The Best American Mystery Stories 2004

Frederick Waterman Best Man Wins

From Hemispheres: The Magazine of United Airlines

I walked onboard flight 587 from Paris to New York, showed my ticket to the flight attendant, then walked through first class, where I usually sat, and continued back to coach. At Row 22, I stopped and looked down at the man sitting in Seat A, the man who I knew would be there, the man who had been having an affair with my wife for the past four months.

I sat down in Seat B.

Jean-Louis Vachon did not look up from the pages of Le Monde, for he was not a man to be bothered with nods of hello to other travelers. I have known him for nine years, but I wasn’t sure how I’d react this time. Five days ago, a computer at home malfunctioned, restoring a hundred deleted files. My wife’s words to Vachon left no room for doubt.

What did I feel? Rage, bitterness, bewilderment, and sick despair each took their turns with me. I have not told her that I know, but each day I struggle to hide my anger, while every night my best and sweetest memories of love are turned into nightmares — with the Frenchman in my place.

I’m trying to think clearly now, trying to get back to who I am. I want to know whom to blame. Her? Him? Probably both. Revenge is tempting, but I’m going to solve this problem for good.

The wedding ring on my left hand still looks new. Our impulsive, romantic marriage took place three years ago, in a small stone chapel outside of Paris. At the post-wedding dinner, I remember my best man, Jean-Louis Vachon, saving how envious he was, for I was marrying “the most beautiful woman in the world.” I didn’t know how deep his envy ran.

I glanced at Vachon. If I waited too long to greet him, my presence would seem ominous, and he would guess that our seat assignments were not by chance.

I took a deep breath. “Jean-Louis! Is that you behind the newspaper?”

He turned to me. “Edward, my friend! They have given you this seat? How lucky for me!” His charming smile was now in place, but I had seen a flicker — not of guilt, for Vachon would have none of that — but animal alertness.

“It’s wonderful to see you, Jean-Louis. It’s been too long.”

What, I’d asked myself last night, should a cuckold sound like when he’s sitting next to his wife’s lover? I would try for one part happy, two parts ignorant, with a thin coating of fool.

“How are the Vachon vines?” I asked cheerfully. “Provence is getting good weather this summer, and I’ve heard two vintners say they are dreaming of another year like 2000.”

“We are all dreaming of another 2000, though it may not come in our lifetime.” Vachon’s English was perfect, but his words still rode a French cadence. “Men who grow grapes are always at nature’s mercy.”

I smiled at the man I hated. “Jean-Louis, at Les Mirettes my customers don’t even look at the wine list anymore. They only want to know if I have ‘Vachon.’ I might as well take the rest of the wine cellar and throw it into the East River.”

“Let me know the day, and I’ll help you. I’m always glad to get rid of my competition. But, Edward, as a wonderful chef, you will never have that problem. You have no competition.”

Vachon, I thought, you are playing a little game with your words — you are my competition, and you know it. But I let no recognition come into my face while the Frenchman enjoyed his private double-entendre.

The last, breathless passengers arrived on Flight 587. The usual announcements were made as we taxied across the tarmac, and the plane barely paused at the head of the runway before accelerating, lifting off, and angling upward.

Vachon traveled frequently to the United States and often came to my restaurant, though not in the past four months. Now I knew why.

“Jean-Louis, it’s been too long since you’ve been to Les Mirettes,” I said, with a cuckold’s amiability. ”I can’t tell you how much Carolyn enjoys seeing you.”

Vachon studied my innocent face and relaxed completely. He was safe.

“You are a lucky man, Edward, being married to Carolyn. If you ever get tired of her, give me a call.”

And there was the problem: I wasn’t tired of her.

Four years ago, blond, blue-eyed Carolyn, whose face had looked out from a hundred magazine covers, came to my restaurant with a group that I knew. They invited me to join them for a drink, and I sat next to her. As we talked, I remembered her pictures because her eyes had an intelligence that, through the makeup and poses, seemed to say, “Isn’t this silly?”

She treated her beauty like an inheritance — unearned, but appreciated. Of all the models who came into Les Mirettes, Carolyn was the only one whom I never saw glance at herself in the long mirrors.

