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Untying her apron, she hauled an edifying breath and walked out to Monica Grayson’s table.
“Hullo, how are you this evening?” she asked, only to be ignored by Monica, whose sharp, asymmetrical sweep of hair made her jaw jut ominously.
Her male companion looked up, then down again. “Perrier for now. You do have Perrier, don’t you?”
She had no idea. “I’ll check. Will another brand of H2O suffice if we don’t?”
That garnered her a pointed look from Monica. Perhaps the words had been tinged with sarcasm.
“The owner not here tonight?”
“He’ll be in later. I’ll give you a couple of moments to look over the menu while I get your water.”
At the bar, Reuben was unmoved by her plea for the natural spring water of the Gauls. They had San Pellegrino.
“It’s water,” he said in the same ironic tone she would have used if it suddenly hadn’t taken on far more importance than it should. She knew how crucial it was that Monica Grayson’s review reflect Vivi’s at its best. Tad had worked so hard and he needed this night to go without a hitch.
Back to the table she went with the bottles and glasses filled with ice.(We didn’t askfor ice.)
“Do you have any questions about the menu?” Jules asked after her return trip minus ice cubes.
Two sets of eyes snapped to hers. Monica’s bore all the hallmarks of a lioness about to take down her prey while her companion’s shone with amusement. Clearly, Monica’s evisceration of servers was a familiar spectator sport for her eating buddies.
“What can you tell me about the Chakana?” Chaka-cat! It must be a sign.
“Well, like all the Argentinian Malbecs, it’s robust and earthy with a nice acidity. Goes great with the meatier smears on the menu and the harder cheeses. The Wisconsin reserve cheddar is a good match.”
Monica looked unimpressed while her friend radiated disappointment. He leveled Monica with a gaze of,Try again, dear.
She flipped a few of the pages, cutting brutally through the French reds, viciously past the Italians, before coming to rest on…agh…the Germans.
“How about the—?” She tossed off something unrecognizable.
A cold shiver of sweat trickled down Jules’s spine. “Sorry, the…?”
“This one,” Monica pointed impatiently at the menu with a sharpened claw. “I’m afraid I’m not as familiar with the German wines. I could ask Reuben at the bar.”
Monica raised an eyebrow so far it threatened to unhitch her scalp. “It’s Greek.”
Jules’s heart sank to the hardwood floor. “G” was one of her favorite letters because it started off some of her favorite words: Gorgeous (Tad). Gape, gawk, gawp (all things she liked to do at Tad). Gelato (Tad substitute). She had made out the “G” on the wine menu page but the rest of it was well…Greek to her.
There was still time to salvage this. “If you have particular food items in mind, it might be easier to recommend a wine.”
“I’d prefer to choose the wine first. This is a wine bar, is it not?”
No argument from Jules there, just that swamp of dread in her stomach at being found out for the fraud she was.
“If you told me what you’d like, perhaps I can come up with a few options.” Something jammy, perhaps, that Jules would happily jam down this bitch’s throat.
“What about this? Or this?” Monica pointed at a Lord-knew-what entry and the words blurred, not because they were incomprehensible but because Jules’s eyes were filling. What had she been thinking? It was like trying to teach a pig the clarinet.
Don’t cry, idiot.
Monica made a sound of exasperation. “Good grief, it’s right there. The pinot.”
“Monica, lovely to see you. How are you this evening?”
Jules cranked her neck a few inches, not that she needed a visual to verify Tad’s arrival. All that male spice and testosterone transmitted directly to every hair on her body, now standing on end.
