“Would you like to try something new, Jane?” I ask, swirling the wine in my glass, trying my damnedest not to grin over the rim.
“I like what I like,” she stares at me, words squeezing out of gritted teeth.
“Why don’t you branch out? Dinner’s on me after all.” This time I do grin, unsuccessfully hiding my mouth behind the wine glass.
“Branch out? Should I order one of everything?” Jane raises her eyebrows. “Why would-”
“A tasting menu!” Dory claps her hands together. “Jane, you really are so clever. Of course, I’m so sorry I didn’t think of it.”
“I didn’t mean-”
“I’ll choose a lovely selection for you. We’re not too busy, so perhaps Philippe can come up with a few little surprises.”
I raise my glass to Dory and smile at the open-mouthed waiter standing behind her. “I would love Philippe to come up with a few little surprises.”
“What-”
“Is eight courses ok?”
I nod, “Wonderful.”
Jane sucks in her breath.
“Spaced over three to four hours?”
I smile, “The perfect length for a romantic meal.”
“But-”
“And we have plenty more wine, of course.”
“Of course.”
“There is one thing,” Dory says, glancing briefly at Jane, too quickly for me to be certain but I think I see a wink. She picks up the menus and tops off our still-full wine glasses. “We were planning on closing early tonight, which means once the other guests leave, you will be here all by yourselves.”
It’s all I can do not to laugh. Dory is a force to be reckoned with.
“Closing early?” Jane glares at her friend. “You don’t usually close early on a Wednesday.”
“I know,” Dory places a gentle hand on Jane’s shoulder, eyes solemn and so honest I want to nominate her for an Academy Award, “but tonight is a special occasion.”
“What kind of special occasion?” Jane asks, arms crossed over her chest, wine glass held like a defensive shield.
“A…birthday party,” Dory says, after a moment’s hesitation.
I nod, “Well, we don’t mind having the place to ourselves.”
“Whose birthday?”
“Uh…” Dory throws me a panicked look.
“Mine!” The young waiter blurts out. We all look towards him. He glances at Dory. She smiles and turns back to us. “It’s for Mohammed.”
“It’s my birthday, so we’re closing early.” Mohammed meets Jane’s glare, not a hint of a lie on his face. I give him a thumb’s up under the table.
“Happy birthday, Mohammed!” I grin and lift my glass.
“Let me prepare your first course,” Dory smiles again. Mohammed lights our candle and moves it to the center of the table.
They both leave and I reach for the plate of tartare, each a small scoop on top of tiny, round toasts.
Janes looks ready to kill me.
“What the he-”
But before she can finish her sentence, I slide a tartare into her mouth, watch her eyes widen in shock and can’t stop my chuckle.
“Give it up, sweetheart.” I pop a tartare into my own mouth, grinning as I chew. “It’s three against one.”
12
Jane
That son of a bitch.
I’m not sure who I’m angrier at, actually. We’re well into the second bottle of wine, and they’re all blurring together.
Mohammed, who, up until tonight, always seemed like such a pleasant young man, but this evening is thrilled to partake in my hostage situation, inundating us with slices of fillet mignon, tuna sashimi, truffle puree, and some sort of cream crab soup that almost brought tears to my eyes.
Or Dory. My former friend. She floats over, topping up wine glasses, replacing silverware, freshening flowers, as unobtrusive and inoffensive as a warm summer breeze. Albeit, in this instance, a breeze capable of forcing me in my seat for three hours and counting.
Or David.
God, David.
This gorgeous man, who only becomes more beautiful in the candlelight, shadows deepening the color of his eyes, highlighting a secret dimple in his cheek. His deep laugh rumbles through his chest and across my thighs. Those broad shoulders lift and move as he tells me stories of growing up in New Jersey, or shake with laughter when I make a joke about people who grow up in New Jersey.
