Didier was smiling. His puppy-dog eyes twinkling, mischievous. “Putain de merde. Was it something I said?”
It was then that Cecilia realized that he, and those on the far end of the table who had clearly seen what had happened, were all focused on Maren.
“You are impossible,” she said, her voice quaking.
“Mais non,” he teased, his tone singsong. Unbothered.
“Mais oui. Yes. Disgusting.” She rose then, slow. Face red, chair scraping against slate. “Dégueulasse,” she spat. And with that, she grabbed her purse and left.
The table was quiet for a moment while Didier removed his glasses, which had been splashed during the melee, and wiped them with a napkin. “Alors,” he said, returning them to his face. “Dessert??”
“I could use some flan,” said Santiago with a trill.
Cecilia was still piecing together what had happened when she reached down to pick up the base of a glass that had rolled between hers and Marc’s chairs. She didn’t want Marc to step on it with his bare foot. Or for her to brush up against it with her sandal. And so she scooped it up along with an adjacent jagged fragment and placed them casually on the table.
She did not realize she was cut until Sarah spoke.
“Cecilia, you’re bleeding, love.”
In the fleshy part of her palm, just below the thumb of her right hand, was a sizable gash, and embedded in it, five small shards of glass. To Cecilia they looked like mini shark teeth. She hadn’t felt them pierce her skin. She couldn’t feel it now. But the sight of it, raw and oozing, made her stomach turn.
“Ewww!” Across the table, Jaya squealed and covered her eyes. “I’m not good with blood! Someone get her out of here.”
“Jaya!” Sarah snapped.
“No, really. I’ll pass out.”
“It’s not that bad, you guys,” Cecilia said, not wanting to make a fuss.
“Oh,petiteCecilia!” Didier had jumped up and rounded the table, with a napkin and bottle of water in tow. “Do we need a doctor?”
“I don’t think so,” Anouk said, holding Cecilia’s wrist in hand and assessing the damage. “Don’t look at it, Cecilia.”
But Cecilia had already turned away. She inhaled deeply, taking in Didier’s signature scent of grass and tobacco, her eyes on the back of his head as he bowed over her. His curly salt-and-pepper hair, his bronzed neck, his black T-shirt. Calvin Klein. The tag was facing her. Didier had somehow put his shirt on inside out. Didier the perfectionist. It was not like him.
“Can you move your fingers?” he said now.
“You need to apply pressure,” Bas offered.
“Not with the glass still in it,” Cecilia heard Katrine say.
“There should be a medic on site,” Stu offered. “Or if not, the concierge can probably arrange urgent care.”
“I have a first-aid kit in my room. I can clean it and bandage it. If she needs more than that, I’ll have the concierge call a doctor.” This came from Anouk, in rapid-fire French. Cecilia was surprised by just how much she understood. Although, to be fair, her French often seemed to improve two drinks in. And she had just begun working on number three.
Before anyone could protest, Anouk had wrapped Cecilia’s hand loosely with a cloth napkin and gathered up their purses. “I’d hate to upset your meal with the sight of blood, Jaya,” she said, pointedly. And with that she draped her shawl around her shoulders and stood. The green, even in the dark, made her eyes pop. “We’ll be back.”
“You need me to come?” Marc leaned into Cecilia as she rose from her chair.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Okay. You know where to find me.”
XXX.WINTERTIDE.
FLORIDA.
DECEMBER. 2015.
