To be fair, she’s trying very hard not to cry, blinking repeatedly, and pretending to look for her gloves, which proves how upset she must be.
I wrap an arm around her slim frame. “Cobblestones can be a bugger for the unwary. You might have twisted your ankle.”
“It’s probably hormones,” she says at the same time.
Oh, for bollocks’ sake, if there’s anything less comfortable than tears, then it’s words like hormones.
“Can I get you another hot chocolate?”
Dabbing the corners of her eye with a tissue, she forces a smile. “I’m fine.”
“Do you want to go home? There’s some knees up at the pub tonight, but we don’t have to.”
She draws in a long deep breath. Then pulls herself together. I can actually feel her shoulders straitening under my arm. “You don’t have to go. But I am going, and I’ll be fine going alone. I’m going to celebrate and show everyone I’m absolutely fine.”
“Okay, what have they done? Who’s upset you?”
She sends me a surprised look.
I wait.
“You smell nice,” she says which tells me she doesn’t want to talk about whatever it is.
“Thank you.”
“I got you something.” She reaches inside the yellow fabric tote and pulls out a wrapped package.
It’s two bottles with a dark liquid inside. I hold one of them up to the light, curls of orange peel, leaves, and what looks like seeds swirl around the bottom. The ingredients label says honey, olive oil, balsamic vinegar, herbs. “Is this aftershave?” I wink at her and she almost smiles.
“It’s orange and honey salad dressing. For some reason the smell of oranges reminds me of you.”
No one has ever told me I smell like oranges. Women usually say I smell sexy, or horny or savage, or any number of stupid things we all say in the dark in the throes of passion.
Never oranges.
It’s a surprisingly nice complement.
I lean over and kiss the top of her head. Just a friendly kiss, I swear.
We stroll around for a while. Me enjoying her proximity, she thinking about whatever.
Eventually, she says. “This bazaar is a great idea, all that local good will, very heart-warming. But how much money can it make?”
A-ha, now I see.
Was that why she spent an hour printing papers this morning?
“I imagine, you could help them apply for much bigger sponsorship. I bet half your life is about political donations.”
She says nothing, but the sudden, stuttering breath she takes is answer enough.
“And the manager didn’t want to know? Was it that sour-faced Philomena woman. She was very quick to take umbrage earlier, wasn’t she?”
Lessa’s eyes briefly flick to me. “You don’t miss much, do you?”
“Some people are a bit small-minded. Rather like a pennywhistle that’s been put in charge of a Beethoven symphony.”
Lessa laughs, and it warms me that I’ve managed to cheer her up.
