Felidia occupies the bottom two floors of a narrow town house just around the corner from Bloomingdale’s. It’s as close to a New York City institution as restaurants get, given that a five-year stint is considered noteworthy and Felidia has survived for a quarter-century.
Rachel knows that Felidia is one of Aaron’s favorite dining spots, reminding him of a restaurant he loves in Rome, with its rich dark-paneled room juxtaposed with the lit garden in the rear. He took her here two years ago to celebrate her ascension to the partnership. The memory of that dinner—and the three drinks too many she consumed—rushes back to her as she enters the restaurant.
Rachel feels good being out of her work clothes. For tonight, she’s opted for her favorite little black dress and three-inch Manolo Blahniks that a dominatrix might wear.
When she arrives, the hostess, a stick-skinny Asian woman with hair almost to her waist, tells Rachel that Aaron has already been seated. She follows the hostess upstairs, where she sees Aaron occupying a table against the window.
Aaron stands when she approaches, a gesture Rachel’s always enjoyed. Very few of her dates do that.
The table is for four, and after a moment’s hesitation, Rachel takes the seat next to Aaron, rather than across. Aaron signals for the waiter to come over and quickly orders a bottle of wine. When she takes the first sip, Rachel assumes the wine must be very expensive by virtue of the fact that it tastes so good.
Rachel mentions the news of the day, which is that Judge Koletsky reversed the bail decision, and Garkov is back under house arrest in Trump Tower. “Not quite a profile in courage,” she says.
“Probably the right decision,” Aaron says with a shrug. “Anyway, not our problem anymore, right?”
Rachel raises her wineglass. “To it not being our problem,” she says, touching her glass against Aaron’s.
The waiter is very attentive, refilling their glasses so often that the first bottle is finished before the entrées arrive. Aaron orders a second bottle, although Rachel is already beginning to feel a buzz taking hold.
“So, the COC tomorrow?” Rachel says. “What’s on the agenda—world domination?”
“Besides me being handed my ass over Garkov? Something even more serious.” He waits a beat. “The prom.”
The derisive reference is to the annual Cromwell Altman black-tie gala, held every spring.
She laughs. “Will Cynthia be coming?” Aaron’s smile drops, and Rachel realizes that she must have inadvertently touched a nerve. “I’m sorry, Aaron. Did I say something wrong?”
“No. No.” Aaron’s eyes circle the room, as if he’s looking for the right words. “Cynthia and I . . . I’m staying at the Pierre for a few days while Cynthia and I give each other a little breathing room.”
The news sends a jolt through Rachel. She’s actually out on a romantic evening with a single Aaron Littman, or at least a separated Aaron Littman.
“I’m sorry, Aaron,” she says, hoping it sounds sincere. “When did this happen?”
“Just a few days ago. This too shall pass,” Aaron says with a taut smile.
As if the wine has taken over her judgment, Rachel places her hand on top of Aaron’s and gently massages his thumb with her own. At the moment where things might escalate further, Aaron slides his hand away.
“What’s going on in your life, Rachel?” Aaron asks. “Are you taking anyone to the prom?”
Rachel hesitates, wondering if she should say what she’s thinking. But that rarely works in such settings, and so she plays along as if the last thirty seconds never transpired.
“God, no,” she says. “Nobody in my life at the moment.”
“I thought you were seeing that foreign banker guy. Paolo? Giovanni?”
“Alessandro,” Rachel says.
“Right. So what happened there?”
“What always happens,” she says. “One of us wanted more, and I didn’t.”
They don’t finish the second bottle, but Rachel’s still drunker than she’s been in a while and in need of some air, and so when the waiter asks if they’d like any dessert, she suggests that it’s time to go. Once outside, Aaron offers to hail Rachel a cab, but she doesn’t want the evening to end, and she proposes to walk with Aaron the few blocks to the Pierre. As soon as she says it, she worries that she’s being obvious, but Aaron doesn’t protest, and they begin south down Lexington Avenue.
Three doormen stand in front of the Pierre, getting taxis for the guests. “Welcome back,” one of them says to Aaron.
“This is me,” Aaron says to Rachel. “Home sweet home.” He motions to the first cab lined up in front of the hotel. “Your chariot, my lady.”
The Manolos make it easier for Rachel to kiss Aaron on the lips. It lasts a second, maybe even two, before the seal is broken.
“Good night, Rachel,” he says when they separate.
She hesitates for a moment, searching his face for a sign of whether he’s playing hard to get or he means to end the evening like this. She so hoped that things would take a very different turn, but the look in Aaron’s eyes leaves little room for doubt that, at least tonight, he’s not ready for things between them to escalate beyond that one kiss.
FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS A night at the Pierre gets you a king-size bed, an armoire that hides a forty-two-inch flat-screen, and a marble bathroom. The first few nights, Aaron was pleased to come back to this place. He knew all too well the contempt and disappointment that would have awaited him with Cynthia, and so he considered it something of a gift to be alone. A vacation from his life, from his mistakes.
Rachel’s clumsy advance only crystallizes to him how much he loves his wife and how lonely he is without his family. He wants nothing more than to go back in time and not slide over that empty chair to chat with Faith. Then why did he in the first place? Because he could? Out of boredom? For the sheer thrill of it? How could any of those motivations have carried the day, especially when the danger was so great?
The answer, sadly, is the age-old one. He thought he could do both. That he could enjoy his time with Faith without risk to his family.
How wrong he was.