She was from South Dakota; I grew up in Brooklyn. We were country and city, but from that first evening, the chemistry was good. The following night, at my invitation, she returned to the restaurant alone. And the next night, she ended up eating in the kitchen, talking and laughing with my crew, who threatened to quit en masse if I let her get away.

I was thirty-four when we made that impetuous marriage trip to France, and Carolyn was twenty-four — young enough to make the age difference interesting.

There is one invaluable skill that I think comes easier when you are from a city: the ability to talk to anyone, and a successful restaurant owner must know how to work both the stove and the crowd. But how do you handle seven hours with your wife’s lover? What do you say — “What’s new? How’s your business? How’s my wi...”

Stop it! I told myself. But the anger, so alive it had a voice, whispered to me, “He’s right next to you! One punch! Do it now!” At this range, I could knock Vachon out with a single blow. Afterward, I would quietly tell the flight attendants, “Shhhh, he’s sleeping.” And if he started to come around? I could hit him again. What husband would not be tempted?

It is impossible not to compare myself to Vachon, to ask: Who is truly the best man? I will concede right now that he is far better-looking. Vachon is handsome in a sleek, self-aware way and possesses an almost courtly demeanor. “Half-prince, half-tennis pro” is how someone once described him. Vachon looks like men wish they did: I look like they do. I look like the man who comes to fix the washing machine.

But there are similarities between us. We are both driven men who have become rich because people will pay well to satisfy the whims of their taste.

Fifteen years ago, Vachon inherited the vineyard from his father. He understood how good the wine was and how underpriced it had been, so he canceled the vineyard’s long-standing European contracts, came to the United States, and began selling only to restaurants — at ten times his father’s old price. And he made a killing.

“Vachon vines” now have cachet and are one of the standards by which the top restaurants distinguish themselves from the second tier. Vachon has made his name famous — and I know how much that pleases him.

High above the Atlantic, the brilliant August sun turned the white clouds below into an ethereal wonderland. I was not in the mood for beauty.

“Jean-Louis,” I said, idly turning the wedding band on my finger. “I’m surprised to find you here, firing in coach.” In fact, I’d been astonished when my travel agent located the Frenchman’s reservation.

He responded with a “What can you do?” shrug. “I had a meeting this morning in Montrouge that could not be changed, and I must be in New York tonight. This is the only flight that fit into my schedule, and first class is sold out. And what is your excuse, Edward?”

“A last-minute reservation,” I answered, and it was true — somewhat.

Yesterday, the owner of Les Tifs mentioned Vachon’s arrival from Paris. I called my sous-chef, told him he was running the kitchen that night, and gave him a list of instructions. Four hours later, I left for Paris — for the sole purpose of taking this flight back, in this seat.

Why, I’ve asked myself a thousand times, did the affair happen? Carolyn and I had fought no fights, had suffered no silences. I had not cheated on her, nor, I thought, she on me.

For the first two years of our marriage, Carolyn only went on one-day photo shoots. But, I was rarely home, my life was at the restaurant. During the past year, she went back to a full schedule, including location shoots in Bali, Tangiers, and Rio, and runway work at the fashion shows in Milan and Paris. There was too much distance, too many nights apart. Either you’re together or you’re not; it’s one of the basics, and both of us had missed it.

A salesman doesn’t sell a product, he sells himself, and Vachon never stops selling. How can a woman tell which whispered words of love are real, for winning a woman’s heart is the greatest sales pitch of all.

“Jean-Louis, my friend,” I said, “you are remarkable. Who else could make his wine the most popular one in the United States without ever hiring a salesman there?”

“I worked hard those first two years,” he said, “taking the wine myself from restaurant to restaurant. That was before the dinners, of course.”

Among restaurateurs, an invitation to a Vachon dinner is as prized as an invitation to the White House. Every April, Vachon gives eight dinners: four on the East Coast, two in California, one in Chicago, and one in Texas. His guests are the men and women who own the finest restaurants in the United States. We are each asked to invite someone else, and we always do, for every meal is an epicure’s feast, and every course is designed to complement the Frenchman’s wine.

At the dinners, Vachon, always wearing a dark, European-cut business suit, listens intently to every owner’s words, flirts just the right amount with every woman, and never mentions the business of wine — not once. But, a week later, one of his staff will call from Provence and ask if the restaurant is interested in placing an order. Once, an owner said “no,” and he never received another call from Provence, nor an invitation to dinner. No one is sure if the story is true, but no one will take the chance that it isn’t.

