My father sat me in the corner with a soda and a coloring book while he made his way around the room, shaking hands with almost everyone. He looked like a different person there… comfortable? At home? More at home than he’d ever looked at our actual home, anyway.
After an hour or so, he came back, a humidor in his hands, and handed me one cigar after the other, teaching me how to distinguish them. That afternoon, we emerged from the club out into the darkening day, with a cigar tucked into my pocket. Sometimes, when I wanted to remember that day, I’d take it out and run it along my top lip. It smells of nostalgia now. I don’t like smoking them, I just like everything about the process of making them and enjoying them. A lost art. A dying pleasure. And whether I want to admit it or not, it’s why I knew, if I had to start a business this whiskey and cigar bar would be what I would choose. Something about it is second nature to me, something that bleeds in my veins. I can’t help wondering if my father would be proud of this place or if he just wouldn’t care.
I guess I’ll never know.
The club is already almost full when I replace my hostess, Penny, at the front of house so she can take a bathroom break. A quick glance into the clubroom had shown that only one or two of the twenty tables still empty. Leanne’s suggestions for the changes are almost completely implemented, and the room looks infinitely more cozy, but still lush with the beautiful decor. When I look out into the main room of the club I know I’m proud of myself, even if my father isn’t.
Luscious turquoise velvet curtains drape in dramatic flourishes from the ceiling, revealing oak wooded slats adorning the walls. In the beginning, I considered a theme of mismatched reclaimed antique chairs to save on cost, but Leanne was able to negotiate a deal with one of her furniture stores for a custom bulk order of distressed leather wingback chairs that completely transformed the whole space. Everything was of the highest quality, and it felt that way.
James, my bartender, gives me a wink as I walk past just as he’s reaching for a bottle off the top shelf. The bar we had installed is a thing of beauty. From the moment I saw this empty space, I’d envisioned a mahogany bar that stretched the length of the room with inbuilt soft light panels along the front. A bar that could accommodate almost twenty bar stools. It’s a stunning statement piece against the backdrop of the stage and classic furniture.
The cigar girls, charming and knowledgeable, weave in and out between the tables and guests. I’d put them through rigorous training and tested them relentlessly before we opened. Everything I knew, they now know. As a result, in the two weeks since we’ve been open, we’ve sold almost double the number of cigars I had conservatively projected.
And what a two weeks it has been.
I can’t remember the last time I was this tired. Or had such a sense of achievement.
The write up of Malt on the EatDrinkNYC app was basically a rave. And with other positive reviews trickling in, our tables have been all taken every night. I can only hope the momentum continues, because I think I could be happy doing this for a long time.
The door opens and a couple steps into the club. I look up to greet them, a scowl quickly settling on my face when I see who they are.
It’s Leanne and him. Matthias Baxter. And every thought of happiness flees from my mind.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I say, only realizing at the last minute that I’d said it out loud.
Matthias grins, brushing his unnecessarily blond hair out of his face. “Is that how you greet all your guests?”
Leanne throws her head back and laughs, laying her slender, perfectly manicured hand on
Matthias’s arm. “You two are hilarious. I could watch you argue all day.”
“Us? Argue? No, I told you, we’re old friends, aren’t we, Rissie?” He winks at me, and if I weren’t standing at the hostesses stand at my own club, I might have reached out and poked him in the eye.
Both eyes.
“Friends, foes, same difference.” I swallow down the annoyance of seeing him here in my space.
“What can I do for you, Leanne? Did you come to see how the changes are looking?”
Her pretty mouth spreads into an excited grin. “Yes! I can’t wait. Did the new paint on the light fixtures work out?”
Her enthusiasm temporarily sweeps me along in excitement. “It looks absolutely stunning. We tried out some colored light themes this afternoon, and it makes everything look so beautiful.”
Beaming, she elbows Matthias in the chest and twitters, “You’re going to absolutely love it inside. Clarissa has done a phenomenal job with this place. Would you believe, three months ago, this was basically just a hollowed out old Subway.”
“I believe you,” he says, his eyes warm when he speaks to her. Then he turns to me and they harden, grow cold. “Clarissa has always been very accomplished. Ambitious.”
Cold eyes meet even colder eyes. “Some of us have to be. Not everyone is handed everything on a silver platter,” I spit, and instantly regret it. I don’t know how much the Baxters knew about the way my father had basically disowned me, and I’d rather not give them that satisfaction.
“Not everyone, true. But none of those people are here, are they?” he says. It tells me that he has no idea about my current financial predicament. Good. I’m going to keep it that way. The last thing I need or want is Matthias’s pity.
Before I can throw another insult his way, someone comes running up behind me.
“Ms. Masters!” Clementine, one of the cigar girls, loudly whispers, her face blazing red.
I touch her shoulder. “Clementine. No running, okay? Not in front of the guests.”
She turns even more red but nods, acknowledging my instruction. “Ms. Masters, there’s a guest who is asking if we can get the Brick House Churchills. But we don’t have any! I don’t think we’ve ever had any!” Her voice rises in volume and pitch with each word, panicked.
Out of the corner of my eye, Leanne and Matthias step aside, giving us some room. “Clementine, that’s okay. Customers can ask. In fact, it’s good that they ask. It’ll give us a chance to make sure we have it in stock.” I give her a nod of reassurance and grab a gift voucher and scribble the name of the cigar he’d requested on it, tuck it into an envelope, and hand it back to Clementine. “Tell the customer that we’re getting a shipment next Wednesday. Give him this envelope, and ask him to bring it in with him next time he comes and his first one will be on the house, okay?” She looks down at the envelope and back up at me with a nod. “Thank you. And while you’re there, can you please lead Ms. Marshall and Mr. Baxter to my table? And send someone to take their order, please.” “Of course, Ms. Masters,” she answers, calmed down.