Taste of Vengeance by Kristi Belcamino

Author:Kristi Belcamino [Belcamino, Kristi]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-08-16T04:00:00+00:00

35

Eye-talian

Damien had called The Hotel Copacabana an “Art Deco treasure,” but when we pulled up it looked like a really tall, really big white building across the street from the beach. The Copa was nice enough, but the way Damien had raved about it, I’d expected the Taj Mahal.

Before he and Rich bought the villa, he’d stay here during his visits to Rio.

“The Copa was designed by French architect Andre Gidare,” he said. “This is where Orson Welles and Marlene Dietrich would stay when they came to Brazil.”

I nodded as if that meant something to me.

“I was going to surprise all of you,” he said, “but I can’t wait to share the good news. I’ve been asked to emcee the Wizard Ball this year.”

Raising an eyebrow, I half-smiled.

“It’s the grand finale of Carnival. A very exclusive gathering here at the Copa. Once you emcee the event, you are put on a list and can never do so again. It’s quite an honor.”

“Cool.”

He didn’t seem convinced that I was suitably impressed so he went on. “Frank Sinatra was an emcee. Bill Clinton. Fidel Castro. Johnny Carson.”

I smiled and nodded.

As we walked through the blasé lobby, I caught glimpses of hallways and giant rooms with Art Deco flair—ornate pillars, sleek marble floors, and brilliant chandeliers.

Once again, Damien was telling the group about how anyone who was anybody stayed here. That’s when I got it. What mattered to him about the hotel wasn’t the architecture—it was the prestige it carried.

Whatever.

But it made me wonder.

I hadn’t thought of him as pretentious or shallow before. Then again, I didn’t know him. Not really.

A hotel staff member led us into an enormous room with a massive, white grand piano holding center stage in the center of the marble floor. The staff member explained that the hall was used for weddings and other events and, that the following night, a famous Brazilian pianist’s concert would be held there.

I felt right at home in my black cocktail dress that swirled around my ankles. Sydney wore a white maxi dress with small beading on it. All the men wore tuxedos. If it wasn’t for the other two women’s too tight and too short neon dresses, our party would’ve looked like we stepped out of the Roaring 20s.

Two women wearing gray-and-white bellhop uniforms complete with white gloves and little pillbox hats asked us to follow them. They directed us to red velvet chairs next to an Olympic-sized swimming pool reflecting the orange glow from the dimmed lighting inside the restaurant.

Because I’d been told we were dining at Copacabana Beach, I’d expected ocean views. But I wasn’t going to complain. The pool, only a few feet away through open French doors, was lovely with floating candles.

Then, I saw the menu and realized we were seated at an Italian restaurant within the hotel.

For some reason this irritated me. I smiled and then quickly hid behind my menu, pretending to read it. I was ashamed of myself. I was acting like a prima donna.

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