After Darke

by Heather MacAllister

  No one paid the slightest bit of attention to them. Other than the two men at the window table, there was only a young couple holding hands in the corner and a party of four laughing and talking rapidly in Italian.

  It was on the early side for dinner, but not that early. The place should be hopping.

  Well, if Lorenzo’s was as good as he’d heard, by the time he wrote about them, they’d cram another five tables into the room and still be full every evening.

  “Pellegrino con gas, per favore,” Jaron said to the boy, and a bottle of water appeared almost instantly, along with the menu. Excellent.

  “Shouldn’t you be taking notes?” Bonnie asked dryly. She’d been silent ever since they’d walked in the door.

  “I generally don’t when I’m entertaining a guest.”

  “Entertaining? Oh, please. We are so beyond that. Take your notes. Then at least the evening won’t be a total loss for you.”

  All righty, then. Jaron withdrew a leather-covered notebook from his breast pocket. “And the evening isn’t a total loss.”

  “How do you figure?”

  Jaron glanced past her and quickly counted the tables. Twelve, just as he’d thought. “Your aunt and my mother would have kept after us to go out together. Now we’ve done so and they’ll leave us alone.”

  “Yeah, right.” Bonnie rolled her eyes.

  “You’re leaving for home this weekend, aren’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “Problem solved.” At least temporarily. “Now, tell me your first impression when you walked in the door.”

  She lifted a shoulder and allowed the change of subject. “White tablecloths and dark wooden floors. Garlic. I’m guessing it’s a two-, maybe three-dollar-signs place.”

  He smiled as he scribbled a possible lead for his column. “Just for you, I’ll try to work that in.”

  She fingered the red flower set between two votive candles. “The carnation is real.”

  “Good.”

  “Yeah. At Tubb’s Café back home, they use plastic flowers that get all dusty. It’s really gross.”

  Tubb’s Café. Plastic flowers. What must the kitchen be like? “You actually eat there?”

  “Sure. The food’s okay, and there’s not a lot of choice in Cooper’s Corner.”

  Jaron made a mental note to avoid Cooper’s Corner as a waiter brought focaccia and drizzled herbed olive oil on a plate, then presented him with the wine list.

  Jaron glanced over the card. Lorenzo’s offered a small selection of Italian wines, with a few very reasonably priced, most in the moderate range, and a couple for very special occasions. Smart. “Would you care for wine?”

  “Definitely.”

  He made eye contact with their waiter, who’d been unobtrusively standing by. “Do you have a preference?” he asked Bonnie.

  “Large.”

  He’d meant red or white. “A bottle of the Leverano and a big gulp for the lady.”

  “Pardon?” The waiter bent forward slightly.

  “Never mind, he’s making a joke,” Bonnie said to him.

  Jaron nodded and the man took off.

  Bonnie gave Jaron a scathing look, opened the menu, then closed it almost immediately.

  “I know you said you weren’t hungry, but please order something. To be fair, I need a good sampling.”

  “I am ordering. I’ve already made up my mind.”

  Jaron looked at the modest menu. One side held the usual Italian offerings, but the other was a handwritten description of the day’s specials. That meant half the menu changed daily according to what the chef had found at market. Jaron began to suspect the reason for the raves he’d heard about the place. “How can you possibly have read the menu and decided that quickly?”

  “I want spaghetti and meatballs. I was just making sure they had it here.”

  “Did you see the daily specials? There are four different fish dishes, not to mention the lamb. And the Veal St. Francis—”

  “You eat veal?” She looked horrified.

  “You’d order spaghetti and meatballs when you could have anything from Crab Claws Venetian to prosciutto with melon and figs?”

  “I like spaghetti.”

  “You might like one of the other dishes.”

  “Or not.”

  “But...spaghetti?”

  “With meatballs. It’s an extra charge. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “You can have spaghetti anywhere.”

  “And I do.” Her lips thinned. “Consider me a spaghetti-and-meatballs expert. It’ll be the control dish. If they cook the basics well, then think what they’ll do with the fancy stuff.”

  She had a point. A very valid point. He hated when that happened. He should admit as much, but didn’t have it in him.

  “You aren’t one for culinary adventures, are you?” He scanned the entrées and was tempted to order more than one.

  “I don’t see the point.”

  “You don’t see the point?” He was astounded.

  She shook her head.

  “You might find something you like better. What if you’d never tasted spaghetti and meatballs?”

  “I didn’t see fried chicken on the menu.”

  Bonnie’s intrigue factor plunged. Jaron ordered two appetizers and the sea bass with capers—not really an Italian dish, but he wanted to see what the chef did with it. He ordered the calamari because he thought it would be amusing to see if he could get Bonnie to try some, then watch her face as he told her she’d eaten squid.

  At that moment, their waiter appeared bearing a bottle of one of the expensive wines, which Jaron hadn’t ordered. “I asked for—”

  “Compliments of the gentleman by the window.”

  Jaron looked over, and the older companion of the gruff redheaded man inclined his head. Jaron did likewise.

