Page 23 of Taking Turns

I’m silent as I sit between them during the five-minute ride over to Turning Point Club, but Matisse and Smith chat about old times. Parties, and women, and drinking, and money.

Very, very typical.

When we pull up in front, Smith gets out first, then holds out his hand, helping me step out. Matisse gets out on the other side and meets us at the door. There is a flurry of activity when Smith approaches the maitre d', and then he leans into his ear and says, “In the bar, near the window.”

The maitre d' nods and says, “Right this way, Mr. Baldwin.”

Smith follows the man, I follow Smith, and Matisse is right behind me. But when we get to the booth, Smith doesn’t sit. Instead he waves me into the side facing the bar and Matisse into the bench across from me.

“I’ll be right back,” Smith says. And he leaves me there with Matisse.

“It went very well today,” he says. “I’m impressed.”

“Thank you,” I say, wanting very badly to turn my head to I can see where Smith went. “I’m off tomorrow—”

“I know. But you won’t be needed.”

“Oh,” I say, a little disappointed.

“I have it all under control. Your crew might be in the way as we install. And I’m not very friendly when I’m stressed. So it’s better you called them all off.”

“Oh,” I say again. “I think some of them might be disappointed.”

“It can’t be helped. I like things the way I like them.”

“Of course,” I say, just as a waiter comes up and says, “Hello.” He gives us his name, recites the menu, and then waits for us to decide. I’m way too tired to remember anything that waiter just said, so I just stare at Matisse with a blank look on my face.

“We’ll have the filet mignon,” Matisse says. “Medium rare. And a Caesar salad. Do you like Caesar?” Matisse asks me.

I nod, suddenly feeling very weary.

The waiter disappears and then I’m alone with him. I force a smile, but my mind is whirling. “Are you a member here?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “For many years. I met Bric in school a long time ago. We’ve been friends since childhood.”

“And Smith?” I want to kick myself for asking about him.

“Smith is…” Matisse laughs. “Smith.”

“Right.” I chuckle. “I get it. Kind of. I don’t know him. I just met him…” Shit. Do I really want to talk about last night? “I don’t know him at all,” I say. And then I look around. “Where did he go?”

Matisse shrugs. “Where does he ever go?”

Right.

There’s an uncomfortable silence after that, so I try to make conversation. “I love that piece in the show. The children,” I say.

“Which one?” He smiles and I figure talking about his art is a safe way to navigate my way through this dinner.

“The two dancing. Glee, it’s called.”

“Oh,” he says, thoughtfully. “Yes, I can see why you’d like it. Will you be sad when someone purchases it on Friday?”

“No.” I laugh. “I’m going to purchase it.”

“Are you?” He has one eyebrow cocked. “It’s forty-seven thousand dollars.”

“I know,” I say. “I have money saved. I’ve been waiting for this show all year. You have no idea how exciting it is. I was thinking of coming in tomorrow, just to watch.” He’s about to protest, but I keep going before he can. “But if I’ll be in the way, I’ll wait my turn.”