Someone slides into the banquette next to him and puts a hand on his leg. He startles awake. It’s a young woman with a shiny curtain of long, dark hair. She smiles at him. He knows the smile somehow.

“Deacon,” she says. “Is it you?”

It takes him several seconds to figure out who this is and how he knows her and if this is real or if he is dreaming. The voice is so familiar, a voice he knows intimately, he thinks, and yet he can’t place it. The Jameson has gobbled up all the brain cells necessary for him to interact appropriately.

He nods. He can say with relative certainty that he is Deacon.

“You don’t recognize me, do you?” she says. “It’s me, Scarlett!”

Scarlett? Deacon blinks. Last he heard, Scarlett was still pursuing her dream of becoming a photographer. She latched onto the entourage of Pilly Dodge, whom Deacon knows because Pilly once shot Belinda for the cover of Vogue, and Belinda came home crowing about what a genius he was-better than Weber and Demarchelier combined.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“I live here,” she says. “I have a studio apartment on Sullivan Street.” Deacon nods and feels relieved that Scarlett didn’t move to Brooklyn, like all the other cool and smart people in New York.

“But what are you doing here here?” he asks, indicating the club around them.

“Here at Yukio’s?” she says. “My friends and I popped in for something to eat. I’m starving. Are you hungry? They have the most amazing edamame with sea salt, and word is that they take more calories to digest than they actually have, so you lose weight eating them. Do you want me to order you some?”

“Yes,” Deacon says.


He won’t lie; there’s no point in it now. He has fantasized about making love to Scarlett Oliver since she first walked in the door to interview for the nanny position. He sometimes thinks back to the time on Nantucket when she invited him into the outdoor shower-she was right on the other side of the door, wet and naked-and castigates himself. He blew his chance! Other times he congratulates himself for his restraint. Despite his hundreds of other sins, he wasn’t the guy who seduced the nanny.

But now, things are different. Scarlett is no longer the nanny. She is a woman who can make her own decisions. She decides not to take Deacon up on his offer to come home with him, but she does agree to have dinner with him the following night at Le Bernardin.

The dinner at Le Bern is twelve courses with wine pairings and all kinds of luscious treats sent out by Chef Eric Ripert. Scarlett looks absolutely ravishing in a red dress, her hair straight and long, framing her pale face and wicked red lips. She is exquisite.

But she isn’t much of an eater, he notices. Nothing like Laurel or Belinda. When Scarlett worked for them, she used to carry around a book that told her how many calories were in a grape (eight) or a chocolate éclair (ten thousand), but even then, she used to indulge in the occasional treat. She loved grits, and she never turned down an ice cream cone. Now, she lets most of her very expensive courses sit untouched until their server whisks them away.

Can Deacon pursue a relationship with someone who doesn’t enjoy food? Normally he would say no, but he is so swayed by her beauty that he says yes.


They go on three dates-Le Bernardin, Blue Hill, and Per Se-before she sleeps with him. The sex isn’t quite as explosive as he’d hoped-Laurel and Belinda were both unbridled in their lovemaking-but again, he doesn’t care. She is so beautiful, it’s like making love to a Michelangelo. He loves to watch her walk across the room naked.

“Have you dated anyone seriously?” Deacon asks. “Were you involved with Pilly?”

“For a little while,” Scarlett says. “Everyone who works with him sleeps with him eventually, I guess.”

But… she still really loves Bo Tanner, she says. Bo is her former boyfriend from the Savannah days. He’s an attorney down there, married to Scarlett’s best childhood friend, Anne Carter.

“Still Bo?” Deacon says. He logged in a lot of hours listening to Scarlett pine away for Bo the football star, Bo the president of Delta Chi at the University of Georgia. Deacon feels more jealous of Bo Tanner than he does of the ostensible genius Pilly Dodge.

“Sort of, yeah,” Scarlett says. “He sends me letters when he gets into the bourbon. Anne Carter has no idea about that.”

Deacon can’t believe the jealousy that consumes him. He gathers Scarlett up in his arms. He wants her to be his. How can he make her his?


The very next day he heads to Harry Winston and blows $90,000-his entire savings, basically-on a diamond solitaire engagement ring. Ninety grand: the number makes him shake, but he’s still not sure the diamond is big enough.

That night, he invites Scarlett to his apartment for dinner. He tells Angie only that there will be a surprise visitor eating with them; he doesn’t say who. Deacon makes a cold curried zucchini soup, a roasted red pepper and smoked Gouda quiche, a delicate mâche salad-Scarlett tries to eat vegetarian when she can, she’s confided-and he makes the champagne cake with champagne icing and champagne-candied strawberries. He feels a little squinchy about this because it was a cake he created for Belinda, but he convinces himself that if it worked on Belinda, then it will work on Scarlett.

