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I pick up where she trails off. “That would mean you’re setting down roots. You said you wanted to leave your job...Maybe you’re looking to make some other big changes, too.”
“This will have to do,” she says as she rinses out an old mason jar. And it’s not lost on me that she ignored that last comment I made. Too personal. I make a mental note to keep things on the light side.
“Can I get you a beer, a glass of wine?”
“Wine sounds good.”
“I only have red. Is that all right?”
“I only drink red so it’s perfect.”
She pours us both a glass. “I went to France last summer and had a case of my favorite wine shipped back home. I’ve been hoarding it.”
“I’m honored you’re opening a bottle of the good stuff for me.” Taking a sip, I let it sit there on my tongue for a few seconds before swallowing. “This is good.”
“I was there with my boyfriend but he was busy with work stuff, so I signed up for a cooking class in Paris, took a ferry out to Mont Saint-Michel, and,” she clinks her glass to mine, “I toured a few vineyards in Bordeaux.”
Now I know for certain that her ex is a bonehead. “Did you seeanyof the sights with him?”
“We spent one day at the Louvre. He had a conference to attend and then he was busy doing detailed research on Voltaire and Rousseau. He’s big into French Enlightenment philosophers.” She pauses then adds, “It was never sold to me like a romantic getaway. I knew from the start that I was tagging along on a work trip. But,” she looks up at me, “eating alone in a restaurant is no fun.”
“I bet.”
My mind conjures up an image of Grace sitting alone in a bistro, eating some of the best food on earth with no one to share the experience. It’s a lonely image, one that makes my heart sink.
I’ve only been in this girl’s presence a few times, but still, it’s not the first time she’s said or done something that’s made me feel sad on her behalf. I remind myself again that this is a first date, to lighten up.
“I went to France and Belgium on a high school trip way back when. I’d like to get back there some day.”
She nods and smiles. “Bruges is on my bucket list.”
“You’d love it. It’s like a city stuck in time, like you’re walking through some fairytale. And I just remember the food being so incredibly good. Every single meal was like the best thing I’d ever tasted. I think my mother was offended when I came home and wouldn’t stop talking about the food. I mean, she’s a good cook, but they can make a chicken taste like—”
“Heaven, right?” She takes a sip of her wine, nodding. “The best roast chicken I’ll probably ever have.” Her eyes close like she’s trying to get back there when she licks her lips and then says, “Oh, and those croissants...”
I’m staring at her now, thinking that I want to feed her a croissant, want to taste wine from her lips, want to sit in a café beside her and watch people walk by as we sip our morning coffee after a lazy morning in bed.
I want.
“Owen?” She waves a hand in front of my face, laughing. “I’m glad I’m not the only space cadet in town.”
“Sorry.”
“I was just saying you’ll be able to score some great croissants in New York.”
“Probably, but you’ve got me thinking about food, woman. And now I want the real thing...A buttery croissant in Paris.”
“Well, tonight you’ll have to do with my best stab at Moroccan. I made lamb tagine.” She says this as she’s lifting a clay pot out of the oven.
“Something exotic, I should have guessed.”
This makes her crack up. “I’m about the farthest thing from exotic.”
“Exotic is in the eye of the beholder, or whatever that saying is. Can I help you?”
“Grab our plates from outside and we’ll serve ourselves in here, ok?”
“I’m on it.”
