Let’s find out, the little voice in my head whispers. How, exactly? I’m tempted to ask. Drag him home, lock ourselves inside and wait until I get bored?
Yes. Exactly that.
I roll my eyes at the horny, lonely part of me which refuses to listen to reason, the part that watches the lines of his forearm, the curve of muscle disappearing just under the roll of his Henley shirt. The part of me which would happily commit kidnapping just to see if my lust is misguided.
He’s looking at me again, glancing between the road and my face. Probably wondering why I’m rolling my eyes at him when he’s just asked me a question.
“I’m sorry, what? My mind is all over the place.”
“I said, do you go to Dory’s often?”
Dory’s.
Right.
We’re in his car, driving downtown, to grab some food.
“Yes,” I nod, prying my eyes from his delicious denim and back on the road, focusing more on the shimmer of late afternoon sun and less on his perfect thighs. “It’s one of my favorite spots.”
“Good for dates?”
“This isn’t a date,” I say quickly, too quickly, the words tripping over themselves as they tumble from my mouth.
He laughs again, that deep, dark rumble I feel along the back of my neck and between my legs. I feel my face heat and I don’t know if I’m embarrassed or aroused.
“What do you have against dating me, Jane?”
I press my lips together. Before I can come up with a witty retort, he continues. “Besides, I didn’t mean to imply it was. I was asking about your other dates.”
What other dates? I want to blurt out, but stop myself, a thread of pride preventing my honesty.
“Well,” I shift in my seat and clear my throat, preparing my lie. “It’s very pretty and Dory keeps fresh flowers on the table in the spring and summer. In winter, it’s mistletoe and berries, and in autumn she puts little pumpkins out. The menu changes seasonally, most of the produce comes from the farmer’s market, and when the sun goes down, she puts up twinkle lights and candles.”
“Sounds romantic.”
“It does, doesn’t it.” I pause, rolling my many visits to Dory’s cafe through my mind. It is a romantic spot. Quiet and clean and subdued. The floor is set up in a U-shape around the counter where Philippe displays his magnificent cakes, so couples can tuck themselves away from prying eyes. The fresh flowers and baked goodies scent the air, and she’s usually playing some sort of slow jazz, just soft enough that you have to lean closer to hear it.
Why the hell did he suggest it?
“We can go somewhere else,” I say. Again, too quickly. “Bob’s clam hut, up the road, closer to the coast is great. And Wednesdays are buck-a-shuck.”
“What is buck-a-shuck?” he asks, laughing again. I cross my legs, willing my body to stop responding to his rumbles.
“Oysters. One dollar each. Every Wednesday after six.”
“Hmm. I like oysters.”
“Old Bay does add-on lobster on Wednesdays. Add a lobster to any entree for ten dollars.”
“What?” He turns to me, eye disbelieving and I forget I’m not talking to a local. “You can just add a lobster to anything you order.”
“Sure.”
“Even, like, a burger?”
“Of course. Gotta have a lobster with your burger.” I smile. I always enjoy introducing outsiders to New England ways.
“That’s crazy.”
“Crazy’s when you add it to ice cream.”
He laughs again, louder this time, teeth shining, throat bobbing. I have a strong, strong urge to lean across the car and lick his throat. Instead, I slide my hands under both legs and sit on them.
“Who adds lobster to ice cream?”
“Not many people.”
“So that’s too far, even for this town?”
“No,” I shake my head, “but the special is only for entrees. So, you wouldn’t get the discount.”
“What if you ordered ice cream as your entree?”
I shrug, “That’s not very good for you.”
“What if you feel like being bad?” His voice lowers, eyes stay straight ahead, but I feel like he’s watching me, enjoying my discomfort.
I clear my throat, loudly, awkwardly, with enough force to break the tension. “If you want lobster-flavored ice cream so bad, you’d just order it from Sally’s.”
“Who’s Sally?” His hands cross over each other and I see main street in front of us. I point to a free space on our right and he pulls in.
“Sally’s Dairy Delights. Off 295. Best lobster ice cream in the state.”
He puts the car in park, but leaves his hand on the stick as he stares. “I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”
“Joking about what?” I reach to unbuckle my seatbelt.
“Lobster flavored ice cream?”
“Of course. It’s famous.”
“Is…” he looks at me. “Is it good?”
I shrug. “It’s pink. People drive all the way up from Boston for it. But I don’t really like it.” I unbuckle my seatbelt.
“You think it’s gross?”
“No,” I grin and open the door. “I just prefer clam.”
11
David
It is a romantic place. I look around as we get out of the car. The whole town, in fact. Like something out of a movie, is what people usually say about places like this. But I’ve made a lot of movies, and I know what things in movies look like when you’re in them, not looking at them from a cinema seat. No, this town is much better than something out of a movie.
Jane is already ahead of me. Standing on the curb next to the parking meter and fishing through her bag.
“You know, I can-”
“Got it!” She smiles. I hear the sound of a quarter clinking it’s way down the tiny machine.
“I could have done that.”
“Well, you only need one. Meters turn off at six.”
“What happens at six?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why do they turn off?”
