attendant, who handed her a numbered stub and an admiring look.
“Enjoy your meal, ma’am,” he said as he went around the back of her car.
She’d land the largest contract she’d ever been offered first, Jessa decided as she went into the restaurant. Then she’d enjoy the food.
She was met in a quiet foyer by a maître d’ in an elegant day suit, who greeted her as if she were the first lady before asking for her name. When she gave it, he smiled and told her that her party had already been seated. She checked her watch before she followed him into the main dining room, but she wasn’t late—in fact, she was five minutes early, as she’d planned to be.
Cecile’s owners had made quite a splash when they had moved their four-star restaurant from Paris to Atlanta, for they had insisted on bringing the antique furnishings, kitchen equipment, and even the draperies from the original location with them. After some wrangling with OSHA over building codes and licensing requirements, they adapted their expectations to the demands of doing business in the States, and then proceeded to dominate the downtown fine-dining scene.
Jessa had never been to Paris, but Cecile’s did the impossible by bringing the city to her. Deep, rich burgundy velvet had been gathered and draped to frame sheer panels of port wine organdy, embroidered with ivory and amber threads, covering the windows and gentling the afternoon glare of the sun. The carpeting, a series of old Turkish rugs, formed a graceful patchwork and disappeared under delicate floor-length ecru lace table linens. The cherry wood chairs, comfortably upholstered with champagne-and-pink tapestry cushions, gleamed with polish and years of loving handling.
The air brought a complex bouquet to her nose: the light florals from the vases of fresh flowers, fragrant beeswax from the tapers of the same in the old brass wall sconces, and the effervescent fruitiness of the champagne sparkling in dozens of flutes.
Couples and small groups occupied every table, talking and smiling over crackled porcelain plates as they politely devoured their meals. Jessa spotted red-brown game hens braised with wine and shallots, brilliant red lobster garnished with fanciful shapes in shimmering aspic, and delicate pastel soufflés that seemed to float on the fork. Not a wineglass stood empty—the owners were French, after all—and no patron had to summon his or her waiter, for they were attended as carefully as blue-blooded royalty. Some of them, she suspected as she noticed some famous faces, probably were the American equivalent.
Walking through this shrine to haute cuisine, Jessa thought of the tasteless microwave dinner she’d picked at last night and felt almost ashamed. She might not be as rich, powerful, or influential as the people who dined regularly at Cecile’s, but she had been raised to appreciate well-prepared food. While living alone made cooking seem like an utter waste of time, she could certainly dust off her sauté pan and rice steamer once in a while and toss together something fresh.
The maître d’ approached one of the tables set in a discreet corner, where a good-looking man sat reading a single-page menu card. She’d seen his Italian suit before, on a hip young movie star posing at the last big Hollywood red carpet event, but despite the overtly trendy cut, the dark brown jacket and camel trousers emphasized his even tan and professionally streaked hair. As he stood, the fit of his jacket changed enough to hint at a well-developed physique. She also noticed how short he had cut his nails; Angela did the same thing to avoid her lifelong habit of biting them.
Determined, up with the latest fashions, and something of a body peacock summed up her initial impression of Bradford Lawson.
He showed her the perfectly even teeth of a boyhood spent in braces. “Good afternoon, Ms. Bellamy.”
“Hello, Mr. Lawson.” Jessa returned his smile, relieved that he didn’t also
“Enjoy your meal, ma’am,” he said as he went around the back of her car.
She’d land the largest contract she’d ever been offered first, Jessa decided as she went into the restaurant. Then she’d enjoy the food.
She was met in a quiet foyer by a maître d’ in an elegant day suit, who greeted her as if she were the first lady before asking for her name. When she gave it, he smiled and told her that her party had already been seated. She checked her watch before she followed him into the main dining room, but she wasn’t late—in fact, she was five minutes early, as she’d planned to be.
Cecile’s owners had made quite a splash when they had moved their four-star restaurant from Paris to Atlanta, for they had insisted on bringing the antique furnishings, kitchen equipment, and even the draperies from the original location with them. After some wrangling with OSHA over building codes and licensing requirements, they adapted their expectations to the demands of doing business in the States, and then proceeded to dominate the downtown fine-dining scene.
Jessa had never been to Paris, but Cecile’s did the impossible by bringing the city to her. Deep, rich burgundy velvet had been gathered and draped to frame sheer panels of port wine organdy, embroidered with ivory and amber threads, covering the windows and gentling the afternoon glare of the sun. The carpeting, a series of old Turkish rugs, formed a graceful patchwork and disappeared under delicate floor-length ecru lace table linens. The cherry wood chairs, comfortably upholstered with champagne-and-pink tapestry cushions, gleamed with polish and years of loving handling.
The air brought a complex bouquet to her nose: the light florals from the vases of fresh flowers, fragrant beeswax from the tapers of the same in the old brass wall sconces, and the effervescent fruitiness of the champagne sparkling in dozens of flutes.
Couples and small groups occupied every table, talking and smiling over crackled porcelain plates as they politely devoured their meals. Jessa spotted red-brown game hens braised with wine and shallots, brilliant red lobster garnished with fanciful shapes in shimmering aspic, and delicate pastel soufflés that seemed to float on the fork. Not a wineglass stood empty—the owners were French, after all—and no patron had to summon his or her waiter, for they were attended as carefully as blue-blooded royalty. Some of them, she suspected as she noticed some famous faces, probably were the American equivalent.
Walking through this shrine to haute cuisine, Jessa thought of the tasteless microwave dinner she’d picked at last night and felt almost ashamed. She might not be as rich, powerful, or influential as the people who dined regularly at Cecile’s, but she had been raised to appreciate well-prepared food. While living alone made cooking seem like an utter waste of time, she could certainly dust off her sauté pan and rice steamer once in a while and toss together something fresh.
The maître d’ approached one of the tables set in a discreet corner, where a good-looking man sat reading a single-page menu card. She’d seen his Italian suit before, on a hip young movie star posing at the last big Hollywood red carpet event, but despite the overtly trendy cut, the dark brown jacket and camel trousers emphasized his even tan and professionally streaked hair. As he stood, the fit of his jacket changed enough to hint at a well-developed physique. She also noticed how short he had cut his nails; Angela did the same thing to avoid her lifelong habit of biting them.
Determined, up with the latest fashions, and something of a body peacock summed up her initial impression of Bradford Lawson.
He showed her the perfectly even teeth of a boyhood spent in braces. “Good afternoon, Ms. Bellamy.”
“Hello, Mr. Lawson.” Jessa returned his smile, relieved that he didn’t also
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