.”
“There’s no electricity in the apartment.”
“Oh, no,” I groan. “It’s Friday night. I can’t do anything about it, not with tonight’s event.” I hope this isn’t a sign that destiny is changing her mind on me.
Her phone rings, the sounds of the Backstreet Boys echoing through the entryway, nearly drowning out the piano player.
“Laura!” I hiss, as the Backstreet Boys are definitely not in the Bouchon Noir brand.”
“It’s Annelise. You know how she is, and this electricity thing has just about put her over the top. She threatened to get on a plane—”.
“No!”
“I talked her down. Don’t worry about it. We’ll use the outlet in the hallway to charge our phones. A romantic candlelight dinner of whatever food might go rotten in the fridge sounds charming anyway.”
Olivier is almost here, and his brow is more furrowed than a pug puppy. This is not good.
“Laura, you’ve got to go.”
Olivier reaches the podium, ignoring Laura’s presence. “When is Le Monde coming?” He looks at the reservation list. “You must make sure they have a great seat, ideally on the front window. I want those journalists to take in the sight of a restaurant full of joyous diners. As it is, I don’t know if what we’ve done is enough…”
“It’s going great, Olivier.” I resist the urge to put my hand on his shoulder. That would be crossing some invisible line, but my internal southern mama wants to reassure him.
Down, hand, down. Why does it insist on hovering over him like that?
“Olivier?” Laura says and we both turn to look at her. My hand thankfully stops drifting behind Olivier’s back and falls to my side. “I’m sorry. You are Olivier.” It’s not a question.
“Yes, I am.”
“Yes, you are,” she says again, and I could die. But she’s gone all deer-in-headlights at the sight of Olivier’s tropical pools where the rest of us just have eyes. She may have an MBA and a fancy job at a biotech firm, but that isn’t stopping her from acting like a high schooler.
“Laura, I think you have an important electrical issue to take care of right now,” I say through tight lips and gesture to the door with my head.
“Yeah, I do,” she replies, draping herself over the podium. But then she remembers who she is and her spine straightens. “Nice ambiance here.”
Ambiance, right. If you call staring at Olivier Dubois “ambiance”.
Time for me to take matters into my own hands. “Thank you so much for stopping by, Miss Laura.” I take her arm, spinning her around and walking her to the door. She keeps her eyes turned to Olivier, who—fortunately—has his nose buried in the reservations book.
“Oh my gosh, Natalie. He’s even better in real life!”
“You don’t understand anything. You’ve got to get out of here. Go.”
