by Nancy Thayer
So there Darcy was, in her chic uniform of tight black slacks and shirt, her short dark hair capping her head, her high heels already uncomfortable but looking amazing. She stood in the doorway of the kitchen, catching her breath after an already crazy-busy Saturday night. The maître d’, Pierre—that was his real name—was showing a family to their table, a table in Darcy’s zone, and Darcy absolutely gawked.
They looked like a gathering of angels. Five people who had to be father, mother, two sisters, and one brother, with gleaming silver-blond hair and lean, athletic bodies, who looked as if they had their wings folded beneath their fabulous simple but elegant clothing. She’d never seen anyone quite like them.
She put on her best smile when she greeted them, and it was a good thing she’d said the words so often they came automatically, because when she was closer to them, she was nearly dumbstruck by their gorgeousness. They all possessed the same pale blue eyes beneath arched blond eyebrows and they all seemed so happy.
They liked her, too. The father asked her advice, and took it, for the main courses and the wine, and they complimented her on her suggestions. She felt the son’s eyes lingering on her, his appreciation of her almost steaming off him, and she knew if she let her eyes meet his, she would blush—and she did let her eyes meet his, and she did blush. They all wanted drinks first: the mother and the oldest daughter champagne cocktails, the younger daughter sparkling water, the father and son gin and tonics. The son’s eyes remained on her as she walked away.
The rest of the evening passed in a hormone-thick blur. Darcy wasn’t unaware of her own allure. She was tall, slender, and shapely, with dark hair and hazel eyes and a plump mouth. For Bijoux, she went heavy on the eyeliner, using kohl drawn a little up and out, giving her an exotic look. She didn’t do this to attract men; she didn’t especially want a man in her life. She was free, and she wanted to be free; she had plans. She wanted to work at the Boston Public Library; she hoped, by the time she was fifty, to be its president. If she’d ever had any kind of true home, it was a library.
The restaurant was clearing out, the bar still busy but several tables empty by eleven o’clock, when she returned to the table with the black leather folder holding the father’s credit card.
“Thank you for visiting Bijoux,” Darcy said sweetly. “I hope this is au revoir and not goodbye.” Pierre’s father, the owner of the restaurant, insisted his waitstaff say exactly those words and Darcy always obeyed, even though she wanted to roll her eyes as she said them.
The father cocked his head, peering up at her with a twinkle in his eye. “Well, Darcy, I know my son will be back. I can tell by the way he’s been looking at you.”
Darcy was too embarrassed to glance at the son. Of course she’d been flirted with before in the restaurant. She’d learned to flirt back carefully, playfully. But tonight, this table—especially the son, but not only the son—had captured her fancy and her admiration. The family had so much fun together, leaning toward each other to share a secret or a joke; and the father often whispered in his wife’s ear, making her smile. They teased each other, she could tell, and they shared their food, passing their plates around, tasting, commenting, nodding in agreement. Certainly she’d made a point to be equally charming to all of her tables tonight, so that the Szwedas, especially their son, didn’t know how bowled over she was by this family’s allure.
So she blushed, tongue-tied, and hurried away from the table, hoping the family would believe she left so abruptly because other tables were waiting, and that was certainly true. She stepped into the kitchen, where the diners couldn’t see her, and took a moment to breathe deeply and compose herself. When she returned to the dining room five minutes later, they were all gone.
She got back to her apartment around one thirty. As always, she was exhausted, but she summoned up the energy to open her laptop. Of course she had seen the name on the credit card, and a memorable name it was: Makary Szweda. She googled him and discovered he owned a real estate agency that seemed to handle upscale houses in the poshest Boston suburbs. The Szweda Real Estate Company had twelve agents. One of them was Boyzdar Szweda, the son. The older sister, Irena, was also an agent. Lena was a sophomore at Wellesley. Darcy found several photos of them on the Internet. The mother, always opulent at a charity function with her silver-blond hair and gleaming jewelry, was named Dita. The entire family was often captured together, lifting champagne glasses, toasting the success of a fundraising event.
She wondered how Boyzdar was pronounced.
