He nods his approval and closes the door. Moments later, Ardal is in the driver’s seat, buckling up and throwing the car into gear.
“Where are we going?” I ask, buckling my seatbelt as well.
“My place.”
“Oh.”
“Unless you’d rather I put you up in a hotel.”
I give him a pointed look. “I’m not staying away, you know.” We are both quiet as he comes to a stop at a red light. I crash through the silence with, “My boss isn’t bad. He lost his temper. And he was drunk.”
Ardal peeks at me sideways. His hands clutch the wheel so hard, veins pop out in his toned arms. “Obviously I can’t make you do anything. But I hope you’ll consider leaving that place.”
Someone so concerned and so caring so soon gives me whiplash. It’s not natural. Maybe it’s an English thing. Somehow, I think not. Ardal seems to be the exception to many unspoken rules, rules about kindness and friendship and propriety.
“What?” he asks, a smile in his voice.
I’ve been staring at him, thinking these thoughts and wondering what on earth I am getting into. “Why do you care about me?” There is no accusation in my voice. I am curious and embarrassed.
Silence rules for the remainder of the ride, and it breaks only when we pull up to a small family diner. “Let’s get something in our stomachs, shall we?”
“Don’t have any money,” I mumble, humiliated further. Wait, there are three dollars—still tucked in the bra I wore yesterday. I’d managed to change into some skinny jeans and an olive V-necked t-shirt and my ruby-red tennies while Ringmaster shouted at me.
“Don’t worry; it’s my treat.” Before I can protest, he hops out of the car and jogs around to my side, opening the door and helping me out. “Have you ever been to this place?” It’s a short, L-shaped building with forest green gutters and matching shutters on the windows. Out front flies a red, white, and blue “OPEN” flag; and while the landscaping is sparse, there are some rounded bushes. It’s quaint but clean-looking.
I shake my head. “No.” He doesn’t need the whole truth, though, the fact I haven’t left that blasted little shop for the last three years of my remembered life. As we step inside together, I stare down at the shiny honey-comb flooring. “Have you been here?”
He makes a face as the seating hostess tells us to sit anywhere. “No, I haven’t. I usually do my own cooking.” Ardal gestures to a booth in the corner, and we sit. The menus are greasy, and this strange man is still making faces.
“You like to cook?” I see his soft smile over the top of his menu, which he is studying with intensity.
“It is one of my passions,” he says.
As if I understand, I nod. “It’s nice having something you love to do.”
“Not love. I save my love for—people.”
This is refreshing, and I cannot help but like this man a little more as a plump waitress brings us two sweaty glasses of water. “Have we had enough time to decide, or do we need a few minutes?” she asks, producing a notepad and pen.
Ardal laughs at the menu. “Are you ready, miss?”
Miss? Still not willing to call me by name, I see. I make a face and point to the cheapest thing on the menu. “I’ll have a scrambled egg.”
Ardal shakes his head at me and mouths, “Think big.”
My eyes roll of their own accord and I scan further down the menu for something else. “Scratch that. Are your butter pecan pancakes any good?”
“They’re my favorite!” the waitress is quick to assure me.
I hand her my menu. “Then I’ll have those.”
“Very good. And for you, sir?” Her pen flies across the page. I stare at the menu, which sticks out under her sweaty armpit, shudder, and wish for hand sanitizer.
Ardal’s shoulders heave and he at last comes out with, “Chocolate cheesecake.”
“For breakfast?” our waitress asks.
I laugh into my napkin. The waitress is gawking at Ardal like he’s asked her for chocolate-covered Brussels sprouts. It takes her a moment to regain her composure. “Well, that’s a first. It will all be up shortly.” She collects Ardal’s menu and jiggles her way back to the kitchen.
My amusement cannot be contained. “Have a hankering for chocolate?”
His lips twitch. “A menu says a lot about a restaurant.”
“We’re at a greasy spoon, then?”
He shrugs. “Perhaps.”
