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“Have we really? Or is there still one type of ideal American, like there’s one type of German, and the rest of us must emulate them, but still be treated as secondary, as visitors? Never reaching true equality? After all, isn’t part of the reason that you donate anonymously because you don’t want the fact you’re a Jew to hurt the cause you support?” He cocked his chin.
“But it shouldn’t be like that. It isn’t supposed to be like that. And what we did was wrong—slavery was wrong—beyond wrong—and the beliefs that perpetuated it were wrong—are wrong. I’m only saying that something better is possible, For everyone. Right here. It has to be. Because look at us, yes, there are complications, but most people are nice to me and my family. Nicer than the gentiles are back in Europe. So if it’s possible for us, it should be possible for anyone. And shouldn’t I want to retain that—expand it, extend it, instead of giving it up?” She really should fan herself.
“But what if extending that to everyone no longer seems possible? What then? You’d sacrifice what’s right for that sort of comfort?” He was so intent and intense. “I find that hard to believe. I think, when really confronted with that choice, you’d choose differently.”
She gaped at him for a moment. Would she? She’d like to believe she would, but who really knew?
After all, she was far from wise and the waters were so murky. Where did one draw the line-in-the-sand so to speak? When was something you believed in, something you wanted, something you loved, no longer fixable? Did he really have that much faith in her ability to know?
He glanced back down at the menu. “I’m thinking trout though. It’s probably fresh.” He nodded a little to himself, oblivious to how much his words affected her. “With potatoes.”
Amalia blinked. Being with him could be so dizzying. One moment he could illuminate the unfairness of the world and the next he could attempt to
order bland food. Which certainly didn’t make her need to clutch the table so she didn’t leap across it and tear off his clothes.
Well, no one could say he was boring.
“So that sounds good to you as well?” he asked, his eyes focused entirely on her, that small twitching smile visible under the surface, as if he could tell where her mind was.
“I don’t care for potatoes.” She wrinkled her nose. Mealy, flavorless balls of nothing.
“Really?” David swiped off his spectacles and blinked at her.
“Really.” She straightened in her seat, her pulse thrumming a little. “I don’t care for prunes either. Nor pumpkins.” Amalia shuddered at the memory of the slimy squash. Much more appropriate than picturing arguing with him in bed. Naked.
Food, Amalia, stick to food.
David gave her a blank stare.
“I’ve surprised you.” She wagged her fork at him. “Thad must not have included that in his information.”
“Your dinner preferences are sadly absent. I’ll most certainly have to correct that. We wouldn’t want it to be an incomplete file.” David’s eyes flashed in challenge. “It seems you might have some secrets after all, Miss Truitt.” He scooted up in his chair, his elbows edging up the table. “Though I promise you, I’ll find them all out. Every last one of them.”
Her breath hitched and her skin flushed as if the smoldering fire roared beneath her flesh, all meal discussions gone from her mind. “Well, no one ever said you aren’t determined.”
“That I am, and with you...” He laid his hands on the table and flipped them so his palms faced the ceiling, as if he was proving he hid nothing. He lifted his head and his focus was on her, only her. “I missed you, Amalia, these past few years. Before, I enjoyed talking with you, writing to you, spending time with you.”
“Which parts of it?” Amalia’s innards quivered both from the warm tingles the words brought and from something else, something hard and sharp beating at her brain. A warning.
No. She pushed it down. She didn’t need it now or tonight. The day had been so long, too long to delve into those waters. She could pretend nothing bad happened, that she couldn’t be hurt again, indulge in the fizzles. “Feel free to be as specific as you want. And do you still feel that way?”
He stared at her and her mind stuttered. Was she doing it wrong? Could she no longer even get seduction right? Was she that out of practice?
She ran her tongue over her teeth, before forcing the words through her lips. “I’m sorry. It’s just, my spirit needs a little...”
“A little what?” He rested his chin on his hands, elbows creasing the white cloth, but his gaze on her and her alone. The heat returned.
“Kindness? Flattery?” She shrugged. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes. So many. No one says anything to my face, but I can feel the disappointment. And I’m sure there are whispers. You’ve seen the letters. Imagine what everyone who knows me says when I’m not around.”
David only nodded.
She flipped back her hair. “Anyway, after learning I’m not just a failure, but a failure someone is rather determined to hurt—I just want to feel, well, like they are wrong, like there’s no merit in any of it. That I’m not quite an incompetent mess.” That I’m worthy of that faith you have in me, at least a little. Not that she could say that out loud.
His hands stilled. “Well, you are a mess.”
Ouch. Not what he was supposed to say, not at all. She raised a finger to wag it at him, to argue back the hurt, but he grabbed it and brought it to his lips for a moment.
“A rather beautiful mess. Like a snowstorm.” His eyes glimmered in the candlelight as he stared at her.
