She laughed. “You’re joking, right?”
“Titanic got great reviews, Leonardo DeCaprio makes the ultimate sacrifice, and the film isn’t sixty years old. I’d say it is the preeminent love story. At least of our generation.”
“Fine.” She waved a hand. “I’ll admit it’s a decent enough movie. But it doesn’t hold a candle to Casablanca. Especially when it comes to quotable dialogue.”
He spread his arms wide, revealing the mesmerizing breadth of his chest. “I’m the king of the world!”
“My point exactly! It doesn’t stack up to Here’s lookin’ at you, kid. Or Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.”
“We’ll always have Paris.” Despite his gorgeous Israeli accent with its drawn-out vowels, he’d donned a pretty spot-on Humphrey Bogart impersonation, wiggling his eyebrows as he leaned across the table. The look in his eyes was hot enough to melt the makeup off her face.
“Yes,” she said, her voice breathless. “We will.”
For long moments, they didn’t say a word, simply stared at each other. She wanted to memorialize his expression. Commission a master painter to capture it in oils so she could pass it down to future generations.
Cupping her chin in her hand, she asked him, “So what’s your favorite thing?”
“Spending the day at the beach,” he said, his TH sounds becoming D sounds so that to her ear it became, Spending dey day at dey beach. “Salty waves and sunshine,” he continued. “My feet in the warm sand. A cold drink in my hand.” He closed his eyes, and the candlelight made his eyelashes cast sooty shadows across his cheeks. “It’s my idea of heaven.”
Heaven… She was there now. Just looking at him. Just drinking him in.
“You know,” he said, his voice deliciously low, “you never told me how old you were when you left the States.”
“Four. I don’t even remember living in Brooklyn.”
“Have you been back since?”
“When my parents were alive, we would spend the Christmas holiday there with my aunt Louisa, my mom’s sister. But other than that…no.” She shrugged. “I guess you could say I’m a child of the world.”
His face sobered. “How long ago did they die?”
She realized then that every time she’d spoken of her parents, she’d glossed over their passing. Maybe because it still hurt too badly. Maybe because she didn’t want him feeling sorry for her. Or maybe because she still struggled with the reality herself.
“Three years ago.” She barely recognized her own voice; it was so rusty-sounding. “It was a crash on the Autobahn. I’m told it was violent and instantaneous. They never knew what hit them.”
He leaned across the table and took her hand. He wasn’t tentative about it. There was nothing tentative about the man. But he was gentle. And his fingers were strong and warm. Rough compared to hers.
She hadn’t realized how much she needed a comforting touch until he gave her one.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She’d heard those two words so many times since the crash. But never had they sounded more sincere. Mark Risa did nothing by half measures.
“I am too,” she admitted around the catch in her throat. Then she batted away her sadness and sat up straighter. “That’s enough of that. Tell me about your parents. Your father is a doctor, right?”
She remembered him mentioning something about his father’s “patients” in one conversation.
“Was a doctor,” he corrected. “He’s dead now. He and my mother.”
She deflated like a slashed tire and clutched his hand. “How?”
“They were attending a medical conference in Beersheba, in the south of Israel, when clashes with Gaza broke out. Their hotel was hit by a rocket. As with your parents, I was told they died instantly.”
Sonya closed her eyes and released a shuddering breath. “Why does the world have to be so violent?”
He was quiet for a moment. Then, “I don’t think it has to be. I think it can be better. As long as people like you and me continue to work for it.”
She opened her eyes, saw the stubborn set of his jaw and the determination on his face, and knew he would spend the rest of his life working for it.