Something’s niggling at me, so I ask, “You were laughing at the menu. Why?”
Eyes lighting up, it is clear he is pleased I asked this question. “Did you notice how many different dishes they have? How many different regions their repertoire covers?”
I tilt my head to the side. “That’s a bad thing?”
Again he shrugs. “A cluttered menu represents a cluttered mind, which represents a cluttered palate. There’s too much variety. Too much to remember . . . That’s my opinion, anyhow.”
“And you ordered the cheesecake because…?”
“Simple: Most mom and pop places I know of don’t do their own baking. They outsource the dessert portion to local businesses. It could taste like cooling agent, though, unless they have the desserts covered…” He takes a sip of water, tossing the lemon aside where it then sits in a small puddle. He catches me staring at it and says, “What about you. What is your passion?”
His eyes are so intense. I hate lying, but what am I supposed to say? “My life is meaningless and empty, and the one thing I enjoy is reading about other people’s adventures”? My mouth opens and closes a few times, and finally I tell half of the truth, “I don’t know.”
“Hmm.” He traces his fingers through the water on the tabletop, making blotchy wet designs. There is a sad look in his eyes, and for a moment I wonder if he pities me. “Maybe you just haven’t found it yet.”
“Yeah,” is all I can think to say.
He stops his water-doodling and folds his hands in front of him on the coffee-stained tabletop. “What about books?”
“What about them?”
“You should’ve seen your face when I switched on the lights last night. It was like I’d given you the world.” He takes another sip of water, and I do the same. “Reading can be a passion.”
I must make a face, because he says, “Yes, reading can be a great passion indeed. But I suppose you think that insubstantial.”
“Don’t most people think it’s escapism?’
“So what if they do? And so what if it is? It’s a harmless and pleasant pastime.” He leans in, and I realize, with a start, I’ve been leaning forward as well.
Thank mercy! The waitress reappears at his elbow with a slice of chocolate cheesecake covered in caramel and peanuts. “Here you are, honey,” she says to Ardal, and looks at me. “Your pancakes are coming off the griddle right now, miss.”
We are both staring at the confection before him. “Want to share?” Ardal asks.
“No, it’s all right. You don’t want my germs.”
“Don’t bet on it.” He winks.
And I’m full of horrified laughter. What did he mean by that? “Maybe just a bite.”
He extends the plate, and I take off a morsel of the dessert with my fork. “Mm.”
“Please, take more. This slice is far too generous.”
I hesitate, and then take another small bite. “Mm. Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” He takes a bite himself and makes a critical face. “Hmm.”
“What?”
The waitress shows up with my pancakes and a bowl full of margarine packets and two tiny bottles of maple syrup. “Can I get you anything else?” she asks, placing our check facedown on the table.
“Looks good,” Ardal and I say in unison.
I blush. “You two are too cute,” the waitress says, and I wince. “I’ll be around if you need anything else.”
Ardal takes another bite and pushes the dessert away. “So, what else?”
“Wha
t else? What do you mean?” I spread the pseudo-butter onto my cakes and drench them in syrup. It smells divine, and as I cut into them with my fork, my mouth starts to water.
“What are your other interests? How do you spend your time?”
“Work.” The pancakes melt in my mouth, and I lose myself in a momentary sugar rush. I don’t remember the last time I had breakfast that wasn’t a liquid.
“Work. Surely you have free time. What do you do then?”
This is getting painful. I can no longer meet his eyes, and I take my time answering by shoveling my mouth full of flapjacks. But he asked so nicely, and after all he is treating me to breakfast. Don’t I owe him something for that? An answer is a cheap way to pay.
“You don’t have to answer,” he says, concern in every syllable.
I am clutching to my head, which throbs in time with my heartbeat. “I—To be honest, I don’t have any hobbies besides reading. Maybe I did have a hobby once upon a time, but—I don’t remem—don’t know.” My voice is too melancholy to be my own, and I hate myself for its sound and the words I have uttered. I still don’t look up. My appetite has vanished.
