After we’d enjoyed our fill, Bennett asked if it would be all right to have Chef Antoinette come out of the kitchen so that we could thank her personally. Nico smiled as though he thought the request quaint, but indulged us just the same.
One of the butlers brought her out. No more than five feet tall, she had black-rooted, dishwater-blonde hair and was wearing a strawberry-stained white apron that barely made it around her girth. With a darting glance at Nico, she nodded as she mumbled, “Buongiorno.”
Bennett spoke to her in broken Italian with Nico helping whenever he stumbled on a word, but I caught enough of the conversation to understand Bennett’s effusive compliments and humble gratitude.
Antoinette’s eyes grew wide and glassy. She listened, swallowing visibly. Her mouth went tight as her cheeks flushed red. When Bennett finished, she flashed an inquiring glance toward Nico. Then, as though throwing caution to the wind, she rushed forward, grasping Bennett’s hands in both of her ruddy ones, thanking him in overjoyed Italian and, if I understood her correctly, wishing him a long life, much prosperity, and all the graces God could offer.
She bobbed low, and as she made her way out again, thanking Bennett, thanking Nico, and thanking me, I was moved by the woman’s heartfelt gratitude. We all want to be appreciated, I mused. Here was a perfect reminder of why I should always make a point of thanking people and letting them know that their efforts were valued. I wasn’t bad at that, but I could be better. I decided I would be, starting now.
Barely had the door swung shut behind her when one of the butlers returned, bearing another linen note. Nico read it, again slowly, nodding as he did so. He folded it and placed it on the table. “Your passage on the two o’clock flight is confirmed. My assistant is finalizing the details as we speak. The aircraft is a privately owned jet. There will be about six other people on board. They, too, have an important engagement tomorrow, but they will be happy to take you along.”
“That’s wonderful news,” Bennett said, “Do you know who we’re riding with?”
Nico pulled the note and reread it. “SlickBlade,” he said.
Bennett leaned forward. “Come again?”
Nico repeated the name, as Bennett sat back, baffled. “Never heard of them. They must be a razor company. Maybe a division of a bigger firm.”
The name seemed familiar to me, but I wasn’t sure where I’d heard it before.
It was clear Nico didn’t have a clue, nor was he concerned about it. He struggled to stand. “You have several hours before you must leave. Let us retire to the terrazzo until you must bring me sadness by leaving my beautiful home.”
Chapter 7
ANGELO DROVE US TO THE AIRPORT. WHEN he’d first taken his seat behind the wheel, Bennett tapped him on the shoulder. “What happened to the man who drove us here originally? I thought he would be driving us back.”
Angelo turned his considerable bulk in the front seat and held up both hands, telling Bennett in Italian that he didn’t understand.
Angelo turned forward again and started the engine. “I guess it doesn’t matter, does it?” Bennett said.
I glanced in the rearview mirror to catch Angelo looking at me. “I guess not,” I mumbled.
Once we’d passed through the front gate Bennett cleared his throat. “It was good to see Nico again. Good to reconnect. I’m glad you were able to spend time with Irena. I have a sense that the two of you hit it off pretty well.”
I didn’t want to talk in front of Angelo, but I wasn’t quite sure how to communicate that to Bennett. “She’s great,” I said. “The place she took me was perfect for conversation, although it didn’t seem as though it would be when we first walked in.”