That single event cast her into the most unsettled mood. The son, the handsome son, had smiled at her, really smiled. She had thought he was trying to connect, although that was a ridiculous idea: She was a waitress, he was almost a prince. But she couldn’t get him off her mind the next day during her classes at Simmons. She felt unsettled and grouchy when it was time to leave for work.
That evening, her shift started at six o’clock. She took the T up to the Beacon Hill area where Bijoux was located, and slogged through dirty piles of slush. It was February, a gloomy month, a month Darcy had always relished, because it was so perfect for curling up inside beneath an afghan and reading. But today the weather held no delight. It was achingly cold, and the sky was as bleached as an old gray towel, the Christmas decorations that had brightened the winter were gone, and even Valentine’s Day had passed, so shop windows were boring. It was a dreary time of year, depressing and colorless—
And there in front of the restaurant stood Boyz with an enormous bouquet of spring flowers! He had husky-dog pale blue eyes and he was smiling at her.
“These are for you,” he said when she drew close. “To apologize for my father’s comment.” He wore a camel’s hair overcoat with the collar turned up and a Russian-looking fur hat.
She was too stunned to speak.
“I hope you won’t think I’m as discourteous as he was. I confess, however, he wasn’t wrong, because I was staring at you all evening. So I brought you flowers for many reasons.”
Darcy thought: Oh, golly. Her next thought was she wished she’d worn her good wool coat instead of her puffy down parka. She knew this was the beginning of something, so she made herself slow down and act like a grown-up instead of like the shrieking teenager doing cheers in her head.
“Oh, you didn’t need to do that.” She was so composed, the very picture of poise.
“Well,” he said teasingly, “in that case, I guess I shouldn’t give you the flowers.”
“You absolutely should give me the flowers,” Darcy said boldly. “And you must give me your address so I can write you a thank-you note.” Was she saying these words? Was this who she was? It was!
“Ah, I see. Then I’ll know your full name and address, so I’ll be able to write you to ask you out to dinner.”
The wind was howling down the street, crackling the cellophane around the poor flowers, and she was warm, heading toward sizzling.
“Or I could give you my cell number.”
He smiled. “Or I could invite you to dinner right now.”
“What a good idea!”
“Darcy, would you care to go out to dinner with me tomorrow night?”
“How do you know my name?”
“You introduced yourself to us last night. ‘Hello. My name is Darcy, and I’ll be your server tonight.’ ”
Darcy laughed, probably more than she should have, because behind the man with the flowers, on the other side of the window, the bartenders and two waiters were making lovey-dovey kissy faces at her.
“You have a very good memory,” she said. “But I’m afraid I don’t know your name.” Of course, she did know his name but had no idea how to pronounce it.
“My name is Boyzdar Szweda,” he said and he made a slight bow. “But everyone calls me Boyz. My family is Polish, with a little Swedish thrown in.”
“Boyz.” Darcy tried the name. It was like saying boys but with a little zip at the end. “I’m delighted to meet you, and I look for
ward to dinner tomorrow night, but, I’m sorry, the idiots I work with are being ridiculous on the other side of the window.” She was aware she didn’t speak this way usually, so formally, and it was as if she were caught in a spell.
Boyz turned. The bartender and waiters stopped posing and waved. Boyz waved back.
“Your colleagues like to keep an eye on you,” he said. “Shall we give them something to talk about?”
Before she could even imagine what he meant, Boyz put his arms around her, pulled her to him, tilted her back toward the pavement, and kissed her long and hard, managing to hold the flowers behind her back so they weren’t crushed. Then, she’d swooned at such a romantic act. Later, she’d realized it was the first of many signs that Boyz was an actor and all the world his audience.
He drew her upright and steadied her as he pulled away from their kiss. With one gloved finger he stroked the side of her face. “My cell number is on the card tucked in the flowers. Call me when you can so we can lock in tomorrow night.” He handed her the bouquet.
“Thank you,” she said. “For the flowers. And for the kiss—I’ll be the envy of all the staff.”