She does that thing again, the crinkled brow, tilted head, as if she can’t figure out why I asked what I asked. I catch her looking at me. Sometimes I think it’s with interest, sexual or romantic. I’ve definitely spotted the occasional linger on my torso, only when she thinks I don’t notice, of course.
But sometimes, like now, I think she’s studying me. Like a book she doesn’t fully understand.
“Nothing happens at six,” she says again, this time with a smile. “The town just makes evening parking free to encourage visitors to Main Street.”
“Hmm,” I nod. “Downtown L.A. should try that.”
It’s warm out. She shifts her weight on both feet and grins at me. Every time I make her laugh the blood shoots straight into my jeans. The meter is between us, and I want to rip it out of the ground so I can reach her, unimpeded.
“Is the town always so quiet around this time?” I look around. Couples, a few families with young kids. An older man with his dog. A young woman with a white box, some kind of cake probably, balanced on one hand as she texts with another. Two teenagers lick ice cream cones, walking close enough to bump shoulders. They smile self-consciously at one another. She touches her hair. He pushes his free hand into his pocket.
First date, I think to myself. Probably met in algebra class. Parents told them to be home by eight.
“Quiet?” Jane follows my gaze. “This is pretty busy. People got off work and are heading out for dinner.”
My face must show my surprise because she laughs and shakes her head.
“Well,” she smiles, “it’s only Wednesday.”
The stores are still open. Individuals and small groups go in and out, stepping up over thresholds and pressing against glass doors. Small bells chime and the sound of friendly shopkeepers drifts from either side of the street as we walk. A man in an apron carries a chalkboard outside, propping open the door with it
and stands. He catches my eye and waves.
“Love your movies, man.”
“Thank you.” I nod.
We walk past. I feel my stride increasing but can’t help myself.
“Slow down, David.” Jane speaks beside me and I glance towards her.
“Sorry.”
“He’s not going to follow you.”
“Well, he-” I look back, over my shoulder. The man is gone, back inside. The chalkboard remains, advertising tonight’s special: ostrich steak with a cherry glaze and goat cheese crumble.
“Huh,” I look back again. Then in front of us. The teenagers have passed, but a young woman with two small shopping bags is walking straight towards us. She looks up, recognition flashes across her face, and she smiles.
And walks past.
No staring.
No screaming.
Not even a phone.
“Huh,” I say again.
“You’ve been downtown before, right?” Jane asks from next to me.
“Yeah. Twice.”
“Well, what happened then? Did you get mugged?”
“What?” I laugh at her.
“You seem really surprised that no one is accosting you. Every time someone walks by and doesn’t scream like a Beatles’ fan you say, ‘huh.’”
I shake my head. She’s right of course. And she’s laughing at me and my neuroticism.
“It’s just…unusual.”
“Well,” she stops and peers into a shop window. A local jewelry store. Gemstones and white gold displayed around a bouquet of summer flowers. The designs are smaller than what you’d see in L.A., but prettier too. Something a woman would wear because she likes it, not because it photographs well.
“You’re less handsome in person.”
“Excuse me?”
Jane turns from the window display and grins. “That’s why no one’s asking for an autograph. You’re just better on film.”
I laugh again. She’s funny, my little professor. Clever and quiet and bookish, but not afraid or intimidated or easily impressed.
It’s been a long time since someone made fun of me in that gentle, teasing way. Not to get something, not to ’neg’ me and hope I’ll be intrigued. But just to play, like friends. Like those two teenagers probably, joking about appearances to help calm their nerves.
“That’s definitely true, but…” I look across the street at a father with a baby strapped to his chest, “maybe this town is just cool.”
At that moment, my phone buzzes again. I scoop it out of my pocket and glance down. The same unknown number. The same message.
Don’t hurt my friend.
I glance at Jane. She’s peering into the window of a tiny shop at something small and cute and so painstakingly hand-made I wonder how anyone makes any money in this town.
Who is this?
Three little dots appear, my mystery warning seems to be thinking.
A friend of Jane’s.
I glance up. Jane continues to look through the windows.
Did she give you my number?
. . .
Of course not. Do you know her at all?
My eyebrows shoot up. My anonymous texter is a little rude.
I’m trying to get to know her, but it’s hard with you harassing me.
. . .
Fair enough.
And then nothing.
I wait, glancing between Jane and my phone. No more three dots. No more messages. I put my phone away.
Jane looks up. She smiles and we continue down the street. We pass a chocolate shop, the smell wafting over the sidewalk and we both inhale deeply. The window is lined with perfect shapes, wild flowers tucked between the rows of truffles, and small boxes and painted bows piled in each corner.
“I told you, ” Jane says, waving at someone inside a store.
We continue past a toy store displaying stuffed animals the size of small cars. The menagerie, a hippopotamus, a gorilla, and a tortoise are so realistic I do a double take.
“Told me what?” I ask.
“I told you Midnight is special.”
I nod. “You did. I didn’t understand it at the time, but I think I’m starting to get it.”
We’re in front of the cafe. Dory’s written in thick, curvaceous font on the glass of the door. Another blackboard, this one listing champagne and oysters as their “every night special.”
Jane stops, and looks up. I see the hesitation on her face.
