AllFreeNovel
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“To Cress.” They all lift their glasses and drink.
The server comes over. She seems slightly taken aback when she looks over our table, head slightly lowered, a glance from the corner of her eye. Her hand sweeps the air over the unopened menus. “Ready to order?”
Paul takes over. “We’ll have the tasting menu with wine.”
“All of you?” She picks up the menus, almost as if she wants to hide behind them.
“Yes.” Paul gestures around the table. “All of us.”
Sam’s face twists. “Why not a bourbon tasting?”
“Wine. What a great idea.” Micki squeezes Sam’s hand so hard he winces.
“Okay.” The woman scuttles away.
Ellie, Paul’s wife, tosses her hair back and sniffs. “What got up her butt?”
“She looks familiar somehow.” Micki stares after her. Paul nods.
Sam gives a dismissive wave. “Probably she’s worked somewhere else we’ve eaten.”
Micki turns and cranes her neck for another glimpse. “I eat here pretty often with clients, and I’ve never seen her here.
My spine tingles. The way she seemed to hide was weird.
“What is this award?” Ellie’s eyes are bright with curiosity.
My apprehension drains away and excitement bubbles up. I reach for my water glass. My hand hits the stem, and it keels over. Water gushes over the table. Sam gets the brunt of the deluge.
“Christ, Cress.”
“Sorry.” I put my hands over my mouth.
“You’re fire engine red.” Paul blots his shirt.
People hover around, mop up the table, hand napkins to Sam, and pour me fresh water.
Once everything is back to a kind of normal and Ellie stops giggling, I go back to my explanation. My hand snakes out for my glass. Micki taps my wrist then moves the glass closer to my bread plate.
“About ten years ago, theSociété des Romanciers Historique, an international organization located in Paris, decided to start an award for the best historical novel of the year. Not sure why their year is September to September, but anyway…” My voice trails off. I rub my nose.
Ellie goggles. “Do you have to be so pretentious, Cress?”
I catch my tongue between my teeth before I can stick it out at her.
“They named the award for two famous historical novelists of nineteenth-century France.”
Her eyes glaze over. Why did she bother to ask if she isn’t interested?
“Go on, Cress.” Paul rubs his hand over his bald spot.
“Anyway, it’s named for Victor Hugo, who wroteThe Hunchback of Notre Dame, and Alexandre Dumaspère,who wroteThe Three Musketeers.”
“Why is he called a pear?” Ellie’s face looks totally innocent.
Ellie’s gaze wanders around the room, but like a homing pigeon, her attention goes back to the group at the window table, lingers on the wolf-whistlers. I glance over. Four handsome men in their forties lounge in the black armchairs and sip cocktails. I peek at the man who faces our table—the guy I hit with my bag. Almost black hair, glasses, a blue Oxford cloth shirt with the top button undone and a tie, loosened. Check him out again. Squint. Can’t be sure, but it looks like Balliol. A striking oval face, high cheekbones, and a chiseled, squared-off chin. Movie star good looks.
Micki checks him out. “Hey, he looks like David Tennant with glasses and dark hair.”