  Showing more deference than before, the waiter poured the wine. Jaron raised his glass to the man, then sipped the wine. Ah. This was worth the entire evening. The wine caressed his tongue as he swallowed, leaving oaky memories in its wake. Jaron closed his eyes and savored another sip.

  “Does this happen to you often?” Bonnie’s question interrupted the words of praise Jaron was mentally composing for his column.

  “More often than not,” he admitted.

  She looked over her shoulder. “Who is he?”

  Jaron shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe the owner, or more likely, just a fan.”

  “Or maybe it’s somebody you insulted in one of your columns and the wine is poisoned. That’s what I’d do.”

  Jaron blinked.

  “Kidding,” she murmured, and lifted her glass.

  He sat back and regarded her as she sipped her wine. “Good,” she pronounced, though he wasn’t sure her opinion—the opinion of someone who ate at Tubb’s Café—

  carried much weight.

  On the other hand, the wine—a nice strong red—was good. Better than good. Sublime. Reminiscent of the rolling hills of Tuscany, where its grapes had been gently crushed by the feet of virgins....

  “Have you ever been to Italy?” he asked Bonnie, already guessing the answer.

  She shook her head.

  “So your lack of culinary adventurousness extends to other areas of your life, as well?”

  Wincing, she asked, “Do you get paid by the word, or something?”

  How could this woman be related by blood to the elegant Cokie? Jaron spoke very slowly, gesturing with his hands. “You no likee travel?”

  Bonnie gave a short laugh. “I haven’t traveled much, no. I’m not really interested.”

  “How can you not be interested? Aren’t you curious about other countries?”

  “Well...
it isn’t like I don’t know anything about them. I mean, I’ve been to Disney World.”

  For the life of him, Jaron could make no response.

  “You know—Epcot? The nations exhibit? World something-or-another?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  She grinned. “Yeah.”

  Jaron took a sip—actually, a large swallow, which was not at all fair to the wine.

  “Except I really don’t have any desire to travel,” Bonnie continued. “I like coming to New York, though. Everything seems to be here.”

  “As much as I agree with you, I have to admit that the rest of the world has much to offer.”

  “So what am I missing?”

  Everything. “Well...art, for one thing.”

  “I’ve been to the museums here.”

  “But...but...the Mona Lisa. It’s in France.”

  “Is there anyone on earth who can’t draw the thing from memory?”

  “But to see it in person...” How could he explain? “The brush strokes, the nuances of color...”

  Bonnie tore off a piece of foccacia and dipped it in the oil. “Isn’t the painting behind Plexiglas—roped off and everything? Just how personal is that?” She eyed him as she bit into the bread.

  Infuriating woman. “All right, not the Mona Lisa.” He’d been trying for something she might recognize. “There are a lot of other artists.” Jaron tore off a hunk of bread for himself. He usually skipped the bread. Look what she’d done to him. “There is just something about, say, being in Madrid at the Prado and looking at the work of El Greco.”

  Bonnie swallowed. “Isn’t he the guy who paints the gray people with long faces?”

  “He has a certain recognizable style, yes.” Jaron refilled his wineglass. Look at this—already on his second glass and the appetizers hadn’t even arrived.

  “All his paintings look alike.” Bonnie demolished more bread.

  “They do not. How can you say that?”

  “Because he used the same models for most of his work.”

  Jaron narrowed his eyes.

  “Hey—I’m not stupid. I’m just not interested.”

  “Not interested in travel or art.” Jaron drew a deep breath. “I am. In fact, those are two of my favorite activities.”

  “What’s another?”

  “The theater.”

  “Hmm. Both plays Aunt Cokie took me to were boring. I mean, I understand about using my imagination, but in this one play, there were two chairs on the stage. That’s it. The actors mimed everything else, and I’m sorry, but it just didn’t work for me. And then there’s the way they talk—nobody really talks that way.”

  That was it. Absolutely it. For a while he’d thought there was the slimmest possibility of finding something in common with her, but no.

  “So what are you interested in?” he asked.

  “I like hiking,” Bonnie offered. The bread plate was empty. “Do you?”

  “No.” Jaron couldn’t think of another woman of his acquaintance who’d eat that much bread—or any bread.

  “Cross-country skiing?”

  “No. I do a little downhill.”

  “At the right resort, naturally.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean by the ‘right’ resort.”

  “One you’d write about in your column.”

  Jaron spread his hands. “Everything is grist for the mill.”

  Her face froze and she stared at him.

  “What?”

  “Don’t you dare write about me.”

  “It hadn’t occurred—”

  “Then it will. You’ll be sitting in front of your computer and you won’t be able to resist a little dig about the country bumpkin in the big city. It’ll be one of those gauche–

  tourists–contaminating–New York bits.”

  “Not a bad idea.” The calamari arrived, along with an eggplant dish. Good. The wine was giving him a buzz he was afraid would loosen his tongue.

  “Don’t you dare.”

  “What?” Jaron was making a note about the length of time from order to first course.

  “Write about tonight.”