It was at one of these dinners that Carolyn first met Vachon, and there was no connection, no chemistry between them. After Carolyn and I sat down, with a mischievous smile she began whispering interesting possibilities into my car. New love is a fine and imaginative thing.

At the following year’s dinner, after we’d been married, I saw Carolyn looking at Vachon, appraising him. Later, when the three of us were talking, I noticed that her arms were crossed in front of her — a barrier in body-language terms.

This spring, after dinner, while I spoke with three other restaurant owners, Carolyn talked with Vachon, and this time there were no crossed arms. Twice, my wife touched his shoulder as she laughed; I knew that gesture, and its touch. Afterward, in the taxi, Carolyn never mentioned Vachon, but she talked a little faster and her words came out a little brighter. That’s what she does when she’s trying to hide her thoughts. I’ve never brought this flaw to her attention.

In the past four months, I heard that extra animation in her voice a dozen times, but I always ascribed it to the wrong things: to a gift, to a birthday, to the moment. I never reached for the larger answer. I never thought the unthinkable.

In summer, the time difference between Paris and New York is six hours. Flight 587 left at 12:55 P.M. and would arrive just before three o’clock. The timing would be perfect.

I worked the conversation with Vachon until we were talking like brothers, discussing his business, my business, the latest strikes in Paris, and a dozen other things. I marveled at how cool he was, joking and laughing with the man whose wife he was bedding.

The in-flight movie was a thriller and, to my relief, a long one. Afterward, I again talked with Vachon about every subject that would interest him — but one — until the plane touched down at Kennedy International at 2:59 P.M.

“Jean-Louis,” I said as we walked off the flight, “it’s nine o’clock in Paris, we’re both hungry, and New York has a thousand restaurants. Let’s find a good one and have a great meal.”

“Ahh, my friend, I like the way you think. You make time for life’s pleasures. How fortunate that we share the same tastes.” His words were filled with self-amusement.

A car and driver were waiting for Vachon and, during the ride into the city, we discussed our restaurant options. We each suggested a dozen names and considered Bartolo’s, Sierra Leone, and Jacquie M. before Vachon finally offered the compliment I was waiting for: “Edward, your restaurant is better than any of those.”

“Then it’s decided,” I said. “I will make the food, and we will drink Vachon wine.”

“The perfect meal,” he agreed.

I leaned forward and told the driver, “Fifty-fourth and Lexington, please.”

When we walked into Les Mirettes, I was reminded again how much a restaurant, in its off-hours, feels like an empty theatrical set, waiting for the actors to arrive. Here, it would have been performers in a French play, for the restaurant’s high ceilings, tall paintings, and cream-colored walls with gilt touches have elicited more than one mention of Versailles.

It was not yet four o’clock; even the earliest dinner customers wouldn’t arrive for another two hours. One of my instructions was for the kitchen staff to complete today’s prep work by three-thirty, then take a break away from the restaurant — mandatory.

Vachon followed me from the luxury of eighteenth-century France into the stainless-steel, operating-room cleanliness of the kitchen, where pots hung overhead, the floor was easy-on-the-feet rubber, and the refrigerators and freezers hummed together.

I exchanged my clothes for chefs whites, then from the temperature-controlled wine cellar at the back of the kitchen took out a bottle of Vachon wine. While the original owner opened it, I set up two wineglasses on the metal counter between us.

From the walk-in refrigerator, I took a flat, plastic Lexan box that had two loops of clear tape around it. My name was written in block letters on a piece of paper that I crumpled and put into my pocket. I sliced the tape, appreciative of how well my sous-chef followed orders.

“Jean-Louis,” I said, “have you ever tried amontillado?”

Vachon did not look up from the glass he was pouring. “That little sherry from Spain? I choked a glass down once because the silly woman who gave it to me was pretty. Why do you ask?”

“I remember reading about it once,” I said, “but I’ve never tried it.”

I took the glass of Syrah that Vachon handed me, swirled the wine in the small bowl, then brought the glass up to my nose. The aromas of fruit and earth triggered my salivary glands; I was tasting the wine before it reached my mouth.

