These two men, or men similar, had been to our town more than a time or two. Custom made suits made from the finest Italian fabrics, expensive gold on their wrists, and the most luxurious cars outside of wherever they happened to be. Their cologne alone probably cost more than the monthly rent the diner paid to stay open.
I inhaled the men’s combined scents—clean, almost like the ocean, but with a hint of something that could only be described as purely male. The fresh scent went against all of the smells floating around the diner.
Apart from their foreign, exotic presence, the make of their clothes, even their Italian accents, the stares in their direction came from their looks. It was impossible not to see Brando in their features, in their movements, in the confident way they walked.
Brando had been cut from the same cloth.
Not staring meant looking away, tearing the eye away from such beautiful people, the kind of beautiful that usually only exists in magazines.
I knew a thing or two about this. Pnina Poésy was a world-famous clothing designer.
This wasn’t the first time I had noticed the men or had seen them around town. Two of them had even come to the dance studio before, looking for Maja Resnik. Italian pears. That’s what they had delivered to her. A certain kind of pear that only grew in Italy. They were her favorite and every year a new delivery would appear wherever she happened to be. The pears delighted her.
After a few moments of hush, hush, chatter grew as the men looked over the menu, standing at the counter. Nothing here seemed to fit their tastes. The thought made something akin to a cold hand touch the back of my neck, causing goosebumps to appear on my skin. A feeling I had never felt before had caused the frisson.
Looking between Brando and the men had stirred it.
This damn peculiar sense of mine seemed to be developing. As much as I had no idea what had caused it, a freak of nature, there were times when I had no idea what the feeling coming to me meant. It bothered me. The recklessness of it. It needed a leash, but how to control something that had no shape?
The waitress seemed hesitant to approach the two men, but she finally did when another waitress shoved her in the back. Both of the women gazed at the men, their eyes wide, their lips parted. The men were as intimidating as they were gorgeous. A force field seemed to move with them.
This was not Brando’s first time at the diner, from what I had gathered when he refused a menu and ordered by memory, and the two women had acted the same way to him, as though they couldn’t believe he sat in this particular diner,their diner, in the old leather seats, ordering from a mortal’s menu. Our waitress had asked Brando if he wanted grapes with his steak.
As predicted, the menu didn’t appeal to the Italian men. Both were polite enough, thanking the nervous waitress in broken English, handing back the plastic sheet with all of the dishes listed on it. Instead of leaving, though, they just stood around, their powerful presence taking up all the space in the small diner. Every once in a while they would lean in close, whispering to one another in Italian. I couldn’t make out the words but the cadence of it was clear enough.
I wondered whether, after leaving, they would throw away their thousand-dollar suits for one without the fried hamburger stench. These men seemed the type to go for the most expensive red wines and the finest olive oils.
For the first time, Brando looked to his right, making eye contact with the two. Nothing appeared to have happened, just one look, but it was enough to make me sit up taller in the seat. More goosebumps scattered across my arms, and I shivered as though a cold wind had blown in. The tension between them hit me as though it were a powerful whip.
Just as soon as it had begun, it was over, and the two men strolled out of the diner, leaving their expensive scent behind, along with unresolved feelings inside of me. One of them had winked at me before he left.
Brando stood with his back to me, looking for another song. It wasn’t until then that I felt eyes on me.
Mitch. He said nothing, but being as curious as I was, his curious nature made friends with mine. He was curious as to why I had been watching Brando and the two Italians as intently as I had been.
The simple answer: I felt compelled.
In fact, the compulsion came close to making me insert my body between Brando’s and the two men, for reasons beyond me. The shock of it all was the only thing that had kept me weighted to the seat.
A new song started to play on the jukebox, a soft, delicate ballad. The tempo of it made me want to sway. It eased some of the tension that had been left in the air.
“Scarlett.” Brando stood over the table, looking down at me. “You remember this song?”
Listening harder for a moment, I shook my head.
“A girl in a music box. Remember?”
I looked to my left, then to my right. The table had gone quiet, everyone watching us. The surprised faces staring had me holding in a laugh. The guys were looking at me; the girls were looking at him.
Little wonder. He had asked two questions in a row.
“I do.” My cheeks flushed with hot blood.
“The night out in the snow. This is the song. Maggie Beautiful told me the name of it.”
My hair shielded me from prying eyes when I leaned forward. “Lionel Richie sings it,” I whispered. “That’s all I know. I’ve heard his music before. That’s how I know he sings it, I mean.”
I stared into his eyes. He didn’t seem to have an issue with all the staring, so why should I? I tucked the hair behind my ears and sat up a little taller. Then I did something I hadn’t done since Elliott died. I used sign language to communicate my feelings.
