I really didn't know.
"I mean, are you happy?" The words came out in a rush, before I had a chance to filter them.
"That is a personal question," said Thorne. "But I think I know what you mean. Is it worthwhile? Do I feel guilty for having dragged her into this life? Do I lose sleep at night? Do I ever wish I could recover my reputation from before people thought I was being taken in by a gold-digger, or taking advantage of an employee? Do I ever think about how things could have gone differently?"
I nodded, slowly. Yes. That was it. That was exactly it.
"I think about a lot of things," he said. "That's always been my gift and my curse. I never stop thinking. You know, the limbic part of your brain - where the fight or fight instinct is, that part of your brain doesn't understand levels of danger. It only knows 'good' and 'bad.' As far as it's concerned, if you're having an anxiety attack, you might as well be running from a bear. If my stocks plummet, my lizard brain thinks I'm about to die." He paused, glancing around the room. "So I worry," he said. "I spend a lot of time worrying about things that don't matter. I worry about things that have already happened, that I can't change."
#p#分页标题#e#
He let out a long breath. "There was a time when I thought the money was all she really wanted," he said. "Not in a cold way, not that she realized it - you see, I thought I knew her feelings better than she did. And that's a terrible kind of judgment to make about someone. You're almost never right."
"But the thing is," he went on, "I'd be happy with her if we had to live in a one-bedroom shithole across the water. I've realized that now. And once you can realize something like that, you stop worrying so much about everything else."
Daniel Thorne, a romantic. Who would have guessed?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Fondue
Few meals are simpler, or more decadent, than a traditional cheese fondue. Save it for a special occasion. A fresh, crusty bread is perfect for dipping, alternated with seasonal vegetables to cut the richness. To make sure the cheese stays perfectly melted, take care not to smother the flame, but do not let it burn too high.
- Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes
***
Jill
***
Two days into our kitchen boot camp, everyone was responding remarkably well. With one notable exception.
Tom, the floor manager, seemed even worse than when we arrived. Between his constant smoke breaks and his compulsive need to sarcastically comment on everything, I wondered if he was absorbing a single useful tidbit from all our efforts.
After the tenth or twelfth time he stormed out, Max sidled up behind me, and said the first words he'd spoken to me voluntarily in days.
"You know what that man needs?"
I couldn't even venture a guess.
"He needs a stiff drink," Max said. "Tonight? We're taking him out."
"We?" I repeated, turning to look at him.
He nodded, smiling. Actually smiling at me, for the first time since he'd lost his stars. My heart flip-flopped.
"Unless you have plans," he said.
At that, I just laughed.
When Tom finally sulked back in, Max took him aside. The floor manager went white as a sheet; his fear of being fired was driving most of his actions, I realized, and now he thought for sure that the time had come. But all he was getting was a friendly invitation. He still looked wary once Max walked away, but some of the color had returned to his face.
When the day's work was done, and we'd changed out of our "kitchen chic," Max led me and Tom outside and down the bustling sidewalk, towards a bar that had a crowd of people milling around outside. Max pressed through them without hesitation, speaking to the bouncer in low tones until he cleared a space for us, and someone inside led us to a sequestered corner, behind a few sets of curtains, where it became clear that we could have as much privacy and prompt bottle service as we desired.
This was, I realized, quite normal for a man like Max. I considered looking the club up on my phone, to find out how hard it was to get into, exactly. But I was afraid the information would just psych me out. Plus, I couldn't remember seeing a sign at the door.
Tom was nursing his first whiskey when a statuesque blonde came wafting over to invite him to dance. This was clearly a new experience for him, but he took it gracefully, following her out onto the floor.
Max and I were tucked into the less visible corner of the seating area, which was fine by me.
"No paparazzi in here, I guess?" I ventured, clutching a designer martini that seemed too beautiful to drink.#p#分页标题#e#
Max shook his head. "They can't allow it, or this kind of clientele would never show up."