Double-life Well Lived

Chapter 2

Elian growled at his brother, his dark brown eyes almost black with his anger. “You need to stop promising every pretty face a table. What am I supposed to do now, kick out good paying customers?” He ran his fingers through his thick curly hair, frustration causing him to pull it out of it's typical, neat and tidy appearance

Raoul waved his knife nonchalantly in the air. “You’re the hospitality guru, figure it out. She’s a world-famous model. Her face is all over the place. She’s plastered all over Times Square right now! Having her face in our restaurant is good PR. You’re only mad because she called me directly instead of booking a table but if you want to turn that one week wait time for a table into a month long wait with the rich and famous lining out the door, then you need to find a way to squeeze her in.” He paused, “it’s two people. Just her and her sister she said. Surely you can find a table out there.”

It wasn’t that his brother was wrong, it was that his brother had no idea that he had been curating the clientele in this restaurant for months, almost eleven of them. He wanted an exclusive clientele of elite patrons who would enhance the atmosphere of The Pygmalion, not detract from it like B class reality television stars and teenage models who would be on their phones for ** rather than enjoying the experience he had set to provide. “I’ve never heard of her. She can’t be that famous.”

Raoul stopped what he was doing and looked at his brother incredulously. “Do you live under a rock? Merry-Beth Winchester? Blonde, blue-eyed, legs for days? Face is on the huge billboard on Times Square and pretty much every other commercial you see on the television? She’s in line to do a movie with that action star that was a wrestler?”

“You just described every Hollywood starlet in boring detail.” Elian rolled his eyes.

“I don’t care. Find her a table. It can’t be too hard for you to find a table for a guest and potential friend of mine. If it was a friend of yours, the table would already be set, drinks poured, and orders taken.” Raoul went back to inspecting the fish that had arrived earlier that morning. “I’m a busy man and if you want quality food out there for your exclusive clientele,” he said the last part in high-pitched mockery, “then you’ll seat my friend at a nice table.”

Elian slammed his fist against the stainless-steel counter and glowered at his brother who was holding his gaze with his own stubborn will. “I have ten restaurants all over the world, six of them with Michelin stars. Why I ever thought it a smart idea to go into business with my kid brother I’ll never know.” He saw his brother’s raised eyebrows and shook his head. “Fine, I’ll find them a spot, but next time run it by me. You can hide back here in the kitchen and not see the issues that arise from pushing someone’s reservation but at the end of the day, it’s my reputation on the line.”

Raoul knew his brother better than anyone and knew very well that reputation or not, he always had a table ready for a surprise guest. His brother anticipated every move of his patrons, knew them by name, researched their wants, needs and preferences and made sure that nary a napkin was ever out of place.  It was rumoured that he once changed an entire evening’s menu on a chef because one of his elite customers had recently discovered a shellfish allergy. It was that kind of attention that garnered him a reputation in the hospitality business. Once he had a chef quit due to the demands, he put on them and Elian had simply thrown an apron on, prepared the dinner service and had a new chef in line for the next morning. He was hard to work for, but he paid well and if you could make it under Elian Ruiz, then as a chef you could make it anywhere.

He watched his brother shrug his shoulders under his perfectly tailored suit knowing that not a bead of sweat ran underneath. The man was cool, collected and only with his family did he ever show anything other than that façade of perfection. If any of his illustrious clientele had seen Elian yesterday rolling in the mud with his nephews playing football, they would never have believed it.

Raoul walked to the front of the house and motioned to the hostess. “Jillian, my brother has a special fiend joining us for lunch service today. Please ensure they are seated at table sixteen and alert me to their presence when they arrive.” He passed her a small note with the name of the guest and saw the hostess’ eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Problem?”

“As in the Merry-Beth Winchester?” she hissed at him. The young hostess ran suddenly sweaty palms down her black skirt. “You said we’d be getting the rich and famous in here but I thought you meant like the mayor or something. Not international superstars.” She fanned her face with the note as she almost skipped away.

Maybe he owed Raoul an apology and decided he would have to investigate this young woman and find out more. He watched as the hostess Jillian walked over to the bartender and gave an excited smile before holding out the paper to him. The bartender also looked at him with wide eyes. Maybe he had been living under a rock as Raoul suggested. Whoever this model was, she was apparently a hit with the younger staff in his establishment. For now, however, he had other guests to attend to.