And the way he looks at me, attentive and smiling, as if I am someone else entirely. Someone beautiful and charming, witty and clever. An ideal dinner companion. He’s so convincing, those silver eyes and soft lips and moving hands, that smooth, broad body. I almost believe him. I almost sink into the image he offers me of myself, ingesting the mirage of beauty as easily as I swallow whatever delicacy Dory places before me.
They’re all sons of bitches.
“Well, of course it is. It would have to be.”
I shake my head, watching the candlelight lick shadows across the muscles of his forearm as he tops my wineglass up again. At some point in the evening, Dory shooed the other customers out of the restaurant, turned on a jazz album and, I’m quite certain, literally turned up the heat. I’ve unbuttoned my business-professional shirt to allow air around my neck and David has rolled his sleeves up to his elbow, exposing a length of firm male skin. I drag my eyes away from his hand, the fleshy pad of his thumb pressed against the curve of the bottle, and look at him.
“Why would it have to be?” I ask.
“Because Beauty and the Beast is all about books. Belle loves to read, just like you.” He smiles at me.
I take another sip of wine, aware my lips are stained berry-red. We’re talking about our favorite childhood movies, after we discussed our childhoods and parents and family life.
Because this is what I do now. Discuss my hopes and dreams and private thoughts with the world’s most eligible bachelor.
Because that makes sense.
“It’s not because she loves to read,” I shake my head, leaning forward slightly and pressing my elbows on the table. The candle flickers between us, throwing shadows and dances of light across his face. I wonder if I catch his eye glance down, just for a second, towards my cleavage. “It’s because he understands what reading means to her. For Belle, books are a part of who she is. When the Beast shows he understands that, he shows he understands her.”
David leans forward. Elbows on the table. We’re closer now, both leaning towards one another, the heat of the candle between us. “We all want to be understood.”
“And when he gives her that library…” I close my eyes. I know I’m drunk, but what the hell. This must be some sort of dream, or a mistake we’ll both regret in the morning. May as well lean into it. “That scene ruined me for all other men.”
David laughs, choking slightly on his wine. “A cartoon library ruined you for all other men?”
I nod, my head bouncing up and down so hard I have to readjust my glasses. “Do you remember that scene? When he draws open the giant curtains? And she sees All. Those. Books.”
“Well, I think-”
“And the chandelier, oh my god. What little girl doesn’t want a chandelier in her private library?”
“Uh, I guess they all do.”
I nod again. Readjust my glasses again. “Trust me. That movie, that scene? Big burly dude gives fantasy library to shy, nerdy girl? Fucking ruined a generation of women.” I take another sip of my wine. “Smart women anyway. Women who love books.”
He’s grinning now. Not teasing me, not laughing at me, but just grinning, a big, happy smile on his face.
“You think I’m silly,” I take another sip of wine, a small part of me wondering if I should care that he thinks I’m silly. An even smaller part of me reveling in it. It’s been a long time since anyone described me as silly.
He shakes his head, grin still in place. “No, not all. It’s just nice to see you like this.”
“Drunk?”
&
nbsp; He laughs and shakes his head again, “No. Open, relaxed. You’re a great teacher, but you’re also fun to have a drink with. It’s a nice combination.”
“It is silly, I guess.” I ignore his compliment and run a finger through my hair, idly wondering when it came out of its bun. “Plus, he basically kidnapped her and threatened to kill her father, so the relationship hardly holds up to a feminist lens, but…” my eyes drift closed and I smile, “that library. That library makes it all ok.”
I open my eyes and he’s looking at me. The smile is gone, but his face is soft, gentle in the candlelight. Something serious lurks behind his eyes.
I feel the heat rise to my cheeks. I can’t tell if it’s from me, from him, from the warmth of the candle flame. Or from something else, something created between the two of us.
“Clearly I need to rewatch this film,” he leans forward his face only a few inches from mine, the candle, burned almost down to the quick, flickers beneath us.
“You do.”
