by Ann Warner
Back in the car, Rob retraced their route, heading back toward downtown Boston. “Are you a fan of ‘The Landlord’s Tale,’ by any chance?” he asked.
“I don’t think I know it.”
‘“One if by land, two if by sea?’”
“Of course. But it’s called, ‘The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere,’ isn’t it?”
“That’s what everybody thinks.” Rob maneuvered his elderly Buick into the last bit of open curb adjacent to a No Parking sign. “I hope you don’t mind if we walk from here?”
“Absolutely not. Snagging this spot was practically miraculous. I do know that much about Boston.”
When he helped her out of the car, she stood for a moment with her eyes closed, sampling the rich mix of odors—baking bread, garlic, and something green, with a faint, sour undertone of garbage. The bread and garlic scents made her mouth water.
“I think you could blindfold me and bring me back here or to the Arboretum and I’d know exactly where I was each time.” She opened her eyes to find he was studying her. She spoke quickly to cover a frisson of nerves at the look on his face. “So where to first?”
“I thought we’d start with Paul Revere’s house.” He pointed toward a dark gray structure then looked at her as if gauging her interest. “That’s only its conjectured appearance, of course.”
“Conjectured?”
“Would you prefer purported?”
“I rather like conjectured. I’m just not sure what you mean by it.” What an interesting, unusual companion he was turning out to be.
“Well, Revere owned it from 1770 to 1800. After that it was used for shops and apartments and who knows what. A hundred years later, when someone finally had the idea to save it for posterity, there was nobody left who knew what it looked like originally.”
“So you’re saying all it is, is someone’s best guess.”
“That’s right. You want to take the tour?”
“You know, it’s really too pretty a day to spend it inside examining purports and conjectures.”
Smiling, he nodded in acknowledgement. “Done. Do you prefer the sunny or the shady side of the street?”
“Oh, most definitely the sunny.”
He offered his arm as they crossed the uneven cobbles. “Do you happen to know what Paul Revere yelled as he banged on all those doors?”
“I take it from your manner it was definitely not, ‘The British are coming.’“
“That would have simply confused everyone, since they were, after all, still British themselves. They might have decided the local pub had just closed and gone back to sleep, and then where would we be? More than likely he said, ‘The Regulars are on the move.’’’
“It simply doesn’t have the same panache.”
“Panache. I like that. No doubt why Longfellow invoked artistic license.”
At the least, the man had an interesting vocabulary and it seemed to be catching.
“See that shop?” he said. “They make the best macaroons in the city. Light, chewy, delectable.”
Delectable? “You’re making my mouth water.”
“All part of the plan.”
Definitely harmless. Probably.
They walked into the shop and five minutes later walked out carrying a bag containing a half dozen warm macaroons. Rob handed her one and Clare took a bite to find that, indeed, the crisp outside gave way to a moist, chewy, and—there was no other word for it—delectable center. “Oh my, is that ever good.”
He took a bite of his own cookie, his expression one of such pure enjoyment, any remaining hesitation about having agreed to go out with him evaporated.
As they continued to stroll, he pointed with his cookie at a pocket garden she would have walked by without noticing. “See those flowers?”
“The tulips, you mean?”
“Umm. That color would suit you. Rose. Like the color in your cheeks.” His gaze held hers for a questioning instant.
Her heart skipped in surprised response.
“You ready for another cookie?”
“Maybe later.”
“Maybe?”
“Definitely later.”
“I share only with people I like.”
“So you’re saying I’d better take one now, before I fall out of your good graces?” As she concentrated on matching his banter, something else was beginning to happen. A shimmer of...awareness.
“Or before I eat them all. There we are. The Old North Church.”
Halfway down the narrow street, a steeple rose above the jumble of buildings.
“Is that also conjectured?”
“You know, it may be, more or less, since the weather vane is the only original part left. The steeple’s been destroyed by storms not once, but twice.”
“Ah, the wrath of God.”
“Now that’s an interesting interpretation.”
“What about the inside?” she asked.
“I believe it’s authentic, and it’s nice.”
“Perhaps I’d better see it, then.”
He bought tickets and they were ushered into the church. As the guide started her spiel, Clare gazed at the plain interior—the white of the walls and pews contrasting with the scarlet seat cushions. Clearly, a space to bring a troubled spirit to, or even an untroubled spirit.
She appreciated Rob not distracting her from her contemplations. Slowly the sense was growing that he was worth knowing.