Boyz walked away. Darcy floated into the restaurant with flowers in her arms. Immediately she was surrounded by catcalls and whistles and applause. Completely not her usual shy self, she performed an impromptu curtsy. Then she hurried back to the staff lounge to put the flowers in water and organize herself for the evening. Black shirt and pants, discreet black apron around her waist for her order pad, and energy sparkling all around her. She got enormous tips that evening.
She wore a red cashmere sweater to dinner the next night. Red always set off her dark hair and eyes, and besides, she felt red. Vibrant. Bold. She purposely did not wear anything too tight or cleavage exposing. Boyz picked her up at her apartment—she told him she’d come down, she didn’t want to intrude on her roommate’s evening, trying to make that sound mysteriously sophisticated. In fact, her roommate, Rachael, was slopping around in her stained pajamas, eating ice cream, and watching Bridget Jones’s Diary—she’d just had a bad breakup. So Darcy waited just outside her apartment door.
Boyz drove a silver BMW convertible—Of course he did, she thought, as he stepped out to kiss her cheek and escort her around to the passenger side.
He took her to an Indian restaurant on Newbury Street. They were shown to a booth near the back, where it was quiet and dark except for the lights beaming from the exquisitely detailed copper and glass hanging lamps.
“This place reminds me of my favorite restaurant in London,” Boyz told her. “I’m a huge fan of Indian food. I’ve never been to India. Have you?”
“I’ve hardly been anywhere,” Darcy told him. She had had a serious talk with herself before the date, asking whether she was going to be frivolous and flippant about her family or be simply her lonely self. She had decided she couldn’t carry off any kind of a happy-go-lucky act with this man, and she didn’t want to.
“My parents are divorced,” she continued. “My father lives in Florida. Sarasota. I’ve been down there exactly twice to see him. He doesn’t come to see me or even his own mother. He won’t leave Florida. And then I’ve got my mother, who is always traveling. She might be in the Southwest. She texts me now and then, but she hasn’t invited me to join her. Oh, I did go to Washington, D.C., with my eighth-grade class one spring.” God, she was sounding positively pathetic. “But my grandmother lives on Nantucket, and I’ve lived with her most of my life, and Nantucket is fabulous!”
Boyz nodded. “Nantucket.” He seemed to roll the thought around like tasting a new wine. “I’ve heard it’s great. Our agency has a branch on the Vineyard, but I’ve never been to Nantucket. It’s so far out in the ocean. Not very accessible.” He brought his eyes back to her face. “So do you have any siblings?”
“No. I wish I did, but that didn’t happen.” Darcy tried to sound upbeat about this, but it was difficult.
Boyz put his hand on hers as it lay on the table. “You must be lonely.”
Oh, dear, she was coming off absolutely pitiful. That was not how she wanted to seem—that wasn’t how she was. “No, I’m not lonely. I have my grandmother, and I have some really close wonderful friends, and I have books.”
“Books?” Boyz looked perplexed.
“Yes, books. I’m a reading addict. A bibliophile.” She could see how he wasn’t understanding. “I read constantly. Books cheer me up, teach me things, give me bits of wisdom, entertain me—” He still looked confused.
She should have known at that moment that no matter how gorgeous he was, he wasn’t right for her. The waiter came with their orders. For a while, Darcy and Boyz focused on the hot and spicy food, the naan, the unusual flavors.
“I mean,” she continued, “what do you read for pleasure? Thrillers? Grisham? Lee Child? Or maybe Henning Mankell? Camilla Läckberg? They’re Swedish writers with an international following.”
“I’m afraid I must disappoint you. For pleasure, I read sales agreements and contracts. I’m immersed in our business, as is all our family. Our firm is quite important, top-shelf, and we want to keep it that way. Also, our family is quite—active. We have a house on Lake George, and we spend much of our summers there. In the winter, we stay there and ski at Gore Mountain. Sometimes if the winter is too long, we go to St. John in the Virgin Islands for swimming and scuba diving. Have you ever gone scuba diving?”
“No,” Darcy responded simply, feeling slightly overwhelmed.
“Ah, you must go. It’s a sensational experience!”
