Killer Punch (14 page)

“I couldn't help overhearing what that guy was telling you,” whispered Abby a few minutes later. “And you didn't hear this from me, but the goat cheese in these pastry puffs isn't organic, even though Gianni's claiming the cheese from this farm is all-­natural. We got it from, like, five different supermarkets today! Half the staff had to go buy up every package of chevre in a three-­county radius!”

“What, Gianni didn't have enough cheese?” asked Bootsie.

“He had nothing! The goats aren't producing milk,” said Abby. “They've been here a week and from one hundred and fifty goats, he hasn't produced an ounce of cheese. The goats are on strike or something! Oh, hi, Mr. Woodford,” she added to another guest as she headed back to pick up more hors d'oeuvres.

“Hey there,” said Mike to me. “I wanted to tell you what Eula was doing with that wheelbarrow this morning. She uses compost from Sanderson cows on her rose hedges I see her hit the barn and wheel it out once a week, minimum.”

“What!” said Bootsie. “She steals your cow manure?”

“It's an unspoken agreement,” Mike told her. “We have a lot of it.”

“That burns my ass,” fumed Bootsie. “First she grows tomatoes in Jersey, then she's got cow product from the fanciest estate in town. No wonder her roses look so good.”

“I didn't know ya were a fan of Gianni's,” Sophie piped up, giving Mike the once-­over. “Ya look good in that navy blazer,” she told him. “If I wasn't so in love with my decorator boyfriend, I'd have a crush on you. But I know you used to fool around with Kristin here, so I could never have a fling with you.”

“When I heard Gianni was opening a cheese business, I had to see for myself.” Mike grinned down at Sophie. “I think he might find farming to be a real challenge.”

I was distracted by his tan. And the beard stubble. Did he grow it on purpose?

I moved a little closer to inhale a whiff of Irish Spring . . . Mike didn't have any gorgeous ex-­wives, unlike my boyfriend, or maybe former boyfriend . . . maybe I should just give up on John!

Then again, I had all those dogs at my house right now, and it probably wouldn't be possible to make out with Mike with Waffles plus four wagging, slobbering mutts in residence.

At that moment, I noticed a tall, lean form over by the goat herd in jeans and a polo shirt. He bent over to scratch a nanny goat behind her ears, and my jaw dropped.

Our eyes met and he broke into a smile as he opened the wooden gate and wrapped me in a huge hug.

I hugged him back, then stepped back and looked at him. Before I could think it through, I opened my mouth and uttered the whiny words no girl should ever say: “Why haven't you called me?”

J
OHN EXPLAINED
THAT
he'd been almost back to Bryn Mawr yesterday afternoon when he got a last-­minute call from his chiropractor to play in the doubles tournament after the guy's original partner had dropped out, and with the match starting at 7 p.m. and then everyone staying afterward at the club to eat, it had been after ten. “I was about to text you last night and come over when Gianni called and said he had an emergency situation, and begged me to come out here to check on his goats,” he explained.

He'd followed Gianni to this patch of Amish farmland and examined the sleepy animals, while Gianni cursed everything on a cloven hoof and bemoaned his herd's lack of productivity. “It was close to 1 a.m. when I got back to Bryn Mawr, and I know you're never up that late,” he finished. “Gianni had me here most of the day today, too, and when he told me about the party tonight, I knew you'd be here. I thought I'd surprise you.”

I digested all this for a minute.

“Are you ready to go?” said John, putting his arm around me. “We can go pick up the dogs and go to my place.”

Miserably, I looked at him, trying to sift through my trust issues and Lilly Merriwether worries. Could anyone be this caught up in veterinary medicine . . . and think it was a good idea to be back in town for more than twenty-­four hours and not call your girlfriend?

“Thanks for letting the dogs stay with you!” he said. “You're the best to take care of them.”

That did it. I did love John's dogs, but I was tired of being covered in dog hair, and sick of fretting about him and Lilly. I needed a night to think things over. Maybe I
couldn't
handle dating a guy who was this devoted to his work and had a perfect ex-­wife. Also, dogs are the best, but does anyone really need four?

A small voice of reason deep within me pointed out that I spent most of my time at work, too, and the majority of my spare time with Bootsie, Holly, and Sophie. I probably needed to focus more energy on John.

I was irrationally upset and didn't have the energy to sort through the millions of emotions rocketing around inside my borrowed Tibi dress, so I informed John with a chilly hauteur that I'd promised Bootsie and Sophie to go look at old Mrs. Bingham's garden shack with a guy named Lobster Phil LaMonte tonight. He could pick up his pack of dogs in the morning.

As we all got back on the party buses, a whiff of something that wasn't quite as pleasantly scented as the espresso and biscotti that Gianni's staff had just passed around floated our way. Holly wrinkled her perfect nose, while Sophie gave a loud sniff. I actually found the smell somewhat pleasant, but I like a nice earthy scent, and I live across from Sanderson, so farm odors are pretty familiar. At least the new rose garden was also wafting out its own heavenly scent.

“Smells like goat,” pronounced Bootsie. As if to confirm this, the herd started bleating loudly. They seemed scared by the loud bus motors and the tipsy guests scrambling on board.