“There’s always-”
“Bob’s clam hut?” I interrupt with a grin. “Maybe next time.”
We step inside. Above us, the bell jingles and the same petite blonde from earlier in the week looks up from behind the counter. She smiles and Jane waves.
“Well, hello again!” The blonde, Dory I presume, approaches us, two menus in hand.
“Hi, sweetie, how are you?” Jane leans in and they hug, a warm casual greeting.
“I’m great. Got PEI oysters in this morning, but they were gone by ten. Sorry.” Dory smiles. “Table for two?”
I nod, briefly wondering who eats oysters for breakfast, and we follow her to the back of the restaurant, a small table tucked behind a potted lemon tree. I sit with my back to the window, so Jane can look out on the street.
“What can I get you to drink?” Dory asks as a waiter, younger, male, and trying too hard not to make eye contact with me, hovers behind her.
“Water’s fine,” Jane says quickly.
Dory nods, placing the menus on the table in front of us, each a thick, single page of homemade paper with items written in calligraphy.
“Are we here for dinner, or just a snack?”
Jane opens her mouth but I jump in. “Dinner,” I smile at Dory. “We’re celebrating.”
Jane stares at me.
“Really?” Dory looks between the two of us. “Any particular celebration?”
“It’s not-”
“I impressed her,” I grin at Jane, “with my brain.”
She shuts her mouth with a harrumph.
Dory’s eyebrows go up ever so slightly, her face a mask of professionalism.
“Through my exceptional literary analysis,” I wink at Jane. She rolls her eyes at me. “Nothing untoward, of course.”
“Of course,” Dory smiles at me. She turns to Jane. “Were you impressed Jane? By his exceptional literary analysis?” I swear I can detect a hint of euphemism behind her words. The young man behind her, pen and pad in hand, furrows his brow, as if he too is trying to understand the subtext of her question.
Jane pauses, glances at me, and pivots to look her friend squarely in the eye. “I was, actually. He offered some excellent insights on Pride and Prejudice.”
“You’re reading Pride and Prejudice together?” Dory looks between the two of us.
We both nod.
“It’s a very romantic story,” Dory continues, her fingers tapping lightly against her sides.
“It’s romantic in the classical sense of the term, yes.” Jane offers, shooting her friend a warning look.
“I also think it’s a very romantic story,” I glance at the menu in front of me, trying not to grin. “That’s probably why Jane had me read it, to get all sorts of ideas in my head.”
Jane chokes slightly and inhales, “You-”
“You know, Jane,” Dory interrupt gently, her hands lingering over the menus in front of us, “We did get your favorite Chateau Margaux back.” She looks at me, despite addressing her friend. “It’s a delicious red. We import it directly. We are the only restaurant north of Boston to have it, so it’s hard to keep in stock.” She smiles broadly at me. “Jane loves it.”
“We don’t need-”
“That sounds lovely,” I grin at Dory, my new favorite person.
“I’ll bring two glasses, and a sample of our beef tartare. It really compliments the smoky undertones of the wine.”
“I don’t think we-”
“Oh!” Dory smiles again, as if she isn’t completely ra
ilroading her friend. “And Philippe made the most wonderful chocolate torte for dessert, with blueberries he picked himself.” She purses her lips in what I suspect is a completely fake look of concern, “but it is selling quickly.”
“Put in an order for two, please.”
“Of course, David.” She smiles again. I notice her hand lightly steer the gaping waiter away from our table.
I look at Jane, who seems to be shifting between irritation, frustration, and disbelief, and try not to grin.
“This is a great place.” I pick up my menu and look over the items.
Jane is silent. Her eyes narrow at the corners, lips press together in a way that makes me want to kiss them open.
“Dory’s fantastic,” I glance at her over the top of my menu, and I can practically see the steam rise off her head.
Jane shakes her head at me, grabs the menu in front of her, and I hear her mutter Dory’s dead under her breath.
The waiter returns, shows Jane the bottle of wine and she nods. He places two long-stemmed glasses in front of us, pops the cork, and gives me a taste. It’s an earthy red, with hints of leather and tobacco. Dory was right to suggest the tartare as a compliment.
I nod to the young man, who trembles as he places a white cloth over his arm. I can’t help but smile, wondering if white cloth service is standard here, but it’s a nice touch.
Dory returns, brandishing a carafe of sparkling water, two tumbler glasses with ice and lime, a plate of rye and sourdough bread rolls, and the samples of tartare, decorated with swirls of olive oil and lemon wedges.
“Have you decided what you would like?”
“Jane?” I ask as I pour a sizable portion of the bottle into her glass.
“I’ll take the chicken.”
Dory turns to me, “She always orders the chicken.”
“Does she now?” I meet Dory’s twinkling gaze.
“I like the chicken,” Jane says from across the table.
“Does she ever order anything else?” I ask.
Dory gives me a pitiful look. “Not once. Only the chicken, and the pie.” She shrugs. “Sometimes the wine, obviously.”
“You have excellent chicken,” Jane sputters.
“That’s too bad,” I shake my head.
“It really is,” Dory nods.
“There’s nothing wrong with-”
Jane Air Page 9