Summer By The Sea. Susan Wiggs
him sooner or later.
“Uh-oh,” Vince muttered, assuming a stance that was now more protective than welcoming. “Here come the Montagues.”
Rosa struggled against panic, but she was losing the battle. You’re a grown woman, she reminded herself. You’re totally in control.
That was a lie. In the blink of an eye, she was eighteen again, aching and desperate over the boy who’d broken her heart.
“I’ll tell them we’re closed,” Vince said.
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Rosa hissed at him.
“I’ll beat the crap out of him.”
“You’ll offer them a table, and make it a good one.” Straightening her shoulders, Rosa looked across the room and locked eyes with a man she hadn’t seen in ten years, a man she hoped she would never see again.
Two
“You asked for it.” As though flipping a switch, Vince turned on the charm, stepping forward to greet the latest arrivals. “Welcome to Celesta’s,” he said. “Do you have a reservation?”
“No, we just want to drink,” said one of the men, and the women snickered at his devastating wit.
“Of course,” said Vince, stepping back to gesture them toward the bar. “Please seat yourself.”
The men and their dates headed to the bar. Rosa thought about the nautilus shell, displayed like a museum artifact. Would he recognize it? Did she care?
Just when she thought she’d survived the moment, she realized one man held back from the group. He was just standing there, watching her intently, with a look that made her shiver.
Her task, of course, was simple. She had to pretend he had no effect on her. This was easier said than done, though, because she had trouble keeping her feelings in. Long ago, she’d resigned herself to the fact that she was a walking cliché—a curly-haired, big-breasted, emotional Italian American.
However, cool disregard was the only message she wanted to send at the moment. She knew with painful certainty that the opposite of love was not hate, but indifference.
“Hello, Alex,” she said.
“Rosa.” He lifted the corner of his mouth in a half smile.
He’d been drinking. She wasn’t sure how she knew. But her practiced eye took in the tousled sandy hair, the boyish face now etched with character, the sea-blue eyes settling a gaze on her that, even now, made her shiver. He looked fashionably rumpled in an Oxford shirt, chinos and Top-Siders.
She couldn’t bear to see him again. And oh, she hated that about herself. She wasn’t supposed to be this way. She was supposed to be the indomitable Rosa Capoletti, named last year’s Restaurateur of the Year by Condé Nast. Self-made Rosa Capoletti, the woman who had it all—a successful business, wonderful friends, a loving family. She was strong and independent, liked and admired. Influential, even. She headed the merchants’ committee for the Winslow Chamber of Commerce.
But Rosa had a secret, a terrible secret she prayed no one would discover. She had never gotten over Alexander Montgomery.
“‘Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, he walks into mine,’” she said. She pulled it off, too, with jaunty good humor.
“You know each other?” The woman with the Marcia Brady hair had come back to claim him.
He didn’t take his eyes off Rosa. She refused to allow herself to look away.
“We did,” he said. “A long time ago.”
Rosa couldn’t stand the tension, although she struggled to appear perfectly relaxed as she offered an impersonal smile. “Enjoy your evening,” she said, every bit the hostess.
He looked at her a moment longer. Then he said, “Thanks. I will,” and he stepped into the bar.
She held her smile in place as he and the others settled into an upholstered banquette. The women looked around the bar with surprised appreciation. The norm in these parts consisted of beach shacks, fried food, dated seaside kitsch. Celesta’s one-of-a-kind bar, the understated handsomeness of the furnishings and the unparalleled view created an ambience of rare luxury.
Alex took a seat at the end of the table. The tall woman flirted hard with him, leaning toward him and tossing her hair.
Over the years, Rosa had kept up with his life without really meaning to. It was hard to ignore him when she spotted his face smiling out from the pages of a newspaper or magazine. “The thinking woman’s hunk,” one society columnist dubbed him. “Drives Formula One race cars and speaks fluent Japanese….” He kept company with billionaires and politicians. He did good works—funding a children’s hospital, underwriting loan programs for low-income people. Getting engaged.
Pharmaceutical heiress Portia van Deusen was the perfect match for him, according to the people-watchers. With a slight feeling of voyeuristic shame, Rosa had read the breathless raves of society columnists. Portia was always described as “stunning” and Alex as “impeccable.” Both of them had the social equivalent of champion bloodlines. Their wedding, of course, was going to be the event of the season.
Except that it never happened. The papers ceased to mention them as a couple. The engagement was “off.” Ordinary people were left to speculate about what had happened. There was a whisper that she had left him. And she appeared so quickly on the arm of a different man—older, perhaps even wealthier—that rumor had it she’d found greener pastures.
“Vince said he offered to beat the crap out of him,” said Shelly, holding aloft a tray of desserts and espresso.
So much for privacy. In a place like Celesta’s, rumors zinged around like rubber bullets.
“As if he could stand to have one hair out of place.” In spite of herself, Rosa smiled, picturing Vince in a fight. The sentiment was touching, though. Like everyone who had seen the wreckage Alex had left in his wake, Vince was protective of Rosa.
“Are you all right?” Shelly asked.
“I’m fine. You can tell that to anyone who’s wondering.”
“That would be everybody,” Shelly said.
“For Pete’s sake, we broke up eons ago,” Rosa said. “I’m a big girl now. I can handle seeing a former boyfriend.”
“Good,” Shelly said, “because he just ordered a bottle of Cristal.”
From the corner of her eye, Rosa saw the sommelier pop the cork of the bottle, listed at $300 on the menu. One of the women at Alex’s table—the flirt—giggled and leaned against him as he took a taste and nodded to Felix to pour. The six of them lifted their glasses, clinking them together.
Rosa turned away to say good-night to a departing couple. “I hope you enjoyed your evening,” she said.
“We did,” the woman assured her. “I read about this place in the New York Times ‘Escape’ section, and have always wanted to come here. It’s even nicer than I expected.”
“Thank you,” Rosa said, silently blessing the Times. Travel writers and food critics were a picky lot, as a whole. But her kitchen had proven itself, again and again.
“Are you Celesta, then?” the woman asked as she drew on a light cotton wrap.
“No,” Rosa said, her heart stumbling almost imperceptibly as she gestured at the lighted portrait that hung behind the podium next to the numerous awards. Celesta, in all her soft, hand-tinted beauty, gazed benevolently from the gilt frame. “She was my mother.”
The woman smiled gently. “It’s a wonderful place. I’m sure we’ll be back.”
“We’d love to have you.”
When