“No, I—” Larkin trailed off, staring at the screen as the phone continued to ring.
“Larkin?”
Larkin’s thumb shook a little as he swiped to accept the call.He put the cell to his ear and said, “Mom?”
CHAPTER SIX
On the corner of Fifty-Seventh and Fifth, nestled among the surrounding luxury of Tiffany, Louis Vuitton, Gucci, and Prada, was La Boîte Dorée—a lounge and coveted place of respite among shoppers with substantial credit lines.Inspired by the culinary prestige of France, the class of England, and the debauchery of America, La Boîte was known for their finger sandwiches, pastries, caviar, and champagne available at all hours.It was, in Larkin’s opinion, a haughty and ostentatious café in the throes of an identity crisis.
In the time it’d taken to drive to Midtown and park the Audi in a garage half a block west, the morning had finally given way to gray overcast.It was hot, hazy, sticky, and Larkin had been pacing back and forth in front of La Boîte for the last forty-six seconds.Doyle stood off to the side, saying nothing as he smartly let Larkin work through the myriad of emotions all vying for dominance.
But then abruptly, Larkin came to a stop a few steps short of Doyle and in a rush, said, “She has the audacity to demand that I drop what I’m doing—like I don’t have a day job, like what I do is of no importance—because she absolutely must speak with me about Noah.Never mind that on April 13, when I needed her and had hoped she’d behave like a mother—just once—I was told not to get a divorce because what wouldher friendsthink.And now this,thisis where she is?My mother knows I don’t like busy dine-in settings.But Godfucking forbidJacqueline Larkin has to pour her own champagne.”
So calm, Doyle asked, “Do you want to leave?”
Larkin scoffed.
“I know I’m not familiar with your family dynamics, Evie, but you don’t owe anyone your time or energy if the relationship is this toxic.”
Larkin’s throat worked and his left eye began to twitch, like a compulsive tic, until he jabbed his thumb into the corner and pressed hard.
Chaotic stimuli of the tourist-heavy neighborhood bore down on Larkin like an oncoming freight train—the two women striding past them while laughing and talking animatedly, the shrill whistle of an officer directing traffic, a ConEd crew dragging a manhole cover across asphalt—all of it sent sharp, white-hot sparks up his spine and through his brain, and he’d have given anything for a Xanax right then.
Doyle’s smoky-smooth baritone broke through the clamor.“Is it all right if I touch you?”
Eyes still closed, Larkin shook his head.
“Okay.”His brief silence had a thinking quality, and then Doyle asked, “How can I make this easier?”
Lowering his hand, Larkin said, “I ignored Noah this morning and now he’s weaponizing my mother to relay his message, knowing full well that my relationship with her makes it difficult to say no, and I’m—I’m so fucking frustrated that he doesn’t get it.”Larkin heard the break in his voice, but he didn’t care.“No matter how many times I ask him to respect my boundaries, to understand I cannot simply drop what I’m doing to listen to him complain one more time about this divorce….I feel like—like I’m misreading the situation.Like I don’t quite understand the emotional expectations.Like I’m doing it all wrong.”
“You’re not misreading anything.”
Larkin adjusted his suit coat and fixed the cuffs of his shirtsleeves.He looked back at the high glass walls of the café while pressing the back of his hand to his flushed face.“I just want it to be over.”
“Would you like me to go inside with you?”
“My mother is unkind, Ira.I don’t want it to be open season on you too.”
Doyle smiled assuredly and said simply, “Don’t worry about me.”
Larkin opened his mouth to further deter Doyle’s white knight sensibilities, but a fat drop of rain hit his nose, and that seemed to be all the confirmation Doyle needed before walking to the door of La Boîte and holding it open.Larkin reluctantly moved forward.
True to its name, La Boîte Dorée was fitted with gold.Lots of gold.From the wallpaper to the light fixtures to the flatware, the impression of luxury was loud and insistent, like the interiors of mansions from New York’s past.There was also that small detail regarding menus… they were only available in French.And for a city that boasted a population of merely 80,000 who spoke French at home—according to the Census Bureau’s 2015 American Community Survey—presenting a situation in which one was to order food in a language relatively uncommon to the general population was just another outdated ploy at maintaining certain levels of elitism and classism.
Larkin was unaffected by the intimidation tactic, however, responding in kind when the maître d’ greeted them in French, and asking that they be directed to his mother’s table.
“Wow,” Doyle whispered, a step behind Larkin as they followed the young, clean-cut host toward a length of tables lining the glass wall.“Can you do that sexy R roll too?”
Larkin glanced back at Doyle.“It’s called a voiced uvular fricative.And yes, I can.”
Doyle winked.
And the way that Doyle could refocus Larkin’s stressors with a passing tease, a smile, a twinkle from those pyrite eyes….
Larkin’s shoulders relaxed a fraction.He continued toward the table the maître d’ now stood beside.
Sitting before a lavish three-tier stand of elegant finger sandwiches and decadent desserts, a glass of champagne bubbling at her side, was Jacqueline Larkin.She was sixty-three years old but told everyone she was fifty-three, petite in both stature and height, and boasted the same ash-blond hair and gray eyes as her son.She wore a calf-length dress with short sleeves in an earthy off-white color, the cut a timeless and classy A-line silhouette, as well as stiletto heels with a pointed toe in a pinkish blush.Jacqueline looked intimidating, important, and rich.