“That was nice,” she said when they were back outside. “Very peaceful.”
He pursed his lips, nodding. “It’s my favorite historical building. Although, there’s another one near here I think you’ll find interesting.” He led the way, finally stopping and pointing toward a narrow house.
“Anorexia House?”
“Good one. Your house reminded me of this one.”
“Oh, mine’s bigger.” But perhaps not by much.
“You’re right. This is officially the skinniest house in Boston. It’s ten point four feet wide.”
Clare stared at the house trying to decide how to frame the question she’d been wanting to ask him ever since they stopped by the garden. But why shilly-shally around? She’d shared macaroons with this man, after all.
“History buff, cookie lover, flower connoisseur, ballet fan. So what else are you, Rob Chapin?”
He gave her a rueful look. “Nothing very exciting, I’m afraid. I’m a professor of medicinal chemistry at Northeastern University.”
With his glasses and mostly serious demeanor, he certainly fit the part.
“Medicinal chemistry?”
“Design, structure elucidation, and synthesis of drugs. Therapeutic ones, of course.”
“Of course. Structure elucidation?”
“Sorry. I spend so much time in the lab, I sometimes forget to translate.”
“I doubt a translation would help since the only chemistry I’m acquainted with is personal chemistry.”
“Personal chemistry?”
“You know, between two people.”
“Of course. Pheromones, vasopressin, and oxytocin.”
Clare rolled her eyes. “Do I even want that translation?”
“Probably not.”
“You know, you carry that off pretty well.”
“What’s that?”
“Sounding scholarly without being too stuffy about it.”
“Are you saying I’m stuffy?”
“Just a bit.”
“Hey, we guys can take only so much honesty.”
She looked at him, liking what she was seeing. Enjoying the banter.
Then his expression sobered. “As long as we’re doing the honesty bit, I have a confession. I’m not a ballet fan. I was just filling in as Lynne’s escort. She dragged me there.” His mouth quirked. “Although, I have to admit, I’m glad she did.”
Uh-oh. “Do you think you could like it?” Might as well get that out of the way, although she was unsure how the clarification would affect her growing pleasure in h
is company.
His expression once again turned solemn. “Definitely. If you’re the one dancing.”
She could work with that. Probably. At least his honesty was a nice change from the lines most men tried on her. Or it might simply be a different kind of line.
“A professor, hmm? Your family must be pleased.”
“They’re mostly relieved I’m no longer brewing stinks in the basement.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Their own fault. They should have known better than to give a twelve-year-old boy a chemistry set.” He touched her elbow and they began walking again. Before long they reached a small square with a vacant bench. “All right if we sit?”
She nodded, relieved for the respite, as she was still recovering from the rigors of the season. If necessary, she could still manage six hours of rehearsal, but only with a ballet master pushing her.
Rob sat next to her and pulled out another cookie, broke it, and offered her half. “My sister says that Mom’s only revenge is if I have a child exactly like me.”
Accepting the cookie, Clare pictured him as a small boy with a sooty face, wearing glasses no doubt held together with tape. The thought made her smile.
“What?”
She shook her head. “How’s that revenge coming?”
“Not so good, since I rather need a wife first.”
“You’ve never been married?”
He leaned over and flicked a crumb off his pants leg toward a sparrow. “Not so far.”
“How come?”
He shrugged and sat back. “Oh, I don’t know. Bad timing maybe, never met the right woman. How about you?”
“Never married. Bad timing. Wrong man.” Really wrong man. “See? Doesn’t tell you a thing.”
“You’re right. Maybe that’s a subject for when we know each other better.”
“Are we going to know each other better?”
“If we get past today.”
“And in order for us to get past today...?” She flapped the hand holding the last bite of cookie.
He met her gaze and held up his hand. “Let’s see what we’ve got so far. A fellow lilac lover. Check.” He bent his thumb. “Someone who’s willing to walk substantial distances without whining. Check. Able to look interested as I expound on the historical facts about Boston I’ve gleaned from Reader’s Digest. Check. Able to continue to look interested when confronted with scientific jargon and stories of a benighted childhood. Check.” He wiggled his small finger. “The only thing left is table manners.”
Amused, she cocked her head. “So, as long as I don’t slurp or chew with my mouth open, I’m set?”
“More or less, although I do intend to keep an eye on things like napkin handling and proper utensil choice.”
