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“Oh! Of course!” She glanced over at me, then turned conspiratorially to Ella once again. “You’re on adate.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Sarkar,” I said, getting out a stack of bills and tucking them under the napkin dispenser so she couldn’t refuse them. I collected our bags, steering Ella towards the door.
“Yes, thank you,” Ella said politely over her shoulder as I hustled her out of the cramped restaurant. “I’m sure everything will be delicious.”
“Oh, it will be, Ella! Come back soon, Charlie! And bring her!”
From the Pages of the Clarion
After more than 80 years, theClarionwill be shutting its doors after this week’s Sunday Edition, March 8th.
The announcement comes after theClarion’s acquisition by the Simmons Group, a venture capital firm based in Delaware, MD. TheClarionis only the most recent in a spate of similar acquisitions: SG has purchased 14 local and regional news outlets, beginning with their takeover of Star States Publishing’s holdings in 2009. “This was a hard call to make,” said Brent Simmons, CEO of Simmons Group, “but we are confident that our team will continue to provide high-quality reporting for all of those in our coverage areas.” Employment has fallen recently, down 28% in the past three years.
We here at theClarionwant to thank the talented and dedicated staff that made theClarionwhat it was and the loyal readers who made us a part of their lives.
THECLARION, BUSINESS, CLARION TO CLOSE AFTER 82 YEARS IN PRINT, PAGE B1
Ella
“Iloveher.”My mouth was still stretched into a smile even after two blocks. Bibi Sarkar had been a whirling ball of energy, and the incredible smell wafting from the heavy plastic bags Charlie was clutching had me very excited about my dinner.
“I’m so sorry about Mrs. Sarkar,” Charlie said, but he, too, was smiling. “She’s a friend. I just told her to make enough for two. I hadn’t thought she would make such a big deal but I…” he trailed off. “I don’t go on many dates,” he finished.
“No?” I asked. “A wealthy, handsome, eligible bachelor such as yourself?” I was only slightly kidding.
“I’ve been… busy.” He was embarrassed, I could tell by his expression, so I didn’t press further.
The sun had set while we were in the restaurant–just an inside pick up counter and a fridge full of sodas, really–and the late fall evening was making goosebumps prickle on my bare legs as we walked, direction unknown. Despite having changed my shoes, I still felt inappropriately dressed; I was wearing my fanciest coat, but it wasn’t particularly warm. I was about to ask where we were headed when we turned a corner and arrived at a city park.
“Here we are,” Charlie said, “just through here…” I was reconciling myself to a freezing-cold picnic when we emerged from a stand of trees and I saw it: a large glass greenhouse, a soft glow shining from within the thousand panes of foggy glass. Charlie went around to a side door, putting down the bags of food he’d been carrying to fiddle with a combination lock.
“Are we allowed to be here?” I wondered aloud.
“Oh, sure,” he said, nonchalant. “I, uh… I know a guy.”
Any trepidation I had regarding our nighttime greenhouse break-in floated away on the gust of warm, humid, floral scented air that poured out of the building as Charlie held open the door and ushered me in ahead of him.
I had expected… I wasn’t sure what. Certainly not what I found: the greenhouse was large, with a vaulted roof visible from the exterior, but the interior was almost cozy.Intimate, my brain supplied, and I had to admit it was right: the sides were lined with trees and shrubs and flowers, none of which I could identify, but the effect was like a small, private tropical jungle. The soft light I had seen through the windows was from a flotilla of paper lanterns, strung like low-hanging clouds across the ceiling. In the center of the room, in a clearing between a large flowering bush on one side and a row of orchids on the other, was a single table, with two chairs. It was a simple metal folding table, round, of the type you might find at an outdoor cafe, but there was an ice bucket on top, and two glasses. Charlie dropped the plastic bags on top as well, and, to my surprise, pulled a bottle from inside a pocket before removing his coat.
Then he was at my back, helping me out of my own suddenly suffocating coat, folding it and placing it carefully on top of his on a small garden stool near the entrance. I wanted to tell him the polyester material wasn’t worth sacrificing whatever his coat was made of, but I was unable to speak, struck momentarily speechless by his proximity. He was keeping a careful distance, I noticed, not touching me, and I suddenly longed for it–for that shock of our fingers touching, for the lingering buzz of feeling left behind. Wanted to feel those hot lines of electricity trailing from my hands to the slope of my shoulders, the curve of my waist…
The pop of a cork from a bottle snapped me out of my lustful thoughts. “Mrs. Sarkar doesn’t sell wine–she doesn’t drink, of course–but in my experience, her kebabs go really well with champagne, and we walked, so…” Charlie poured two glasses, and walked one over to me, still standing, mouth open, in the entrance to the greenhouse. His face looked momentarily worried when he noticed my expression. “Is this okay? We can go somewhere else, if you’d rather eat indoors–”
I kissed him. I wasn’t sure what I was thinking–I wasn’t thinking, really–but something about the open concern on his face, the glow of the paper lanterns, the potential of a newly fizzing bottle of champagne, the scent of tropical flowers and spices and of juniper andalpha,andfuck.I leaned in and, standing on tiptoes and tilting my face up, placed my lips on his. I could feel him startle, then relax into me, his hands still holding our wine glasses, one on either side of us. It was a simple kiss, just a momentary press of lips on lips, but I was still left breathless as I pulled back. I fought the urge to bring my hand to my mouth–my lips were on fire, as if my body’s heat was searching out Charlie’s, trying to jump from me to him like a spark.
His eyes, when I opened my own, were wide and round. “Okay, then,” he said, a bit breathlessly, and I could hear his smile as well as see it.
“It’s…” it was perfect, I couldn’t even express how perfect it was. “Charlie,” I said, “please,please, say thank you to that ‘guy you know’.” I saw momentary confusion pass in his eyes before he understood.
“I will,” he agreed, laughing. “Probably not likethat, though.” He passed me one of the glasses of sparkling wine. “Cheers,” he said, his eyes fixed on mine, and we clinked our glasses.
Later, over the hands-down best ever plate of spicy, juicy chicken seekh, our kiss still hanging heavy in the air between us, we got to know each other: not as anonymous gala-goers, or as interviewer and interviewee, but as Charlie Prince and Ella Booker. I groaned over the amazing–and amazing quantities of–food, and Charlie volunteered that Bibi Sarkar was the mother of one of his best engineers.
“Former engineer,” he said, correcting himself. “He doesn’t work formeanymore. He works for my former company.”
“You sold it last year, right?”
He nodded, picking up a plastic fork and spearing a cucumber slice.