  “I wouldn’t use your name.” He picked up one of the fried rings and popped it into his mouth. Hot and crispy.

  “Aunt Cokie and your mother would know, and how do you think that would make them feel?”

  “I could disguise it.” He ate another calamari ring and nudged the plate toward her. “Try one.”

  “No, thank you.”

  Jaron looked from the plate to Bonnie. “Tell you what. You try this one new food, and I’ll promise not to mention you in my column.”

  “Jerk.”

  “I’m trying to broaden your horizons.”

  “You’re trying to make me eat squid.”

  “You might like it.”

  “I don’t think so. If God had intended for us to eat squid, he would have made it say ‘moo.”’

  She wouldn’t try the eggplant, either.

  When her spaghetti and meatballs arrived, she pronounced them outstanding and did let him try a bite. They were good—as good as spaghetti and meatballs can get—

  but not worthy of the raptures she went into over the meatballs. Were meatballs ever worthy of rapture?

  “There’s no filler in these babies,” she said knowingly. “Write that down.”

  As Jaron dutifully paraphrased, there was an exclamation from the table by the window.

  “I tell you, the man’s not gay!”

  “Sonny—”

  “He’s a slimy little weasel, and I’ll see him in hell!” Standing, the redheaded man dragged the napkin from his collar, threw it on the table and stormed out.

  Bonnie raised her eyebrows.

  There was an unnatural hush. “My apologies,” said the older man, a hint of an Irish lilt in his voice. “More wine?” he asked Jaron.

  “No, thank you. It’s wonderful.”

  The man nodded his acknowledgement. “Enjoy it as I enjoy your work.”

  “Don’t forget to mention the floor show in your column,” Bonnie murmured.

  “Shh!”

  Unfortunately, after the blowup, their dinner conversation had more duds than a string of wet firecrackers.

  Bonnie didn’t like foreign films—big surprise—fashion or cooking—another big surprise.

  He didn’t like camping—just the thought made him shudder—flea markets, or pretty much anything on television.

  To her, wines were red, white or bubbling.

  To him, wines were...well, they were really important, damn it.

  The two of them had nothing in common.

  But they’d known that. The surprise was that his mother and Cokie hadn’t.

  Still, he and Bonnie had made a valiant effort, and rewarded themselves by skipping dessert and coffee.

  Jaron glanced over the bill, then put his credit card in the folder. “Well, Bonnie, it’s been...”

  “Interesting,” she suggested.

  “Yes. It has.” Everyone needed a little character-building experience now and then.

  “Even better, we got through the evening without killing each other.”

  “Always a plus.”

  The waiter returned with the credit card receipt. Jaron figured the tip and scrawled his name, half expecting the chef or the owner to appear. Or both. If he hadn’t previously been recognized, his name on the credit card usually tipped off the management. But other than the man at the window, it appeared he wasn’t known to them.

  Standing, Jaron glanced around.

  “Looking for someone?” Bonnie asked.

  “I did want to speak with the owner, but I’ll co
me back another time.”

  “Nonsense. You’re here now. I don’t mind waiting.”

  Jaron glanced at his watch. “I don’t think there’s time.” He gestured for her to precede him to the door, nodding to his fan on the way out. “I promised I’d catch a band that’s playing at a club not too far from here.” Hell. Now he’d have to invite her. As he opened the door for her, he injected his voice with as much enthusiasm as he could. “You game?”

  “Jaron, you are too darn polite.” Bonnie sighed. “We tried. Let’s just call it an evening.”

  Relief washed over him as they stepped onto the sidewalk under the awning. Yes, it was past time for the evening to end. He’d had enough of Bonnie and he was sure she’d had enough of him.

  A lone woman, attractively middle-aged, passed them and entered the restaurant. It was the first customer he’d seen enter since he and Bonnie had arrived. Well, that would soon change. The place was an undiscovered treasure.

  “Go on to the club and hear the band,” Bonnie told him. “The driver can take me back. I don’t mind. Truly.”

  Good manners warred with expediency. “Cokie would never forgive me if I didn’t escort her niece home.”

  “Cokie won’t know—she’ll still be playing bridge. Please. Go.”

  He looked down at Bonnie, tempted to do as she asked. It was nice of her to offer to go home alone. She could be very attractive when she was being nice.

  But she wasn’t nice often, and he should take advantage while he could. “Thanks.” Looking up and down the street, Jaron didn’t see their car, but they were running ahead of schedule. He pulled out his cell phone and called the driver. “He’ll be a few minutes,” he told her.

  “You don’t have to wait here with me.”

  “Yes, I do.” Having the driver take her home was one thing, leaving her standing on a street at night was entirely different.

  “Pooh. I’m a big girl. I tromp all over New York by myself.”

  “Indulge me.” Not that she would.

  She waved an arm. “There are people all over the place. What could happen?”

  “This is not Cooper’s Corner.”

  “Right. This is the big, bad city. Just look.” She gestured to a man walking toward them carrying a bouquet of red roses. “That’s a scary sight.”