“Lots of Champagne tonight. How are your parents taking it?”
She ran her fingers through her damp red curls. “They’re thrilled. But even after the scholarship, they’re not happy about the tuition, and they don’t want me to take out a loan, but I can if I need to. I’ll have to get a parttime job.”
Claire leaned toward her. “We’re still going to be roommates, right?”
“You know I can’t live without you.”
She relaxed against her chairback. “At least we have reasonable rent, and they can’t raise it much thanks to rent stabilization. You could get a weekend job with a designer.”
Cutting her eyes to a neighboring table, Marti lowered her voice. “Don’t look now, but I think you have an admirer. He’s alone and can’t pry his eyes off you. Just behind you, to your left, madras plaid shirt.”
“Madras? That’s as retro as my gingham. At least we have something in common.” Claire nonchalantly turned her head and caught a glimpse of a strikingly handsome man. She faced Marti and mouthed,Wow! Wrapping the pink triangle around her unwashed hair and tying it at the back of her neck, she prayed the room they got that night would have a shower, even if it was down the hall. “I hope my deodorant’s working.”
“I don’t think he’ll notice.”
The waiter placed a small dish of olives and two glasses of lemonade on the table. One ice cube bobbed in each drink.
“Ice—the size of a Chicklet—but it’s ice.” Marti scooped up her glass and rolled it against her cheek. “I’m thinking of our literature class and howDante’s Infernohas taken on new meaning. I think I could write a better essay about Hell after surviving this sauna.”
Claire laughed. “Do you think we should head north or maybe to the coast for the sea breezes? Back to England for the rain? Maybe the madras guy has a recommendation?”
“I think I should find the ladies’ room.” Marti got up, nodded to the admirer, like she was in cahoots with him, and walked inside the café.
Claire popped an olive in her mouth. What was Marti up to? Claire dreaded returning to New York, but where else would she find a design job? Her mother had left her enough money for college, but she needed to make her own living now.
She rested her elbows on the table and chose another olive. Something hit the table, causing it to skid away from her. A large hand grabbed it, dragging it back, but it tilted and the glasses toppled. A wave of lemonade splashed across the table and dripped onto her skirt. She gasped.
“Je m’excuse! Désolé.” A male voice boomed. “Désolé.” A man grabbed a napkin from a nearby table, spewing French as he mopped up the liquid. More French tumbled from him as he mopped and grimaced.
He was the madras-wearing admirer. Had he spilled the drinks on purpose?
The lemonade was more sticky than cool, and it was congealing in the heat. She ripped off her triangle scarf and sopped up the liquid before it drenched her backpack. Her skirt was the last clean thing she had.
“Je m’excuse. Désolé!” He continued spouting French like a whale clearing its blowhole.
She suspected the admirer was asking forgiveness, but his words floated over her. “I…I don’t speak French.” The word for sorry she knew. She’d used it enough. “Désolée.”
“Ah, you are American.” His brown eyes danced with mischief as he smiled at her. “Me too. I was trying to protect my camera, I lost the lens cap, and instead of catching it, I bumped your table, and as I tried to right it, I tipped it, and spilled your drinks and really made a mess of things, didn’t I? I’ve ruined your beautiful skirt. You’re so fashionably dressed—I thought you were a Parisian. I’ll pay to have it cleaned. Please forgive me.”
“It’s okay. Not a big deal.”
“I’m sure a skirt like that is very expensive. I insist.”
“Really, I sewed this skirt myself. It didn’t cost that much, and I can handwash it.” She wrung out the triangle scarf. “In this heat it will dry in seconds.”
“You’re a very talented designer and a good sport. Still, I’m so sorry. Let me order two more drinks. Is that lemonade? Or do you wish a Kir Royale?”
Her mouth opened and closed but words stuck in her throat as her heart thumped. She was so attracted to his muscled arms, she couldn’t get her brain or her mouth to work.
He dragged an empty chair toward her table. “May I join you?” Without waiting for her reply, he slid his chair over next to hers, called the waiter and, from what she could figure out, ordered two more lemonades. She hoped he was paying.
Despite the stickiness, the liquid drying on her skin was at least cooling. Or was her skin heating up from the man’s closeness and evaporating the liquid?
“I’m David.” He extended his hand and smiled so broadly the two dimples on either side of his mouth dazzled her. He was so warm, friendly…handsome. His eyes were kind and trustworthy. Was he a mirage? A thief? They’d been warned about thieves. She tightened her grasp on her purse strap.
“Your name is…” He pointed.
“Oh, sorry. Um…I’m Claire.” She put out her hand. He brought it to his lips and kissed it ever so tenderly. A chill ran through her.