Good Lord, the man was a stitch. “Are you trying to make me nervous?”
“I’m the one who’s nervous.” He continued to look solemn. “Working to impress someone who can dance on the tips of her toes in front of hundreds of people without turning a hair. It’s a tough go.”
“Good job of hiding it. You read Reader’s Digest?”
“My grandmother was a fan.”
“So how old are you?”
“Thirty-eight. How old are you?”
“You’re never supposed to ask a woman her age. It’s impolite.”
“Also impolitic, I imagine. So what year were you born?”
“You’re a persistent bugger, aren’t you. Nineteen fifty-two.”
“An auspicious year indeed.” He pretended to count on his fingers. “Let’s see, that makes you—”
“Thirty-three.”
“A mere babe.”
“That’s also impolitic of you. Calling me a babe.”
“Well, you called me a bugger.”
“I guess we’re even then.”
“Even. You ready for lunch?”
How could he think about lunch after eating two and a half, no make that three and a half, macaroons? But then, she was hungry herself, in spite of sharing the cookies with him—a rare indulgence.
They walked back to a tiny restaurant two doors from the macaroon shop, where they sat on an even tinier back terrace and ate a heavenly chicken scallopini. The spaghetti side was smothered in the best red sauce Clare had ever eaten.
On the drive back to Marblehead, Rob invited her to dinner the next Friday. She accepted, deciding it was worth investing more time to see if this man might turn out to be as nice as he seemed. Unlikely, of course, but how lovely if he was.
Chapter Four
Grand pas de deux - Entrée
Grand dance for two in five parts - The beginning
After he went out with Clare the second time, Rob knew he could no longer put off talking to Joyce Willette, the woman he’d been casually dating for the past six months, a relationship Joyce had initiated, but he’d had no objections.
Their meeting was delayed when Joyce caught a cold and was missing from work all week. He even had to give a lecture for her. On Thursday, he finally called to ask if he could stop by.
“I may still be contagious.” Her voice sounded waterlogged.
“That’s okay. I’ll chance it. I’ll bring food.”
She answered the door wearing a caftan and sandals, although he suspected she’d rather be wearing the flannel robe and lamb’s wool slippers stashed in her closet. Her nose was red but, otherwise, she looked good. Her hair, which she wore in a bun at work, was a loose cloud of gold.
Seeing the effort she’d made for his visit, Rob felt the first stirrings of discomfort. Joyce was bright and attractive, and he’d recently begun to think she might make him a good wife. Only a silly romantic notion held him back from sharing that thought—the idea that falling in love ought to involve more than a ticking off a list of positive attributes.
He moved around Joyce’s kitchen setting out dishes and silverware and opening the cartons of food he’d brought along to help ease him into what he needed to say. Finally, he uncorked a bottle of wine and took two glasses out of the cupboard. “There you go. Thai. Had them make it extra hot. To help clear your sinuses.”
Joyce kissed his cheek as she picked up her wineglass. “Only a scientist could be so incredibly romantic.”
He smiled at her, distracted by a deepening disquiet. Maybe this wasn’t the best way to do this, although that was difficult for him to assess since he’d had no experience with this kind of thing. Still, he and Joyce had agreed on a casual relationship. Except, now he was feeling as though he had violated an ethical standard by taking Clare out. Not that he regretted it, but sharing this meal with Joyce, he found he had to force himself to eat and to make conversation about how things were going at the university.
When they finished eating, Joyce suggested they move to the living room with cups of hot tea. She patted the spot beside her on the sofa and he sat.
“Is it starve a cold and feed a fever or the other way around?” she asked.
“Does it matter? You feel better, don’t you?”
“I do.” She stretched, then leaned against him. “This is really nice of you, Robbie. To spend the evening with a sick woman like this.”
He shifted but didn’t pull completely away. This was turning out to be trickier than he expected, especially given Joyce’s status as a senior colleague.
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
“It must be important for you to go all out and bring in a fancy dinner.”
“Yes. Well—”
“You okay, Robbie? You don’t usually let me get away with a jibe like that.” She pulled away to look at him.
“I, ah, met someone.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“A woman.”
Joyce straightened and stared at him. Seeing her expression, his mouth dried out and his hands went clammy.
“You and I. We did agree we’d keep it casual.” Although it now appeared his definition of casual might be different from hers.
&nb
sp; “Someone I know?”
“No.”
“But, I thought we... Is she a scientist?”