“Shut up, you
putana
goats!” Gianni yelled as the bus doors slammed shut.

 

Chapter 21

P
HIL TOLD
US
he'd meet us back at Ristorante Gianni, since he was a town car guy and didn't do buses. We all climbed into his huge black sedan forty-­five minutes later for a quick tour de Bryn Mawr.

“So where's the Mega Wine Mart gonna be?” Phil asked.

“We're heading there now!” said Sophie. “Sorry it's so dark out, but if you look past those pastures, you can see we're passing a real fancy estate called Sanderson, which is where that lady who got her painting stolen lives.” Phil look duly impressed at the size and scope of Mrs. Potts's estate, and kept driving.

“Did we tell ya we got a name on the developer of the Wine Mart?” she added. “Some guy named Barry Tutto. We can't get a phone number for him, though! It's like he doesn't exist in real life.”

“Barry Tutto,” repeated Phil. “That has a familiar ring to it. I'll look into it for you.”

“Here's where the Mega Wine Mart is gonna be!” said Sophie, indicating the driveway that led through the woods toward old Mrs. Bingham's former garden store. A summer moon illuminated the lofty trees.

“These woods are fabulous,” said Phil, rolling down his window and sniffing the breeze. “Just smell that fresh night air. This is freakin' beautiful.”

“It won't be for long,” Bootsie told him. “See that old building? That's going to be a boutique wine store, but that's just for like a month, and then it's big box all the way.”

B
ACK AT
G
IANNI
'
S
restaurant, Phil insisted on going in and buying us yet one more drink. To my relief, the chef himself was nowhere to be found.

“You were just at his party, right?” asked the hostess. “Is it true that the place smelled like goat?”

“Just for the last five minutes,” Bootsie told her.

“Better than nothing,” said the girl, who added that she was clocking out and took off. Ristorante Gianni was winding down for the night, with diners paying their bills and heading out. I was already wishing I was in bed. It seemed, though, that Lobster Phil wasn't someone you disappeared on—­unless he wanted you to.

“That Sanderson is something special,” Phil mused now, after throwing a stack of twenties onto the bar. “Mrs. Potts's house is sparking all kinds of ideas in me.”

“Like what?” said Bootsie. “Are you a fan of cows? Because that's her main interest.”

“I'm thinking old England,” he said, swirling his drink. “It's a totally new concept for a Vegas restaurant and lounge. Imagine this: paneling, old paintings, old rugs, huge sofas, all that. And, like, roast beef and peas for the food, and waiters in '60s Rat Pack–style suits.
Downton Abbey
meets
Ocean's 11
.”

“I thought ya loved the Vegas vibe,” Sophie said to Phil. “You got all those great places to eat and shop, and look at your tan—­it's awesome.”

“True,” allowed Phil. “But I grew up in Jersey. Sometimes I miss the trees and the forest. There's not a single tree in Vegas unless you count some palm trees they plunked down around the pools at the casinos. I mean, I was never a tree-­hugger back when I lived in Atlantic City, but you knew they were just a ­couple exits up the Garden State Parkway if you wanted them.”

“Maybe ya should move back!” encouraged Sophie. “At least spend the summers here at the shore?”

“No way,” said Phil. “Not with Diana-­Maria still living there. Plus I'm Sweet Freddie's main guy in Vegas now.”

“Who's Sweet Freddie?” asked Bootsie.

“Sweet Fred McDonald is an associate of Gianni and Barclay from when they worked in Jersey,” Sophie told us. “He's from the non-­Italian part of their, you know, business consortium.” She paused for a moment, seemingly lost in thought.

“Didn't you guys do some art sales, too, back in the day, Phil?” she asked her old friend. “I mean, I know Barclay and you did construction and trucking, and a buncha other businesses, but I think I remember my ex telling me that you're a real art lover! You and Sweet Freddie had, like, a gallery out in Vegas a few years back, didn't ya?”

“Just for a few months,” Phil told her smoothly.

“Why'd ya close it?” persisted Sophie.

“We had a few visits from Customs and Border Protection,” Phil said, not warming to the subject. “Those guys are real picky about where a painting comes from. I didn't have time to spend months researching, like, the last twelve owners of every picture we sold, so we closed up shop.”

“I remember ya had a lot of antique pictures at your place in Jersey!” Sophie said. “Real nice ones, too. Lot of outdoor scenes.”

Bootsie seemed to be missing the fact that Phil was a fan of the exact kind of painting stolen from Mrs. Potts, and the fact that he'd actually been in the art business until he'd been shut down for not authenticating the provenance of the paintings he sold. She was still stuck on a possible family connection to the aforementioned Sweet Freddie.

“We have some cousins named McDonald on Mummy's side. Maybe I'm related to Sweet Freddie,” said Bootsie.

“I doubt it,” said Sophie, shaking her head. “You don't resemble Sweet Freddie even a little bit. He's real short, and real mean. All of the other guys were always gentlemen, except of course my dumb ex Barclay and Sweet Freddie. One time Freddie ripped off a guy's fingernails and Krazy Glued them to his front door.”