“Hmm,” Ardal says.
I peek at him, and it’s obvious he has a million questions but is either too polite or too careful to voice them. “So,” I say, having nothing to follow it. My mind is all over the place, and I am feeling dizzy and nauseated.
“I’ll be right back.” He has his wallet in his hands and approaches the cashier with the check.
“Get ahold of yourself, Scotch,” I say below my breath. I have a matter of seconds to regain my composure before he returns and rocks my boat again. One deep breath in through the nose, hold, out through the mouth. I wonder if there is any aspirin where I am going.
Ardal returns, plops a generous tip onto the table, and extends his hand to me. “Ready to get out of here?” He must take my hesitation wrong, because he says, “Unless you weren’t finished . . . ?”
“No, I’m finished.” After a moment’s pause, I take his hand, and he helps me to my feet. This is weird. Who does that sort of thing anymore? It is tempting to say as much, but instead I endure this act of kindness and am surprised to feel sad when he releases me.
“You both have a pleasant day,” says our waitress, who is on the way back to our table to collect her prize.
The handsome Englishman, who is still all manners, helps me back into the car, and I begin to have a nagging thought: Was this a date? No, I reassure myself as we pull out of the parking lot. If that was a date, last night was . . . I don’t know what last night was, so I lean back in my seat and close my eyes. Maybe when I open them my headache will be gone and everything will be sorted.
“Where to, J—friend?”
One of my eyes cracks open. “Not you, too.”
“Not me what?” he asks, laughing.
“You were going to call me Jewels, weren’t you?”
His spine goes rigid, and he stares at me longer than he should take his eyes off the road. “What makes you say that?” Ardal is trying to sound nonchalant, but there is tension there.
I wonder why Ringmaster would tell him the ridiculous nickname, which can’t be mine because I hate it. He’d caught me counting costume rubies late one night when I couldn’t sleep, and the name had stuck ever since.
I scowl. “My name is Scotch.”
“Yes,” Ardal says, though he doesn’t sound quite convinced.
I peek at him, and he’s peeking at me. “My boss used to call me Jewels. I hated it.”
He quirks a smile. “Does not surprise me. I’m sorry I almost called you that. It won’t happen again.”
Is he teasing me?
He peeks at me again. “What? I promise.”
With a sigh, I let it go and relax. What a stupid thing to fight over, a silly pet name.
“Hmm,” he says and makes a sharp turn. “Would you mind going into the glove compartment? I have a GPS stashed in there somewhere.”
“Are we lost?” I ask as he pulls into a gas station.
He reaches across me and pulls the device out. “Pardon my reach. Hmm.” He enters in an address and waits for the GPS to give him directions. “We aren’t lost, per se. I’m looking for a hotel.”
I’d forgotten he’s not from around these parts. “I’m sorry to cause such a hassle.”
“It is not a hassle,” he says as the device tells him to take a left and go two miles west. “On the contrary. And besides.” He cuts the wheel. “I’m the one who suggested you leave in the first place.”
It’s nice to hear, but I can’t help but feel like a freeloader. “I can pay you back.” Somehow, someway, I’ll pay you back . . . I hope.
He is told to take another left. “Don’t trouble yourself. This is all my treat. It is still your birthday, after all.” Ardal speeds up. “If you don’t mind my asking . . .”
I tighten my fists. “Yes?”
“How many candles?”
Oh, that. “Guess.”
“Oh, don’t make me do that.”
“Why not?”
It’s his turn to laugh. “It’s too dangerous. If I guess too old, you’ll be offended. If I guess too young, and you are young, you’ll feel belittled.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not one of those women who gets uptight about a number.”
Ardal looks like he doesn’t believe me but ventures a guess. “Thirty-one?”
“Close.”
He swears, and I laugh. “I’m usually good at that sort of thing.” He slows down, flips on his blinker, and we pull into a hotel that is way larger than a hotel has any right to be. “You must be thirty even?”