It wasn’t long before Jillian was sending him signals and he nodded to her, taking notice of the woman she preceded to table sixteen. Raoul wasn’t kidding that she had legs for days, as he’d put it. He was sure where Jillian’s armpits were, Merry-Beth’s legs were just ending. She had sharp features, angular and painted with precision in the way only a model with a team of make-up artists would look. It was apparent she was slowing her walk to not bypass the hostess. He did recognize her face now as he took her in, she was most assuredly someone he had seen before just as his brother had described.

He made his way towards the table, inhaling sharply as he grew closer. It was show-time and he was all business now.  “Miss Winchester,” his voice was soft and soothing as he clasped her hands between his, “Welcome to The Pygmalion, where your experience will always exceed your expectations.”

The snort from her companion took him by surprise.

“Is there a problem, Miss?” he smiled politely, his façade not breaking regardless of the surprisingly rude reaction to his warm welcome.  He pulled a seat out for the guest of honor and then lifted his gaze to the companion. He drew a short breath as he took in the woman who had mocked his welcome. Grey eyes that reminded him of thunder clouds on a rainy day were a touch too close together but were sparkling as if touched by lightening. Her nose was slightly crooked as if it had once been broken, and a scar ran from her cheekbone along the fleshy part of the cheek in a thick, ragged line and it was stretched upward as she grinned widely at him. She was tiny compared to her sister, probably not even five-feet-four inches in the heels she wore but what she lacked in stature she made up for in curves; her body a perfect hourglass that caused his groin to tighten involuntarily.

“No, I think your line was perfect!” Clara loved a good pun, and she couldn’t help but laugh at the obvious one. “Merry-Beth, the Pygmalion effect is a psychological phenomenon wherein someone’s ability to succeed is determined by the expectations of others around them.”

Merry-Beth raised an eyebrow at her sister. “So, as an example, your success at running your grandfather’s company because of the expectations he heaped on you?”

Clara groaned and scowled. “Good example but thanks for taking the fun out of the pun.” She looked at the man staring at her and immediately was aware of her scars and broken features. She had forgotten herself for a moment and was suddenly embarrassed. Usually, she let her sister have the spotlight and rarely spoke to anyone when they were out. Merry-Beth commanded an audience and Clara preferred it that way. Something about his delivery had made her forget for just a moment and now he was staring, and she was uncomfortable. A four-letter curse word invaded her thoughts as she quickly sat in the seat, he held out for her.

She gripped the water glass that the hostess filled for her and sipped it quickly lubricating her now parched throat and nodding a quick agreement to whatever he had just suggested for their meals. She looked up at his back as he departed the table and headed towards the kitchen. She groaned and slapped her hands over her face. “I’m such an idiot.” She hissed at her sister

Elian grinned as he overheard the comment as he headed into the kitchen and went to find his brother.  He leaned on the counter, his backside resting against the edge. “You didn’t tell me she had a little sister.”

Raoul grimaced. “She has an older sister, not a younger one.”

“No, I mean little,” he held his hand to his chest. “She’s bite-sized.” He licked his lips and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Raoul stared at his brother incredulously. Elian never behaved like this at work.  “You can’t be serious. Thirty minutes ago, you were ready to tear my head off for inviting her here and now you want to bed her sister?”

Elian slapped his brother on the shoulder. “I’m not going to bed her. I’m going to marry her.” Just saying it out loud had him setting goals that he never knew he wanted.

Raoul dropped his knife on the floor. “What did you just say?”

Elian pushed off the counter and winked at his brother. “I’ve just met the future Mrs. Elian Ruiz and come hell or high water; I’m going to marry that woman and spend the rest of my days making her snort-laugh like she just did. She’s perfect.” He chortled as he remembered the sound of her snorting at him. She was glorious.

“You’re insane. Are you sick?” Raoul wondered if someone had spiked his brother’s coffee.  “Elian,” he called out to his brother, but it was no use, Elian had gone back to the front of the house and Raoul stood there, his knife still on the floor, wondering what the hell had just happened to his stick-in-the-mud brother.