“I don't think he's one of Mummy's cousins,” agreed Bootsie.

Just then, Joe walked in, wearing his typical Bryn Mawr–in–July outfit of crisp striped shirt, a preppy green belt, and khaki shorts.

“Honey Bunny, this is Phil LaMonte from Vegas!” shrieked Sophie. “Phil, this is my almost-­fiancé Joe Delafield, who's a decorator and is
mega
-­
talented. He even designed a dining room down in Magnolia Beach, Florida, that was featured in
Elle Decor
!” I couldn't help noticing that Phil was roughly three times the size of Joe. His hand resembled a baseball mitt when he shook Joe's much smaller paw.

“I also do renovations,” said Joe, who stood up straight to his full height, which put him at chest level with Phil.

Thankfully, since it was nighttime, he wasn't carrying his usual tote bag of fabric samples and paint chips. I wasn't sure Phil would be able to understand Joe's passion for perfectly decorated rooms—­though, who knows, maybe he could? You don't make it as far as Phil had in the restaurant business without an eye for good design.

“Joe just ripped out a kitchen in Florida and totally rebuilt it,” I explained to Phil, since I wasn't sure Sophie had presented her boyfriend in the best possible light. Probably referencing construction rather than
Elle Decor
was the way to go.

“It was a complete gut job. Joe's great on a job site!” I added.

“That's real interesting,” Phil said politely. “Well, you're a lucky guy, Joe. Sophie's a sweetheart. Nice to meet you.”

With that, Phil took off for his hotel in A.C., while Joe gingerly seated himself on the bar stool Phil had just vacated. I could see him barely restraining himself from dusting it off with a cocktail napkin.

“So that guy was one of Barclay's good friends?” he asked Sophie, striving for a neutral tone as he waved down the bartender for a Stoli. I felt a bit badly for Joe. Between Gerda's return from Florida and spending weeks on end arguing about potholders with Mrs. Earle, he wasn't exactly having a fantastic summer. Plus Joe's secure in who he is, but any one of Sophie's former Jersey friends could squash him like a bug, which has to be unsettling

“Lobster Phil's basically the king of Vegas these days,” Bootsie informed him. “I did a little Googling earlier, and the guy has, like, not only his restaurant, but owns most of the casino it's in, plus does retail and liquor on the side. I think he's got a little crush on Sophie, too!”

“Ya think?” said Sophie, looking excited. “He always did like me! It used to really annoy his girlfriend Diana-­Maria. He once gave me a Gucci suitcase for my birthday. It was real sweet of him. Which, by the way, is coming up in three weeks. My birthday, that is.” Here, she gave Joe a little hug and squeeze, and dangled her ring-­free left hand in front of his tumbler of vodka.

“We could get Phil to take us up to Trenton to see some of his jeweler buddies,” she told Joe. “Or go to Vegas! He probably knows all the best diamond guys in Vegas, and you know they have huge rocks there! ­People probably have to pawn their wives' good stuff all the time out there.”

Joe, who rarely breaks a sweat, stood up, a sheen of perspiration on his tastefully tanned forehead, and Bootsie and I exchanged “uh-­oh” glances. I noticed his hands were trembling and an eyelid was twitching.

“Sophie, I've given in on Versace plates and painting your shoe closet gold,” he said through clenched teeth. “I don't even care anymore that you force me to watch
American Horror Story: Hotel
with Lady Gaga even though you know that show terrifies me.

“But I'm not going to live in the same house as Gerda, and I'm definitely not going to buy a ring from a pawnbroker in a strip mall in Vegas!”

“Ya don't have to be so snooty about a preowned rock!” shrieked Sophie. “You're always blabbing about how great antiques are. What are antiques except a fancier way of saying ‘used,' anyway? If desks and chandeliers can be used by some old folks in the 1800s, how come a ring from those guys on
Pawn Stars
isn't an antique, too?”

I thought she had a point, but didn't think it would be wise to voice an opinion. Plus a lot of what I sell at The Striped Awning doesn't meet Joe's standards for antiques, either, so it's a bit of a touchy subject with me.

“Because it isn't! A ring once worn by a Real Housewife probably isn't all that old!” Joe screamed back.

Clearly, he'd gone too far, because the normally sweet-­tempered Sophie turned pink with rage, grabbed her gold Versace clutch bag, and made for the door. Her exit was quite effective, I thought admiringly.

Unfortunately, she hadn't driven to Gianni's, so she was forced to turn around and come back to the bar, where Joe was gathering up his phone and making for the door, too. “I need a ride home,” she told Bootsie, a huge tear dropping down on her tiny face.

“Don't worry,
I'm
leaving,” said Joe. “And I'm going to stay in Holly's guest room tonight.”

“Good!” Sophie told him, looking sadder than I'd ever seen her. I gulped sadly, and followed a tearful Sophie and an uncomfortable Bootsie out to the parking lot.

Maybe this really was the end of the unlikely Joe-­and-­Sophie pairing. Opposites attract, clearly, but were there differences finally pushing them too far apart?