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"Are you sure?"
"Oh, yes."
He took his own seat, still doubtful. "Do you need me to massage it?"
The suggestion made her eyes go wide. "No! No, really, there's no need to bother."
"I have strong hands: I could take care of it in a flash. It'll be gone before you know it."
She grimaced. "I doubt that. Trust me, it's going to be fine. Let's have our salads, shall we?"
He let it go, turning his attention to his plate. It was mixed baby greens with thin slices of pear, crumbled gorgon-zola, and candied pecans. He'd had something similar in a restaurant, and Emma's version was just as good. "This is delicious."
"Thanks."
After this scintillating start, conversation lagged. Russ racked his brain to come up with something that might be of interest to a twenty-six-year-old woman.
Twenty-six-year-old? He couldn't come up with anything to say to a woman, period. His life revolved around work, hockey, a bit of charity fund-raising, and sitting in his re-cliner reading the paper. He couldn't remember the last time he'd done anything significantly different. He used to have hobbies: he used to play classical guitar; used to play a mean game of backgammon; used to camp and hike and had backpacked around Europe and southeast Asia for six months; he even used to dink around in his wood shop, making bad furniture.
Emma made a little noise in her throat, and he realized that the silence had gone for much longer than it should have. "Shall I put on some music?" she asked.
"Sure." Anything to fill up the silence. It would probably be teeny bopper music that he'd never heard. Just as long as it wasn't rap or hip-hop.
When she'd chosen a few disks and pressed play, though, Dean Martin's "Sway" came out of the small speakers.
He laughed. "This is way before my generation. I hope you don't think I'm that old!"
"Stop with the 'old' stuff, will you?" she said, sitting down again. "You're in your freakin' thirties. Big deal."
"I stand corrected."
"Good." She smiled. "And I happen to like old standards, and this song in particular."
"It's a great song."
"My mother used to play it and dance 'round the living room with our pomeranian in her arms. I'm not sure the dog thought much of the experience. It was a terrible dog; peed on everything."
"So your mother loves Dean Martin?"
"She says it was 'their' song, hers and my dad's. He died when I was nine."
"I'm so sorry." He imagined her mother dancing around the living room with the lapdog in her arms, swaying to the voice of Dean Martin as she longed for her husband. The image cut to that part of him that still grieved for James, and he felt his throat tighten. "So sorry."
Emma shrugged, her smile sad. "Life's full of surprises."
"How's your mother now?"
"She remarried a few years ago and lives in the Midwest now. She's happy."
"It must have been hard for you, losing him at such a young age."
"It was bewildering. Frightening. Mostly I remember the feeling of chaos; that all normality had been destroyed. I was afraid we'd have to move."
"Did you?"
"No. Grandma came to live with us. She somehow made us all feel safe; that things were going to be okay. And we were, mostly. My brother got into a lot of trouble at school and had a few wild years, but he turned out okay. He lives in Kirkland now, with his wife and baby daughter."
"Is your grandmother still around?"
She shook her head. "She died a couple years ago."
"That's a lot of death to have experienced, for someone as young as you."
"I think it helps me to appreciate the present. At least I tell myself it does. What about you? Have you lost anyone you cared about?"
"My brother. Six months ago." He somehow managed to get the words out.
"What was his name?"
"James." To his horror he felt tears start in his eyes. He cleared his throat. "But this isn't pleasant di
She looked at him for a long moment with wordless understanding, got up and lightly touched the back of his hand, then reached for his plate.
"I'll get it," he said, starting to stand.
"No, you can relax. Let me."
He stayed where he was, the feeling of that small touch on his hand lingering. As he watched her move away with the salad plates he yearned to sink into the warmth she seemed to offer; wanted to forget himself in her, if only for a few hours. Something about her seemed capable of that type of magic, transforming the grayness of his everyday life into something brighter.
The rest of the meal passed with light conversation about the city, about where they grew up, about places they'd been in the world. She'd spent her junior year of college in Italy and traveled extensively while she was there, which gave them plenty of impersonal topics to explore. They moved through the meal and into dessert: a mint truffle ice-cream terrine with two sauces.
"My God, you made this?" he asked as she set the square slice of ice cream with truffle polka dots in front of him.
"It wasn't as hard as it looks." She launched into a rapid-fire description of the construction, her voice higher than it had been over the lamb and side dish.
It took him a couple minutes to figure out what was going on. The instant he did, her nervousness became contagious. Once the ice cream was finished it would be time for that other "dessert."
Dammit! He'd forgotten about that-a testament to her cooking, or to his powers of denial.
Would she expect him to take the lead? No, wait. She'd said something about being creative with sex.
Crap. What did creative mean?
B movies rife with whip-wielding dominatrices cracked through his mind. Or maybe she'd bought a frightening toy at a sex shop: something long and electric, with nubs and lights and six speeds of humiliation.
He only had three bites of ice cream left until he was going to find out.
He made those last three bites last as long as he could, then looked at his watch. Eight-thirty. The night was young. Plenty of time for whatever she had pla
Oh God.
"It's time, isn't it?" Emma asked, her voice going up two octaves.
"For coffee?" he asked, pretending ignorance. Hoping she would take the stall.
"Coffee breath," she said. "Although I suppose we could brush. Only you didn't bring a toothbrush, did you?"
Oh God. Did he have bad breath? Was there food in his teeth? "No. I could go out and buy one."
"Easier to save the coffee for later, don't you think?" she asked with a quaver. "I imagine you'll, uh, be sleepy. Afterwards. And you have to drive home."
"Sleepy. Yes." Ah jeez, she meant after he'd come. Oh God. Oh God.
"You were pla
"God, yes. I wouldn't want to intrude."
She giggled. "No. We wouldn't want that. No intrusions of any sort!"
"Emma-" he started.
"No," she said, cutting him off. She took a deep breath, regaining her composure. "Don't say it again. I want to do this. If you need to use the bathroom, please go ahead and do so. Then I'd appreciate it if you'd go into my bedroom, undress, and lie on the bed. I have something special pla
All I meant was a nice casserole.
"Okay." He went to clean up in the bathroom with all the enthusiasm of a man preparing himself for the guillotine.
When he came out, she was leaving the bedroom. They sidled past each other in the short hall. He went into his former bedroom, dominated now by a queen-size antique brass bed, its covers folded down to the foot revealing a white expanse of crisp, clean sheet. Candles in small glass votives covered the dresser and bedside tables. The furniture and a cheval mirror were all antiques: like the dishes, they must have been inherited from her grandmother.