“Mmmm,” she agreed, with a mouth full of chicken tikka and rice. It was an exciting thought, swimming in warm blue waters, gazing at wondrously colorful fish.
Deep inside, she had split into two halves: the Timid, Apprehensive Darcy who didn’t know how to ski, was terrified of flying, and probably would go into a claustrophobic fit if she put on goggles and a tank and flippered down into the ocean, and the Brave Bold Darcy, who could do it all, and why not? She was young. She probably hadn’t met all of herself yet.
That night Boyz didn’t try to go to bed with her, although he asked to take her to the ballet that Saturday. She usually worked weekends, but a waiter friend agreed to trade shifts with her, if she’d promise to tell him every detail of the evening.
She was excited about going to the ballet. It was Swan Lake. She knew the music and had seen clips of it on her PBS television station. She’d never seen it performed live. Boston Opera House was a stunning gold palace devoted to the arts, and Darcy was breathless when an usher showed them to the Szwedas’ box. From there, she could see not only the stage but the gorgeously dressed audience. She wore a simple black dress with pearl earrings and knew she looked good, but it made her breathless to think she was part of this cultured crowd. At intermission, Boyz spoke about Tchaikovsky’s life, his knowledge and enthusiasm practically making the man come alive before her eyes. Maybe it was the champagne they were drinking, or the rustle of silk and satin and the gleam of jewelry around her, but Darcy felt lifted into a rarified atmosphere, one she’d never visited before.
The next Saturday, he took her to a performance at Symphony Hall. Afterward, at dinner in the Top of the Hub, Darcy looked out over the sparkling city and shared insights about Shostakovich. She had read up on the composer earlier that day, but Boyz spoke of him almost as if he were a relative. When their meal was over, Darcy leaned her chin in her hand and studied Boyz as he talked. True, he wasn’t a reader. But he was a storyteller, one who knew much more about the complicated history of Eastern Europe and Russia than Darcy had ever known. Boyz mixed in anecdotes about his grandparents and great-grandparents with his stories about famous musicians and artists, and he spoke in such a way that Darcy could almost see the people shimmering before her eyes.
Later, after their marriage, she would hear these tales over and over again, and always word for word. Later, she’d realize that Boyz had his knowledge organized in categories, and he could
call a subject up to fit the interests of the potential buyer of a multimillion-dollar home. Golf? Boyz could talk about Tiger Woods and Jack Nicklaus. Baseball? Boyz had season tickets to loge box 157; he’d be glad to share them. Art? He and his family were supporters of the Museum of Fine Arts. Boyz could arrange a private tour if they’d like. Cars? His knowledge ranged from the German Touring Masters to NASCAR.
That evening at the Top of the Hub, blissed out by the expensive wine and Boyz’s conversation, Darcy fell in love with the man, or, more accurately, with her idea of the man. Later, she’d realize how flattering her wide-eyed attention was to Boyz. Later, she would understand that he was always in a silent competition with his father for title of Most Fascinating, Cultured, Seductive, and, of course, King of Real Estate Sales. But in the early days of their relationship, Darcy felt like Cinderella who had met her prince. It didn’t occur to her that this had never been her favorite fairy tale.
For his part, Boyz enjoyed bathing in the glow of Darcy’s innocent admiration. Darcy looked sophisticated; he was proud to have her at his side during important events. She had good conversation; she knew things from books. She was tender and undemanding in bed. She remembered how he liked his coffee, how he preferred his socks laid flat, not rolled. When he lost a sale, she put her arms around him and murmured sweet nothings. She was kind. She was nurturing. She was beautiful, and she was his.
After only a few weeks of dating, Boyz invited her to Sunday dinner at his parents’ house. Darcy was nervous about that. She knew it was a significant occasion.
The Szwedas’ house was a jaw-droppingly stupendous mansion in Belmont. Boyz’s mother did not serve the dinner. They had a butler who served the food the cook had prepared. These were realms of wealth she’d never seen before, and she had lived much of her life on Nantucket, where a simple one-bedroom cottage might sell for a million dollars.