Three
“Try it,” Bridget said. “I had this meal prepared special.”
Otter cut off a small piece and held it close to his eyes. “What is it?”
“Salmon and goat cheese crostini.”
Otter wrinkled his nose. “Mom, fifteen, not fifty. I thought we were going out for pizza with Lacy.”
Bridget raised an eyebrow.
“My girlfriend, Mom. Lacy.”
“I thought her name was Samantha.”
“So last year.”
“Pizza. We could do that anytime.” But Bridget knew that wasn’t exactly true. The past two years the visits hadn’t held to the schedule—high school field trips and sporting events, supposed cold and flu bugs, and her ex- having other plans. Bridget was lucky if she got to see Otter every other month. She hadn’t fought for more time, like perhaps she should have. In fact, she hadn’t fought for any time.
“The salmon was shipped from Alaska, caught on the Deshka River,” Bridget said. “Delicate, tender flesh, I wanted to—”
“Impress me? Mom, this is what you like. This is an old fart’s meal. Old fart’s music, too. Don’t you have any indie rock?”
A cello piece played in the background.
“Old.” The word hit Bridget like brick. “I’m thirty-three, Otter.” And she knew she could easily pass for ten years younger. Bridget kept in excellent shape. Not a single gray hair had dared to intrude in her curly red mane. “Thirty-three is not even close to approaching old.”
Otter shrugged and took a tentative bite of fish and swallowed it. Then he took another. “All right. It’s not horrible. Pretty good, actually.”
Bridget grinned. Her ex-, when he didn’t dine in his own restaurant, was all Hamburger Helper, canned green beans, and Hungry Man frozen meals. She wanted the boy to experience something home cooked and yet refined on these few weekends together.
“I’m glad you like it, Otter. I—” She paused. Bridget always wondered what to talk about with her son: music, movies, thoughts on college and potential future careers … all of them difficult subjects because she’d rarely paid attention to Otter’s interests beyond swimming. Bridget knew she hadn’t been the best mother even in the earliest years. Married too young. Pregnant too quick. She wasn’t mother material, but she loved Otter and wanted him to think well of her.
“I was wondering about your swimming competitions. Do you have one coming up?” At least she knew her son was into that. The boy was named Otemar after his grandfather on his father’s side. But because of the boy’s proclivity to embrace anything to do with water, they’d hit upon Otter right away. Otter Madera was the name announced at the awards ceremonies and listed next to each swimming record broken at Léman Manhattan Prep. Though a sophomore, he was more than good enough to compete on the varsity team.
Otter talked for several minutes about an upcoming meet in New Jersey. “Lacy said she’d come,” he finished. “Hey, do you think you might—”
“Because tonight’s your birthday, I thought it would be acceptable for a little alcohol.” Bridget rang a small bell to the side of her plate, putting off the question of her attending the swim event. “Just don’t tell your father.”
Otter pushed aside the first course, having eaten more than half of it. He gave a smirk. “Fifteen, Mom. I’ve had alcohol plenty—”
Bridget didn’t want the particulars and waved away the rest of Otter’s words. She suspected the unfinished phrase was: plenty of times. She didn’t want to know if her son frequently came by six packs of beer with a fake I.D. or if someone bought something harder for him. Neither did she want to lecture him about the ills of underage drinking, at least not tonight.
“So, by alcohol, you mean wine, right, Mom?” Otter looked from one glass to the next. There were three fluted ones in front of his setting, only one full, and that with Perrier water. “Wine. Probably dry as the Sahara and with a cork, no Mad Dog, no Riuniti on ice, no screw-cap strawberry zinfandel fruity stuff for—”
The chef saved Otter from more speculation. He brought out the second course. “Ceviche martini,” he announced, looking straight at Bridget. “It is low calorie, one of my specialties. The acid in the lime juice pickles the shrimp to perfection.”
Otter wrinkled his nose again. “A martini. Not the alcohol I was hoping for.”
“Low calorie? Are you saying I’m fat, Dustin?” Bridget asked him.
“Not at all, ma chère. Far from it, in fact.” Dustin winked at her. “I just want to make sure you don’t get that way.” He brushed Bridget’s arm when he placed the martini in front of her, his fingers lingering against her wrist before returning to the kitchen.
Otter stared at his glass and selected a spoon out of order and played with the shrimp. “He’s new, Dustin. Good looking. And young. Where did you find him?”
Dustin wasn’t exactly “new,” he’d been in Bridget’s employ for about six months. But Otter hadn’t been here before when the chef was around. “He’s studying at the International Culinary Center—”
“Ah, a college student. He is young.” Otter tried the shrimp and apparently found it palatable. He made short work of the martini.
“Dustin’s not that young, Otter. He—”
“Are you sleeping with him?”
A piece of shrimp caught in Bridget’s throat. “I—” She wanted to tell her son it was a rude question, and none of his business. “Sometimes.”
“But not as often as you’d like, huh?” Otter stared at the kitchen door. “What’s next?”
Dustin came back, presenting a Caesar salad. “Simple,” he said. “But it is elegant and good for you.” He cracked pepper over the top and disappeared again.
“He smells good,” Otter admitted. “I’d guess he’s closer to my age than yours. Dad would go for him.”
Again Bridget wanted to say “it’s none of your business,” but she worked on the salad. Music continued softly—Mstislav Rostropovich playing Bach’s Cello-Suiten. It was the second suite, considered Sorrow and Intensity, a direct contrast to the first because of its pace and minor key. It was Bridget’s favorite, musically vulnerable and sincere. She wished her son could appreciate the cellist’s capacity to evoke the perfect sadness of the composition, but she knew Otter wasn’t truly paying attention to it. “He’s twenty-two, Otter.” If you’re that damn curious, she thought. Eleven years younger than me. But you can do the math yourself.
Otter nodded, and then said softly: “About the same age as one of Dad’s last flings.”
Dustin brought out the fourth course.
“Coffee and spice-rubbed lamb,” he told Otter, as he arranged the dish. “I prepared it with pinot noir. The side is garlic mashed potatoes.”
“Lamb,” Otter said dully. “And the good china no less. Happy birthday to me.” He ran his thumb around the edge of the plate; it was bone white trimmed with platinum. Then he traced the pattern in the Irish linen tablecloth. “Happy birthday, happy birthday—”
“Otter, I—”
“Sorry, Mom. I appreciate this, I really do. I just wanted you to meet Lacy, that’s all.” He cut into the lamb and started chewing. “Wow. This is really good. I—”
All hell broke loose.
The dining room window shattered, showering the table with glass. Three masked men in dark clothes somersaulted in, the one in the lead drawing a gun.
“No one move!” the gunman barked. “Hands up. Push back from the table.”
Dustin screamed and dropped the cheese tray meant to be the fifth course. He swayed and fainted in a heap.
“Mom?” Otter glanced between Bridget and the men, her hands were up just like the gunman had ordered.
“No one needs to get hurt,” Bridget said. She edged back from the table, her napkin falling to the floor. “What do you want?”
“Everything of value,” the gunman said, clearly the leader of the trio. “Let’s start with the cash and jewelry on you. If you’re quick and cooperative, you live.”
***