The Jealous Kind (Holland Family Saga 2)

“We’ll tell him to drop dead.”

We danced, then came back to the table. A green bottle of champagne waited for us in a silver ice bucket. I called our waiter to the table. “This must be for somebody else.”

“No, sir, Mr. Atlas sent it to you with his compliments.” The waiter was wearing a starched white jacket and a black bow tie and high-waisted black trousers. “I think Mr. Atlas wants you to have it.”

“We’re hard-shell Baptists. Tell him we appreciate the thought.”

The waiter picked up the bucket with both hands, his expression dead, and walked to the bar, careful not to look in Atlas’s direction.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Valerie said.

“We don’t have room on the table for it,” I said. “Here comes our food.”

We started eating, neither of us looking up from our plates. I felt rather than saw Atlas walking toward our table. A shadow fell across my arm. “How you doin’?” he said.

“We’re doing all right,” I replied.

“You don’t like champagne?”

“Not tonight.”

“Because I saw you drinking beer at the Copacabana. Maybe y’all would like a beer. How about some German beer?”

I didn’t answer. Valerie was taking small bites of her food, her eyes lowered.

“No?” he said. “If you look out the window, you can see the baitfish jumping in the waves. That’s because a sand shark or a barracuda is after them. It’s a rough world out there. Underwater, I mean.”

“Those barracuda are bad guys, all right,” I said.

“Not as bad as some I know. Real bums. What do you think of my patch?”

I stopped eating and looked at the flame burning inside the glass chimney of the candleholder. “I didn’t notice.”

“What’s a guy have to do

to get your attention? I might end up with an empty socket.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I guess that’s the breaks. Is that the way you read it? Just a bad break?”

“I didn’t do it to you, Vick.”

“Did I say you did?”

“Leave us alone,” Valerie said.

“You’re Valerie Epstein,” he said. “You go to Reagan. I know some of your girlfriends.”

She looked out the window at the waves swelling as black and slick as oil under the moon, the candlelight flickering on her face. Her cheeks were red, as though windburned.

“How about a little slack, Vick?” I said.

“You want slack? You got it, Jack. I was just asking about my champagne. I thought maybe you didn’t like the year. Next time I’ll send over iced tea. Will you dance with me, Miss Valerie?”

“We’re eating,” she replied.

“I mean after you eat. I want to dance with you. Okay with you, Aaron?”