How could I update the draft if I had no idea what had just happened? Why wouldn’t anything move before Monday? It was only Thursday.
“Alex?”
“I’m sorry, I . . .”
“You don’t eat steak, right?” I nodded, but looked back down at my notepad. “Meet you in the lobby in ten,” he said. “We’ll discuss the changes over dinner.”
I buried my chin farther into my coat, hiding from the unseasonable November wind as we made our way to our Quality car. Once we were inside it, Peter alternated between typing carefully and scrolling furiously, interrupting the silence only once. “Hey, can you just call a Quality car to do a pickup at the Starlight Diner on Seventy-Second between Park and Madison? You can bill it to Stag River.”
I nodded and began to type the request into my phone.
“Call. Don’t email,” he clarified. I picked up my phone, calling the Klasko operator to be connected to our car service, slightly confused as to why somebody from Stag River would call their attorney for a ride home.
“Who do I say the car is for?” I asked as the line rang. Peter continued to type without a response. Shit. Did I piss him off? He didn’t look upset, though, more like he hadn’t heard me.
The ringing stopped as the operator’s voice piped into my ear. “Good evening. Klasko & Fitch, how can I help you?” I ordered the car, and as soon as the operator heard the Stag River billing number, she bypassed the usual step of asking for passenger name and destination. I hung up and gazed out the window at the intersection of Fiftieth Street and Park Avenue, where a young couple made out passionately as they waited for the light to change.
“That’s good,” Peter said. I looked over at him to see that he was finally off the phone. “When you stop taking joy in the happiness of others, just do everybody a favor and end it.” I realized there’d been a sleepy smile on my lips, and I straightened them. “Did you have a moment to review the teaser language I sent you for our sell-side?”
“I did. Should I be diligencing the actual revenue numbers to confirm that they’re accurate?”
“The whole point of a teaser is for the company to garner interest from the market. If the document isn’t accurate, even by a little, it can destroy any potential interest—out of mistrust for the seller. It’s our job to make sure the deal goes through. And companies need to know exactly who they’re getting into bed with.”
I nodded slowly while still mulling over his words, thinking how much the merger of companies paralleled the merger of people.
As we walked through Grand Central Terminal, the stores and restaurants were rapidly shutting down for the evening and I was growing increasingly annoyed that our dinner was really just me accompanying him on the first leg of his trip home to Westchester. The “Hours of Operation” on the glass doors of the Oyster Bar indicated that there were only three minutes left of service, but they’d already been bolted shut. Peter knocked on the glass, and one of the servers wagged his finger at us before spinning around to hear something being shouted at him by the bartender.
“Ever been here?” Peter asked as he loosened his tie. I gave a small shake of my head and peered inside at the bone-colored rectangular tile ceiling that arched cavernously and continuously in a way I thought only churches or caves did. The air looked warm behind the closed glass door, glowing with an auburn light that I much preferred to the contrived fluorescent white of the office. It was casual. Charming. No pomp or circumstance. Its confidence was raw, nothing like the places I had been to for other work dinners. My annoyance at his choice of location melted into a sort of calm awe at the grandeur of the iconic restaurant, which until that moment, I’d had no idea was actually located within the terminal.
A young waiter scurried to the door and unlocked the deadbolt. “Didn’t recognize you, Mr. Dunn. Apologies,” he said, looking nervous. Peter shook him off genially and pointed to the bar. The waiter nodded, and Peter led me into the restaurant, which was nearly empty. I spotted one couple finishing their wine at a table, but busboys were sweeping up around them while a few servers were gathered in the corner, counting their tips.
“Don’t even worry! We’re the ones here past closing!” I said to the waiter, enjoying the power of being able to calm him, and he seemed to exhale.
Peter chatted with the silver-haired bartender, whose porcelain skin and lack of facial hair made it impossible to tell whether he was gray at thirty-five or aging extremely well at sixty, and I hoisted myself onto the barstool beside Peter. I pulled my skirt down below my knees and retucked my shirt in the back as nonchalantly as possible.
“Do you do oysters?” Peter asked.
I nodded, wondering if the bartender was too polite or professional to rush us to place our orders.
“Dominic,” Peter said, turning toward the bartender, “two dozen. One from the gulf or whatever is meaty, and one of the smaller. The young lady thinks she likes oysters. But she’s never been here before.” He looked over at me. “We’re going to show her how good they can be.”
Dominic smiled at me, and I grinned back, unable to contain the thrill of being there after hours. I had never witnessed a man as in control as Peter was—people did exactly as he instructed them to.
“What’ll you be drinking?” Dominic asked me, his voice and demeanor leading me to believe he was an older man who aged well.
“Rosé and oysters is my favorite summer meal,” I announced, striving to sound casually sophisticated, but Peter and Dominic glanced at one another with wry smiles. I had somehow revealed my naïveté, though I had no idea how.
“Would you be open to trying it with a white?” Dominic suggested. “We have a Poulsard and a sauvignon blanc that are drinking so nicely right now.”
I quickly conjured up the scene from the dinner with National Bank. What had Didier said with his nose shoved in the sauvignon blanc? Lime?
“I’d imagine the Poulsard is drinking well this year, but I love the idea of the citrus from a sauvignon blanc with oysters. Is that okay?” I asked Peter, the words falling clumsily out of my mouth.
Dominic’s lip curl indicated amusement, but Peter simply said “Your world,” locking his green eyes with mine. His were no longer tired and were now bright and full of mischief. The sense that he was looking straight through me was more unsettling than gratifying. “We’ll have a bottle, Dom,” he said, turning from me.
“So, maybe you know wine,” Peter said. I didn’t. “But you don’t know oysters. Dom here has taught me everything I know about them.”
I became painfully aware of my feet dangling from the barstool, and placed them firmly on the crossbar between the stool legs to repress the feeling that I was just a stupid child playing at being a grown-up.
“Are you doing only oysters tonight?” Dom called over his shoulder.
“Yes! Send the kitchen home, for God’s sake!” Peter said, taking off his jacket. His arm brushed mine as he twisted it out of the sleeve. “Pardon me.” He touched my arm, on purpose this time. “I just want to call my wife. I’ll be right back.”
I took out my phone and texted Sam.
Alex: Quitting Klasko and playing the lottery aggressively starting tomorrow.