“Outstanding,” I acknowledged, enjoying the wine’s long finish. I took a second sip, savored its three distinct stages of taste, then put the glass aside. From the Lexan bin, I removed several smaller, plastic containers and a package wrapped in wax paper.

“Jean-Louis,” I said, “you’ve always succeeded in enjoying life to the fullest.”

“Life is for the living,” he replied, holding the glass of wine up to the overhead light and studying its reddish-plum color. “I want to die with a smile on my face.”

I’d be surprised if you did, I thought.

“But, Edward,” Vachon continued, “you, too, are living well. After all, you are the best chef in America. What did that food critic write? That you cook like someone who ‘knows twelve languages and can mix the words together into a new language that only he can speak, but everyone can understand’? With you, every meal is like a trip around the world.”

Vachon, the master complimenter, I thought. And so I stole his tactic.

“Jean-Louis,” I said, “sometimes I think that before people sit down to dinner, they should be required to sing at least a chorus of ‘La Marseillaise.’”

Vachon’s eyebrows rose in question.

“After all, it is France that gave us all the great sauces, pastries, bouillons, and stocks. And, after doing that, France gave us the best wines to go with every dish. Without your country, there would be no great food.” Someone once told me you’d probably get physically sick before the recipient of a compliment thought you were being too effusive.

“Ah, Edward, what can I say?” Vachon replied, as if my praise had been given directly to him, instead of three centuries of chefs and vintners. “The French just know how to live. We appreciate the best things in life.”

While Vachon talked about his country’s magnificence, I began cooking. I opened one container, poured the pork and noodle broth, with shrimp, into a saucepan and turned the stove’s burner to a low heat.

The second container held leeks and mushrooms. I stripped the leaves off a sprig of thyme, mixed it with ground mustard seed and Szechuan peppercorns, then added these seasonings. I put the completed dish into a saucepan and set the heat at simmer.

From overhead, I took down a low, wide pan, put in olive oil and turned on the flame. I prepared and added, in order, garlic, onions, bell peppers, eggplant, zucchini, tomatoes, herbs, saffron, and finally pignoli. Vachon nodded in approval. “Ratatouille,” he said. “Provence’s other great export.”

I pulled out a knife, checked the sharpness of its point and edge, unwrapped the wax-paper package, and took out the wide, flat fish. I sliced off the head and tail and dropped them into the shiny trash bin below the cutting board. I gutted, skinned, filleted, and panseared the fish, brushed on a hot-ginger glaze, and put it into the oven for a few minutes to caramelize.

From the shelves near the dining-room doors, I took two large plates, two soup bowls, two linen napkins, and a handful of silverware. I served the broth, then the food. The aromas were as good as I knew they’d be.

Vachon took his first taste of the soup, closed his eyes, and said. “Amazing!” After another few spoonfuls, he could not wait any longer for the food. With almost gluttonous speed, Vachon picked up a fork and tried the fish, then moved on to the leeks and mushrooms, and finally the ratatouille. He was torn between savoring each bite and hurrying to the next one. I enjoy watching people eat what I’ve prepared; this time more than ever.

In just a few minutes, Vachon was halfway through each dish. That would be enough.

“You know, Jean-Louis,” I said, as if a thought had just come to mind, “a beautiful woman is a remarkable creation, and there is nothing like the effect she has on a man.”

Vachon, between bites, grinned at me.

“After all,” I continued, “that’s why you’re still a bachelor, because of all the beautiful women. Every man who marries wants to marry a beautiful woman — but he forgets that after he walks his wife out of the church, she’s still beautiful to other men, and jealousy is a terrible thing.”

An uneasiness entered Vachon’s eyes.

“In fact, I’ve wondered what’s at the core of that emotion for men, and I think that jealousy goes back to something very basic.”

I paused, considering for a moment whether Vachon would ever love any woman enough to be jealous.

“And what is the reason for men’s jealousy?” Vachon was trying for a casual, amused tone, but his voice had moved up half an octave.

“Over the centuries, before the scientists and their laboratories, how many men looked into their children’s faces, searching for any resemblance, wanting to ask. ‘Are you mine?’ ”

I now had Vachon’s full attention. He had forgotten about the fork that his right hand was still holding.

“Now, if a husband found out that his wife was having an affair, I wonder how he’d react,” I said. “First, he might ask himself whose fault it was. Who was the pursuer, the wife or the lover? Or was the lover the kind of man for whom women were just a game? Could he make any woman feel beautiful and desired — make her feel as if she had found the perfect, romantic lover?

