Burn (Michael Bennett 7)

She snuggled in next to me on the soft red banquette as Michel assured us that our table captain was on his way.

“Our table captain?” I whispered to Mary Catherine as I adjusted my tie. “I hope he doesn’t throw us overboard.”

That was when I turned and took in Mary Catherine’s thoroughly bedazzled face.

“So what do you think so far?” I said, smiling. “I mean, if you want, we could still head home. I thought I saw a can of tuna fish behind the Cheerios in the back of the pantry.”

Mary Catherine gripped my hand like a vise.

“This is…” she said, her eyes wet as she stared at the magical room around us, “…wonderful, Michael. Just wonderful.”

I did a little double take. I didn’t think she’d ever called me Michael before. And definitely not like that.

“You deserve wonderful, Mary Catherine,” I whispered in her ear. “And remember, this is just the first part of my little town-painting. I made us another reservation at the—”

Her hand flew to my mouth before I could get the word Plaza out. Her fingertips were warm on my lips, her shiny red nails scratchy on my cheek.

“I know, Michael,” she whispered.

The bold look she gave me next made my mouth dry as it pinned me deep into the velvet at my back. She moved a red fingernail to her own lips and held my gaze as a white-jacketed waiter approached under the canopy of flowers.

“Some things, Michael, are better left unsaid.”

CHAPTER 62

TWO AND A HALF surreal hours later, in a glamorous fog, we finished dessert.

“I finally found it,” Mary Catherine said, gently placing her fork on her plate, now empty of Grand Marnier soufflé.

“What’s that, mon amie?” I said, feeling very little pain after the multiple courses paired with wine.

“The best thing I ever ate,” she said, sounding a little tipsy herself.

“But you said that was the lobster-and-tarragon ravioli,” I reminded her.

“That was then,” she said with a wink. “This is now. How about you? What would you want if you could have anything in the world right now?”

Cocking my head, I lifted my dessert wine and began to swirl it as I gave it some thought.

“For you to call me Michael again,” I suddenly said truthfully before draining my glass.

She glared at me.

“Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. Michael,” she said, suddenly standing.

“Hey, where are you headed?” I said.

“I am going to the powder room,” she announced with a giggle. “What are you going to do?”

“I am going to sit here and watch you go to the powder room,” I said.

As I, and every other man there, watched Mary Catherine cross the room, I was interrupted by the waiter, who discreetly brought the bill. The bill itself was not discreet. With wine and the tips, in fact, it was pretty staggering.

But I smiled as I dropped my Amex card on top of it. You get what you pay for, and what I’d just paid for was truly a New York, New York, once-in-a-lifetime sort of night.

Now for the good part, I thought as I caught up with Mary Catherine by the door.

After we got Mary Catherine’s coat and said au revoir to La Grenouille, we saw that it was raining cats and dogs outside and that more than half the restaurant’s hoity-toity patrons were huddled under the narrow awning waiting for taxis and town cars and limos.