“Good guess,” I say. “Where are we?” I stick my tongue out at him, and he laughs. “No.”
“C’mon. You need to sleep, and here’s as good as place as any.”
Sitting there, I grow redder and redder because I know this hotel is going to cost him a ton of money. I am not worth this. “How about the budget motel around the corner . . . ?”
The landscaping surrounding the building is gorgeous and must cost more than what my salary would be at the shop—if I got paid in cash. And everyone is way better dressed than me in my skinny jeans and t-shirt. Even their luggage screams “MONEY!” This is the first time it occurs to me that Ardal might be a lot better off than I first thought.
He is already shaking his head. “You can’t have a thing for bed bugs and cockroaches.” He shudders and gives me a sideways smirk. “Do you?”
“Don’t knock ‘em ‘til you’ve tried ‘em.”
But still he gets out of the car, comes around to my side, opens the door and attempts to help me out. I remain a lead lump in the passenger’s seat. “Ardal.”
“Scotch,” he says back, at last using my name. “Come on. I insist.” He puts out his lower lip a little, so I bite my lip and let him help me out. Again, this is awkward.
I’m a fool. I follow him to the check-in desk.
“Hello,” Ardal says, his accent grabbing the desk clerk’s attention.
She stares at him, her eyes doing the once-over sweep before her grin widens. She spies me and sobers up. “Checking in?” she asks. Her fingers fly across her keyboard; and I think she’s showing off. “What accommodations can we make for you this eve—morning?”
Ardal frowns. It’s like he’s fighting himself over something but at last he says, “What’s available?”
“Well, at this time of day it’s hard to say . . .”
I know this isn’t true, and she’s looking at me rather unprofessionally like I’m competition, which I’m not. But her stare makes me uncomfortable, and I try to step behind Ardal and toward the newspaper rack, but his hand finds my waist and steers me back to his side. I freeze, and his hand is gone.
“Apologies,” he says, though he doesn’t seem as sorry as he should for touching me, not that I minded. To the check-in clerk he says, “If you’re full, she can always stay somewhere else.” He extends his a
rm to me, and the lady backs off.
“Ah, I think we have something to suit you.”
In the end, I am assigned to a small suite—the only thing available at this short notice . . . or so she says. She hands Ardal two keycards, mutters something we take as a thank-you, and goes to investigate the gossip behind her.
“Well, she was naff.”
I smirk but don’t meet his glances, which I know he is sneaking at me. “What time do you open shop?”
He makes a show of checking his watch. “Let’s see. Hmm. Well, actually, whenever I feel like it.”
“Must be nice.”
“Mm,” he says. We are silent until we get into the elevator. “She said third floor, didn’t she?” He starts stabbing at buttons, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Seventh,” I say as he lights the buttons up like a Christmas tree. “You do know we’re going to be stuck in this elevator forever, don’t you?”
He gives me a coy look. “Yes.”
I am warm all over. “You didn’t have to follow me up, you know.” If I look at him now I know I’ll regret it. Knowing me, I’d probably vomit all over his expensive shoes, and then where would we be?
“I know I don’t have to follow you up.”
He is staring at me like he wants to ask more questions, and I am so tired and drained that I don’t think I can bear being around him much longer. So I beat him at his own game by asking him a few of my own. “So, you’re not from around these parts.”
The elevator is full of his English laughter as the doors open to no one, hesitate, and close in the faces of a couple just too late to step inside. Upward again we go to the third floor.
“How long have you been in the States?”
Ding! The doors open and let in a small crowd. Ardal and I are backed into a corner where annoyed glances meet us. “Who pushed all those buttons?” one man grunts, only to be shushed by the woman in kid leather heels next to him.
“I’ve been in the States long enough to call this an elevator.”
“You do call it a lift over there, then, do you?” I ask, mimicking his dialect.
He beams at me. “Very good. You sound like you might be from the same island.”
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