“I do.”
“You need to study it.”
“I will.”
“It’s a very important film.”
“Evidently.”
He’s close to me now. His face so close to mine it would take less than a few inches to feel his lips against mine.
I lean back, shaking my head.
“And what’s yours?”
“My what?”
“What’s your favorite childhood movie?”
“Ah,” he leans back. “Easy. Robin Hood.”
“Which one?”
He splits the last of the wine between us. “The old one, the cartoon, with the foxes. Do you know it?”
I laugh. “Of course I know it. Cartoon fox Robin Hood is the sexiest of all the Robin Hoods.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Oh absolutely. I felt so bad for Kevin Costner when he did his version. No human man can compete with that fox.”
“Well, Kevin really enjoyed making his version, so I don’t think he’s too upset about the competition.”
I laugh at that. Of course he knows Kevin Costner. They probably have barbecues with Oprah and Meryl Streep, and prank-call Steven Spielberg from Beyonce’s yacht.
“Tell Kevin I said hi,” I finish the last of my wine, “but I still prefer the fox.”
13
David
Jane pushes a strand of hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes sparkling in the candlelight, and her mouth…
Her mouth
Her mouth is stained red from the wine, lips a deep berry color. I finish the last of my glass and watch her swirl the remains of hers. I want to reach across the table and taste her, feel the oaky smoothness of the Chateau Margaux between us.
Before I have a chance, Dory appears at my side, check in hand.
“I packed up an extra chocolate torte slice for you both.” She places a small, neatly folded bag on the table.
“Thank you, honey.” Jane is mellow now. The tension from earlier gone. Nothing a good meal and a good wine can’t fix, it seems. “Are we the last ones here?”
Dory nods.
I smile. We’ve been the last ones for well over an hour.
“Oh, we should leave,” Jane looks at me, folding her napkin on the table and placing it next to the plate.
“Would you like me to call you a cab?”
“I can walk,” Jane says. I lift my eyebrows and she shrugs. “I don’t live too far away.” She pauses. “Neither do you, actually.”
“Well, it’s late,” Dory rests a hand gently on my shoulder, her eyes meeting mine. “She shouldn’t walk home alone.”
I shake my head, “Of course not.”
“It’s no big deal, Dory. I walk home from yours all the time.” Jane looks between the two of us, seemingly confused.
“It is a big deal,” Dory responds, eyes still on mine. I nod.
“But he needs to go to his house,” Jane says, still staring at both of us.
Dory lifts an eyebrow, her face more serious than a moment ago. I understand what she’s silently asking and I nod, and turn to Jane. “I will go to my house, but I’ll get you home safely first.”
“Oh, ok.” Jane nods, as if this all makes sense. “That’s very nice of you.” She turns to Dory. “He’s so nice.”
Dory smiles, “He is.”
“I am.”
“And he’s handsome.”
Dory barely covers a small laugh, “He is.”
I wink at both of them. “I am.”
I slip my credit card to Dory and she returns to the counter. Jane takes a sip of her water, sets down the glass, and begins fanning herself with the bread plate.
I smother a laugh, “Are you doing ok?”
“I don’t normally drink, David,” she looks at me, a tiny hiccup escaping her lips, and giggles.
“Did you just giggle?” I ask.
She shakes her head. And does it again.
“You definitely just giggled.”
She shrugs, smiles, and laughs, “Yeah. I’m drunk.” She shakes her head, staring briefly at the corner of the table, and then back at me. “I don’t normally drink.”
“You said that.”
“It’s just…my family has a history, so…”
I nod. “It’s only one night.”
“Yeah,” she looks at the table, brow furrowed as if in thought. “Yeah!” She looks up at me, smiling, as if an epiphany just occurred. “It’s only one night.”
Dory returns with my card. I leave a sensational tip and hand Jane the paper bag of gateau. Dory walks us to the door, as I loop Jane’s arm in mine, partly to feel her next to me, and partly to keep her upright.
