Emma walks over and opens the jar of cherries for me. “When did you learn to make those?”
“My parents used to host a lot of parties when I was young. They refused to invite me until I mastered the art of mixing cocktails.”
“Oh,” she says, sounding horrified. “How old were you?”
“Seven or eight, I guess.”
“Really?” she asks, her face falling.
“No. Not really,” I say with a hint of a grin. “The movieCocktailwas on the telly once when I was going through my ‘I want to be the best at everything, just like Tom Cruise’ phase when I was a teenager. Since I wasn't old enough to be a fighter pilot or a lawyer, and our nanny had a love for libations, she was only too happy to be my taste tester.”
“I don't know which story is sadder—the sob story you made up or the real one,” Emma says.
“Neither is cause for pity. I promise, I’m fine.” I pick up one of the glasses and hand it to her, delighted when her fingers brush mine. “Let's see if I’ve still got it.” Raising my glass in the air, I say, “To Luc and Oona.”
“May they have a dozen little warrior babies who can tame dragons and wield a hammer like Thor.” Emma grins over the rim of her glass as she takes a sip.
* * *
Three hours and four cocktails later, we haven't exactly gotten back to work, but we have spent one of the most enjoyable evenings I can remember in a very long time. Somehow, we got on the subject of exes and I found myself sharing way too much about my first girlfriend—a certain airheaded teen pop music sensation that, if you think back to the year 2005, you’ll most definitely remember.
We've just been laughing ourselves silly, swinging on the side-by-side hammocks under the stars as I regale her with tales of my efforts in memorizing pickup lines à laNight at the Roxbury.
“Okay, worst part about being a writer…” Emma says swinging wildly on her hammock.
“Editing, hands down. Well, to be honest, two years of writer's block wasn't exactly a cakewalk, either. Oh, and I suppose the signings aren't exactly my cup of tea.”
“Yes, it sounds dreadful—all that smiling and talking to people who adore you,” Emma says, giving me a sideways look.
“Not to mention how sore my hand gets from signing my name by the hour.”
“Awful. Have you considered work as a coal miner?”
“Obviously, but none of them would be tough enough to take my place as a writer, so…”
She laughs, and I lie back and revel in the delicious sound of making her happy.
“Your turn. Worst part of being a chef.”
“Scrubbing pots.”
“Is that why you want to get out of here and run a proper restaurant kitchen? So someone else can do that bit for you?”
“Would there be any other reason?” Emma asks, grinning over at me. She reaches up both hands over her head and smiles up at the night sky, looking very dreamy, I might add. “I missed the stars,” she says, her words slurring together ever so slightly.
“When? As far as I recall, they never went anywhere.”
“Hardy har har. When I was living in New York, even though Iknewthey were there, I hated not being able to see them. Here you can see themall.”
I stare up at the millions of tiny lights framed by the treetops and slow my hammock to a stop with one foot. “They really are rather brilliant,” I say after a moment of reverence. “I can see how you'd miss them. Once you know they’re all up there.”
“I don't think I could ever give them up again.”
“That's too bad.” Shit, did I just say that out loud?
“Why is it too bad?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at me in confusion.
Son of a bitch. I really did say that out loud. “I have no idea. I must be drunk. Whose idea was it to drink anyway?”