“Then, what would the husband do? Get angry? Get quiet? Want to talk it out? We’d all react a little differently, but some would decide to solve the problem — permanently. And, how they’d go about it would probably depend on what they knew.

“A carpenter, for example, would own a nail gun, and the next time he was pouring cement into a building’s foundation, he’d have his problem solved. And a fisherman? Well, he’d probably take his wife’s lover on a boat trip, along with a rope, a rock, and a net.” I paused. “But a chef? I wonder what a chef would do?”

I looked at Vachon, who was now incapable of speech.

“I think a chef would look into all his cookbooks and find all the foods that had warnings; he would then invite his wife’s lover to share a meal.” I looked at the bowl and plate in front of Vachon. “For example, maybe he makes the soup with an extra ingredient — the botulism bacillus; then he might serve Death Cap mushrooms with the white ridge around their stems, and complete the menu with a Japanese delicacy — the poisonous fish fugu, which is delicious, but will kill you if it’s not gutted just right. And maybe a very angry husband would serve all three to his wife’s lover, just to make sure the job was done right.”

I smiled amiably at Vachon. “But, I don’t have to worry about you, Jean-Louis, my good friend, my best man. You would never do a thing like that — not with Carolyn. Now, as the chef who made this meal, I want you to know how much pleasure it gives me to watch you cat.”

Vachon stared at me, frozen with fear.

“Eat up,” I said, holding my smile. “Otherwise, Jean-Louis, I will start to wonder if there might be something between you and my wife. Go on.”

Vachon dropped his eyes to my plate and saw that my fish, leeks and mushrooms, and soup were all untouched. The ratatouille was the only thing I’d eaten. He suddenly noticed the fork in his right hand, a piece of fish speared on its four tines. Vachon started to lift the fork to his mouth, but his hand only moved a few inches. The fork dropped to his plate.

“I’m not hungry,” he said, his French accent suddenly thick.

“I understand,” I said. “A man can suddenly lose his appetite; it happens. So, let us just sit here for a while and enjoy your good wine. It will help you digest your meal that much faster.”

Vachon was a broken man. He stood up and smiled a ghastly smile. “I must go,” he said. “I just remembered an appointment.” And the Frenchman shot out of the kitchen. I heard the heavy front door close.

The nearest hospital was Bellevue. I guessed that Vachon would be there in about ten minutes. I’ve never had my stomach pumped, but I’ve heard it’s a miserable experience.

I looked down at the plate of food in front of me and realized that my appetite was back. I picked up a fork, cut a large piece of fish, and tasted it. Excellent. I’ve always enjoyed the puffer fish, a safe, distant cousin to the famous fugu.

The dining-room door swung open. I glanced up at the clock — 5 P.M. exactly. My wife is a wonderfully prompt woman.

“Edward! I just saw Jean-Louis jump into a taxi. He was screaming to be taken to a hospital. What happened?”

“He thinks that someone poisoned him,” I said, and took a sip of wine.

“But who would do that?”

“I would,” I said, “if I thought he was having an affair with my wife.”

Awareness came into her eyes, and, I think, a bit of relief. Sometimes, the hardest part of a mistake is ending it. Carolyn looked at me for a long moment, then sat on the stool where my old friend had been. She looked down at the half-eaten meal.

“Do you have a plate for me?” she asked quietly.

I shook my head.

“I deserve it,” she said.

“You probably do,” I replied.

I raised my left hand, took off my gold wedding band, and put it on the metal counter between us, next to the bottle of Vachon wine. Carolyn stared down at the ring that, in three years, she’d never seen off my finger.

“Your choice,” I said. “What will it be?”

Carolyn looked up at me, then down at the ring and the bottle of wine. Without hesitation, she picked up the Vachon, and my heart sank. So it hadn’t been just an affair.

“There’s no choice,” she said, and turned away from me. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the dark bottle ten feet into the trash bin below the cutting board.

Carolyn turned back to me. “Do you have another bottle of wine that you could open? Something American — something that goes well with confession?”

I studied my wife’s face, the face that I wanted to see every day for the rest of my life.

“I’m sure I do,” I said. “Red or white?”