“I can call you a cab, if you want. I can bring Jane home,” Dory says as she opens the door.
“I’ll get her home, don’t worry. And I think I can walk from there.”
“Are you sure?” Dory asks.
Before I can answer, Jane blurts out “It’s not far, Dory. Look at him,” she waves a hand towards my torso, “He clearly works out. He can walk.”
I smile at Dory. “I can walk.”
She laughs. “OK, you two. Get home safe.”
“Come on, sweetheart,” I bring Jane towards the door. We step into the warm summer evening. The moon is out, high above us, lighting our path. Old-fashioned street lamps glow every fifty feet. Main Street is quiet. I look at my watch. It’s nearly eleven.
“You called me sweetheart,” Jane says, her voice soft and low with a hint of a smile.
“I did. Do you mind that?” We continue to walk, her arm tucked in mine. I pass my car, make a mental note where I parked it, and continue.
“I’m up this way,” she points past the only traffic light. “Take a right towards the orchard.”
“There’s an orchard?”
“It’s farther out of town. You can get to it on the road past your pond. I don’t mind.”
“Don’t mind the road?”
“You calling me sweetheart. I don’t mind. But I don’t go on that road anymore.”
I look down at her and smile at the rapid change of her conversation topics. Her hair is loose, strands bouncing across her cheek as she walks. Her eyes glance at mine, their deep brown magnified by the tint of her glasses.
“Why don’t you go down that road anymore?”
“Because I don’t go swimming anymore.”
“Why don’t you go swimming anymore?”
“Because you saw me,” she hiccups.
“Well, it is my property,” I smile down at her.
“Hmm,” she looks up at me. “I’m not sure I believe that.”
We turn right, continuing on the sidewalk. There are fewer street lamps this way, but soon the houses become farther apart, lawns slightly larger. A few lights are on, the sound of a television. Upstairs, the outline of a teenager on his phone, a woman on a laptop. Open windows allow curtains to move slightly in the summer breeze. Somewhere,
a dog barks.
“I grew up in a town like this,” I say.
“I didn’t know New Jersey had towns like this.”
“Ha,” I grin, enjoying our regional antagonism. “Where did you grow up?”
“Not too far away. Up north. Rural Maine.”
“That must have been nice.”
I feel her shrug against me. “It could have been.”
We walk in silence for a while. “Rough childhood?”
She’s silent for so long I don’t think she’s going to answer me.
“Lonely childhood.”
I squeeze her hand. “I’m sorry.”
She tugs gentle on my arm and we cross the street, walking a few hundred yards down a hill, then take a right to a small cul-de-sac of bungalows, each unique and proportioned, with cherry trees and assorted gardens out front. I see a tire swing, a variety of colorful mailboxes, and at the base of the cul-de-sac, a lovely, cream house with a porch, two small trees in front, and a mailbox stacked on what looks like a pile of books.
Of course, I know where we’re headed.
“This is a lovely street.”
She nods against me, shifting her bag as we walk up the brick pathway to the porch. “I put an offer in as soon as I got the job. Could only afford 3% down, but I had to have it.”
“Where did you get the mailbox?” On closer inspection, it’s even more impressive. The stand a single piece of wood, but carved and painted so that it looks like a disorganized pile of books, each with a title written on the spine. The mailbox itself is shaped like a book, with the cover page as the opening.
“Penelope made it for me.”
“Who’s Penelope?”
“One of my friends,” she says as we reach the first step to her front porch.
I bend down to pick up a book and show it to her.
“That’s from Jessica.”
“Who’s Jessica?”
“Another friend,” she says, fishing through her bag. “She says my feminism isn’t intersectional enough, so she sends me books every week.”
I nod, turn my phone’s light on and shine it in her bag to help her look. I see several paperbacks before she finds her keys and manages to get them in the door.
Jane Air Page 10