When Scarlett rings the bell and Deacon ushers her in, Angie’s face falls. She glares at Deacon. “You’re kidding me, right?”

Scarlett doesn’t seem to hear this. “Angie!” she says. “I can’t believe how big you are! Come here and give me some sugar!”

“You’re dating my father?” Angie said. “You’re dating him?”

Scarlett’s arms drop to her sides.

“Angie,” Deacon says. “Stop with the theatrics.”

“I think it’s disgusting,” Angie says. She grabs her jacket, purse, phone. “I’m going to Pierpont’s.”

“No, you’re not,” Deacon says. “You will stay right here and eat with me and our old friend Scarlett.”

Angie opens the door to the hallway and steps out without another word.

Scarlett is suddenly teary. “She hates me.”

“It was a bad idea to surprise her,” Deacon says. “I should have told her you were coming. I should have explained what all the fuss was about.”

“Fuss?” Scarlett says.

Deacon pours two glasses of Billecart-Salmon rosé champagne. He’s just going to do it, no point in waiting. Angie is fifteen years old; she will get over whatever imaginary problems she has with this.

Deacon pulls out the velvet box. Scarlett’s eyes widen; they are a kaleidoscope of green, blue, gray. He opens the box, revealing the ring. “Will you marry me?” he says.


Now that he is back on TV, he is tabloid fodder. News of Deacon’s engagement to his former nanny, Scarlett Oliver, a scant two months after his divorce from Belinda Rowe hits the front of Us Weekly and the National Enquirer-complete with paparazzi photographs of the ice cube on Scarlett’s finger.

Belinda calls in a rage. She says, “Did you take Scarlett to St. John? I can only assume that you did. You were probably banging her the entire time she worked for us!”

Deacon doesn’t want to talk about St. John. To deny that Scarlett was there seems to put him at risk of admitting that he took Laurel.

He says, “It’s none of your business, Belinda.”

She says, “We were married when you went to St. John, Deacon. It is absolutely my business.”

He says, “Scarlett and I are in love, and we’re getting married.”

Belinda says, “She’s too young for you. And too shallow. Mark my words, you’ll be miserable.”

Deacon hangs up.


Deacon and Scarlett are engaged for nine months, and those months cost Deacon a fortune. Scarlett doesn’t want to move into Deacon’s apartment in the Waldorf Towers because that’s where he lived with Belinda, and her apartment on Sullivan Street is a studio that she shares. Deacon enlists the help of a real estate agent who also happens to be a gourmet cook and a fan of his show. Veronika has an inflated sense of Deacon’s net worth, however, because it takes her five tries to show him something even remotely in his price range, and that is the spacious, light-filled two-bedroom apartment in a newly renovated doorman building on Hudson Street.

“If you don’t like this,” Veronika says, “we can cross the bridge and look in Brooklyn.”

Deacon takes the apartment, even though it feels like swallowing a crab apple whole.

Next, Scarlett wants to enroll as a photography major at University College. She’s learned all she can from Pilly, she says, and from Dexter Candis before him, and from Annie Leibovitz before Dexter. What she needs now is schooling, a foundation in the basics.

Deacon is dying to point out to Scarlett that she has done this whole photography thing completely backward. What if he had interned with Marco Pierre White before learning to chop an onion? He wouldn’t have become a chef, that’s for sure. He also has hesitations about University College, which, ironically, is neither a university nor a college but rather a very expensive “institution of higher learning” whose sole reason for existence seems to be indulging the many, many dilettantes in Manhattan with money to burn on courses that won’t get them credits or a degree.

But Scarlett is dead set. She rattles off the names of the “professors”-oohing and ahhing after each one-though Deacon has never heard of any of them. She insists they’re all talented, all masters of the craft, and reluctantly, Deacon gives in, but this time it feels as if he’s swallowing a grapefruit whole.

It would be nice if she learned the basics, he thinks. All she has seemed to have learned during her years with Annie, Dexter, and Pilly is how to party. She knows the names of all the bouncers at all the clubs, but after going downtown with her a few times, he gives it up. Deacon can’t stand the crowd Scarlett hangs out with, and besides, he has to be home to supervise Angie. He is also pursuing a dream of his own: he wants to gather a group of investors and open his own place in midtown called the Board Room, which he envisions as a groundbreaking restaurant, even here in Manhattan, where nearly all ground has been broken.