I sat on the bar stool near her. “The good guys don’t go for me.”
“Oh, here we go.” Leo played an invisible violin. “Poor Eden is having guy trouble. Nobody wants Eden anymore.”
“Hey. . .not a lot of guys are going for me lately.” I raised my hands in the air. “I’m no seductress, but I usually have a few guys around by now.”
Aunt Celina crossed her arms over her chest. “What happened to the celloist?”
“He stopped calling me back out of the blue.”
“Wow. This wine bottle doesn’t even have a cork in it. Really, Aunt Celina?” Leo opened the bottle and poured us all a glass. “Anyway. Eden, didn’t you have a date with the celloist last month?”
“No. That was the part-time tuba player, Simon. He never showed up for the date. I went to his place the next day, apparently he’d moved.”
“Well, you told me that he’d stood you up, but… “Aunt Celina frowned and didn’t take her glass. “He moved? What was his name?”
“That’s what his roommate said. Simon had gone on a run. He came back to the apartment earlier than the roommate expected, it looked like he’d been roughed up, and then packed his bags.”
“Hmmm.” Aunt Celina checked her watch. “I should leave.”
“What? You didn’t even have any wine.” I moved it over to her. “Come on, Auntie.”
“This shouldn’t wait.”
“What?” I asked.
Leo took her glass. “She’s going to battle the French Mafia.”
Aunt Celina scowled at him.
“Sorry.” Leo gave the glass back. “I figured you didn’t want it.”
“I’m not frowning at the glass. I’m disappointed in your joke. The Corsican is nothing to joke about,” Aunt Celina said. “If anything, you of all people should want more Russians around.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Just, never mind. Leo…get the door.” She picked up her purse.
He did a dramatic stroll to the door. “Here you go, madam. Always at your service.”
“Thank you, darling.”
I called out past her as she hurried away. “You owe me a sit down and a glass of wine, Auntie!”
“Let’s make it next week.” She headed off. “We’ll toast to all the new Russians!”
“Uh. . .o-kay.” I took a sip. “Whatever is clever.”
Aunt Celina and I never had that toast to the Russians. The more Russians I happened to bump into as I went about my days, the more French gangsters I stumbled upon too.
The newspapers discussed tensions rising in certain neighborhoods, but I was too busy to focus on it all. Especially when none of it had anything to do with me. Besides, I had the Belladonna Symphony to practice for and focus on.
But in the dark hallway of Jean-Pierre’s penthouse, the man screamed again in Russian, and suddenly I wanted to know more about why the Russians and French hated each other.
What’s going on? Is Jean-Pierre in that room with him?
A voice sounded behind me. “Don’t be nosy, Eden. You may not like what you find.”
I jumped and turned around.
Rafael stood in front of me. “Looking for Jean-Pierre?”
“No…I was just walking. . .around.”
A few rooms down, the man screamed again in Russian.
I swallowed, as my hands shook.
Rafael’s gaze never left mine. “See? You don’t want to know why he’s screaming. It would give you nightmares.”
A chill ran down my spine.
“Let’s go swim.” Rafael signaled for us to walk in the other direction. “Go up to your room, get a swimsuit on, and meet me at the pool.”
Unlike Jean-Pierre, Rafael didn’t leave much room for options. It was a straight order. The only problem was, I didn’t know if I had to listen to him or not.
I didn’t want to swim with Rafael.
The Russian man screamed out. This time the noise reached the highest level of someone that was being tortured. While I knew he must’ve been being harmed, those sounds of pain showed no wiggle room.
I forced myself to walk forward.
Rafael called out, “I’ll see you in ten minutes, Eden.”
“Okay.”
Fuck. Fuck. Okay. This will be fine.
I changed into a simple bathing suit. Shalimar had bought tons of bikinis and strapless numbers, but I didn’t like the idea of hanging by the pool with Rafael in something provocative. I wasn’t Jean-Pierre’s actual girlfriend, but I found comfort in clear lines of respect. If I was here to spend time with Jean-Pierre, then that was who I would be with the most.
Make it quick. Nothing insulting, but in and out.
I picked a black, one-piece with a swooping neckline and a nonexistent back. I left a note for Jean-Pierre, grabbed a towel, and headed for the pool.
This will be fine. I’ll swim for a few minutes. Boom. Boom. I say I’m sick. I go back to the room, forget about the screaming, and play some music or something. What I won’t do is sit by the door like a puppy, waiting for Jean-Pierre to return.
I thought of Vibrato and wondered if the cat missed me at all.