I’d bring my research with me. I didn’t own much. The furniture had come with the cabin. I had a suitcase of belongings, maybe two. Nothing sentimental keeping me here. Nothing sentimental keeping me anywhere.
Where did you go?
Ben wanted me to come home. My ticket would be one-way, and I’d bring everything, because this trip was going to be long, permanent. Maybe I’d get an answer. Either way, I already knew I wouldn’t be coming back here.
Exhaling a breath, I picked up the phone.
3
Dodie
New York, New York
Everyone hates first dates. The awkwardness, the sheer terror of rejection. The armor you have to put on, piece by painstaking piece, before you leave the house. The pinching small talk. Excruciating, really. Just awful.
I sat at a small table in a restaurant in the Lower East Side and made sure everything was just so. The cutlery wasn’t spotted, the single candle was lit, the cloth napkins were folded into pleasant squares. I adjusted my posture to be straight enough to flatter but not so straight as to appear stiff. I didn’t need to check my hair or makeup in my compact mirror because I already knew I looked good. I always did.
Tonight’s first date was named Ethan Markham, and I’d never met him before, which was perfect. One of the other models at the agency, Nadia, knew him from the building she lived in. She suggested him to me because all the models I knew were aware I was dating, that I was looking. I put the word out. They might havethought I was a little pathetic, because it behooves a model to be standoffish with men, to make them chase her.
Nadia didn’t want to date this Ethan Markham herself, and she didn’t say why. It was probably because she was sleeping with a photographer in Hell’s Kitchen while also seeing a man who claimed to be a movie producer and was almost definitely a liar. In other words, she was busy, so she sent him my way.
All I knew about Ethan Markham was that he lived in New York, was in no way involved with the modeling business, and was thirty years old. I knew that his voice on the phone was low and pleasantly nervous when he called to set up this date. He made no small talk and hung up as soon as possible. He also had a nice name, which spoke of a man who was conventionally handsome and probably a bit of a bore. That was fine with me, because after tonight, I’d never see him again.
I tapped my fingers on the table, impatient. My nails were manicured, my hands soft, because yesterday I’d modeled a watch for a jewelry company. Hand modeling was lucrative and hard to get. Many models disdained it, because since no one sees your face, you can’t get famous. This was never something that bothered me, and my hands were exquisite, so I was in some demand.
There was murmured conversation in the dim corner of the restaurant, and then a man appeared at my table. “Dodie Esmie?” he asked, hovering just behind his chair, in case he had the wrong woman.
I pushed my chair back and stood, smiling. I hid my surprise. Ethan Markham was tall—over six feet—and lean, his limbs long. His dark hair fell in curls about an inch too far in need of a cut, flopping over his ears. He wore dark-framed studious-looking glasses and an expression that was serious and rather sweet. He held out a large, rawboned hand to give me a handshake, like an undertaker. His suit was navy blue.
“Hi,” I said, shaking his hand. His skin was warm, which surprised me again. Everyone had clammy hands on a first date. Ethan’s hand felt pleasant. Though his demeanor was solemn, his face was youthful, his jawline clean.
He dropped my hand quickly, pulling away. “It’s nice to meet you.”
We pulled out our chairs and sat, facing each other.
“You surprised me,” I said to him after we’d given our drink orders.
He blinked at me. “Why?”
“Because you don’t look like an Ethan. But honestly, I’m happy about it. Life is boring when everything is the way you expect.”
A small crease appeared between his brows as he frowned. “I don’t know what a Dodie is supposed to look like,” he admitted. “I’ve never met one before.”
I laughed.
“Did I say the wrong thing?” he asked. Before I could answer, he shook his head. “Wait a minute, I’m confused. What is an Ethan supposed to look like?”
“Blond, I think,” I said. “A Wall Street type, maybe. Square chin. Lots of golf.”
This seemed to throw him further into confusion. “I don’t golf. Is that a problem? I’ve never been to Wall Street in my life. I’m sorry if I’ve let you down.”
“Relax,” I said. I reached over and touched his arm, which was a mistake, because my fingertip touched the inside of his wrist and he pulled away again, as if by reflex. It was a little bit like a come-on, which wasn’t what I intended.
I pulled my hand back. I had to regroup, which I didn’t usually need to do. “I only mean that you don’t have to worry about the impression you make on me because it’s just a first date.”
Ethan looked surprised, and then the waiter came, and we were distracted by giving our orders. I ordered a caprese salad because itwas delicious and because it always confounded people. It was a salad, which meant a model could order it, but it was also cheese. Perfect.
“I thought impressions were important on a first date,” Ethan said when the waiter had left. It started to sink in for me just how earnest he was. His eyes were dark and handsome behind his glasses.
