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“You’ll find out when we get there.” She pulled her hand from her pocket, hesitated for a second, and then slipped her fingers into the bend of my elbow.
Ophelia wore no gloves. She was probably cold. I didn’t want her to be cold. I covered her hand with mine. Hey, hey, hey, don’t give me that look. Just being a gentleman here.
Right.
Like every touch before, it unsettled. Yet, it also seemed perfectly natural. A lovely woman with the singing voice of a siren and a goofy sense of humor and a fucking adorable accent wanted to hold my arm and walk closer on a cold, clear night in a beautiful, ancient city? Twist my arm.
I wanted to hear her talk again, so I asked, “You’re from Dublin originally?”
“That’s right,” she said, and it sounded like, Dat’s right, where the word right had a bit more air behind it than how we Americans say the word, a cool lilt to the ‘t.’
“Have you ever wanted to live anywhere else?”
“Let’s see. . .” She placed her index finger on her chin, her lips twisting. “Maybe not live, but I’ve always wanted to go to Fiji.”
“Fiji? What’s in Fiji?”
“Gorgeous sandy beaches, warm weather, scuba diving—not that I know how—piña coladas, a hammock.” Her eyes lost focus while she told me her list, and then she laughed lightly. “I’d have to take a bath in suntan lotion, though. Otherwise I’d burn to a crisp.” The words were self-deprecating. “Yeah,” she added quietly, “maybe not Fiji.”
Her downtrodden tone made me frown. “Yes Fiji.” My firm statement drew her eyes. “You want to go to Fiji? Go to Fiji.”
Her smile a flash—there, and then hidden—she faced forward again. “Fine. Then maybe I will.”
“Good.”
“Good.” The smile crept its way back to her lips and eyes, and pretty Ophelia was suddenly gorgeous Ophelia, which had me biting back an offer to take her bikini shopping for Fiji.
The woman didn’t need any of that, and I didn’t need any complications. Truth was, I shouldn’t be with her now. I should still be in that little pub on South Anne Street, alone. I always spent Christmas alone out of choice. I never wanted to be with anyone but myself, and my thoughts, and my memories.
But there was just something about her that had drawn me in, that had made my usual choice tonight seem lonely instead of merely solitary.
“How about you?”
“Uh . . .” I frowned. “How about me, what?”
“If you could go anywhere, where would you go?”
The past.
I breathed a laugh, stopping a bitter smile. “Oh, I don’t know.” My eyes moved from the twinkling Christmas lights lining the park to the man playing the guitar now just a hundred yards or so away, surrounded by a decent sized group of spectators despite the lateness of the hour. “I’ve always wanted to ride the Orient Express.”
“Ha! Wouldn’t that be something?” Her arm squeezed mine and she skipped once, twisting to face me, our arms still linked. “What a glorious idea. I wonder if they run during Christmas.”
“They do.” I’d never taken it, never had the occasion, but I’d looked it up.
Trains were my favorite mode of transportation. First class dining cars set the best tables. Picturesque. Dark wood, Turkish rugs, white linen tablecloths, crystal, silver, and napkins folded like swans. Problem was, solo train travel was like watching a baseball game alone. Half the fun is the talking about it.
Ophelia’s quiet laughter had me looking at her. “What? What is it?” I’d finally made her laugh and I had no idea why.
“Oh, nothing.” She shook her head, laughing again. “I was just thinking, if we were in a movie, this would be the part of the tale where you’d suggest—if we’re both alone next Christmas—we meet on the Orient Express.”
“Or you could suggest it.” What was that? Why did I sound like that? My voice was all deep. Like, Barry White deep.
“Ha-ha.” She rolled her eyes, using our linked arms to tug me forward while whispering, “Hey, let’s stop for a moment, just until he’s finished. He’s so good.”
I agreed, so I said nothing, letting Ophelia bring us to a stop toward the back of the crowd. Didn’t matter much. I was almost a half-foot taller than everyone else so I could see just fine. The thing about the Irish is that—other than their Rugby players—they’re a small people.
Take Ed Sheeran for example: big talent. Also, might be a leprechaun. And Bono, he’s fun-sized. Betcha didn’t know he’s only 5’6”. This guy, the one who was playing now, also looked like he was about 5’6”. . .
