Heather changed quickly, and then Altair drove them to a restaurant, calling ahead to reserve a seat. It was a beautiful venue, the old French architecture a shining anachronism amid the busy downtown skyscrapers. They were seated in an inner courtyard overflowing with greenery, the flowers illuminated by gas-lit sconces along the covered walkway. The scent of rain was still in the air but was overpowered by the perfume of flowers and good food. They were, as far as Heather could see, the only people in the restaurant. In this solitary green square, Heather could almost imagine they were no longer in the city at all.
"I'm surprised this place is open so late," Heather said, sipping the wine Altair had requested as they’d ordered.
"It isn't," Altair said. "The owner is a friend. I asked him to stay open for me. I often like to come here after a long day, though I'm usually here alone."
"I hope I'm not intruding," Heather said, worried she might be disturbing his sanctuary.
"On the contrary, the company is a vast improvement," Altair said. "Unwinding alone is a relief sometimes, but too much of it can become..."
He hesitated to use the word “lonely.” He shrugged instead.
"I know how that feels." Heather swirled her wine around her glass thoughtfully, remembering how empty the house felt some nights after Chloe had gone to bed and she was alone.
"This place reminds me of my childhood in Dar-Saila." Altair switched tracks, leaning back to look around at the blooming garden of the courtyard in the night. "The palace had many inner courtyards like this. In the evenings the scent of orange blossom was almost overpowering."
"What is Dar-Saila like?" Heather asked, leaning on the table. "I've never even heard of it."
Altair chuckled. "I'd be surprised if you had. It's an island off the Persian Gulf, tiny and tropical. The population was only around seventy thousand last I checked. Historically, our importance has been as a port. For a time, centuries ago, we were the heart of trade between the Gulf and the Indian Ocean. Times changed, and Dar-Saila lost its trade status but maintained its comparatively minor wealth and importance. Little happens on the island these days. Most of the government's business happens overseas, here in America, and the royal family is encouraged to seek out our own business opportunities."
"Like fashion design?" Heather smiled at him over her glass.
"Well." Altair looked mildly embarrassed. "There was some dispute about that initially, whether it was 'appropriate' for a sheikh of Dar-Saila to be making shoes. But I have never made a habit of paying too much attention to what other people consider appropriate."
"That sounds like the way to do things, honestly," Heather said, pausing as a waiter arrived with the first plates, classical French haute cuisine so intricate and technical even Heather couldn't recognize some of it. "I wish I were better at not caring what people thought."
"To be a model with an eight-year-old daughter," Altair said between bites, "you must have a thick skin. I imagine it isn't easy."
"Nothing's ever easy when you have kids," Heather said evasively. She was too embarrassed to admit she wasn't really a model. What if he felt like he'd been duped and got angry? Besides, she'd probably never see him again after tonight. She might as well let the fantasy linger a little longer.
"You didn't consider quitting fashion after—Chloe, wasn't it?" Altair asked.
"Actually, Chloe happened before I got involved in all this," Heather said, which was the truth even if it was a bit of a stretch. Altair's eyes widened, impressed. "She loves everything fashion related. She wants to be a designer when she grows up."
"Well, then you're in the right career to open doors for her." Altair smiled, paying more attention to her than the increasingly elaborate dishes that were being put in front of them. "Were you interested in fashion as well growing up?"
Heather shook her head.
"No. Not really," she admitted. "I wasn't really interested in anything specific as a kid. I mean, besides normal kid stuff. I was interested in the latest toys and the books I was reading and whatever cartoon was big at the time. When I got older and people started getting serious about careers, I was honestly lost for the longest time. It wasn't until I left home that I started to realize what made me happy."
Altair nodded in understanding. "I was the same. I was not the eldest, so I felt as though I would spend my entire life in second place, unnecessary. Then when I was old enough to travel on my own, I found myself during a Paris fashion show."
"What drew you to shoes, specifically?" Heather asked.
"It's difficult to explain." Altair frowned thoughtfully. "In my culture, feet are considered unclean, the lowest part of the body, and shoes are dirty because they cover the feet and touch the ground. We take off our shoes before entering homes or mosques. To show someone the soles of your feet is rude. To hit someone with a shoe is a great insult. But during that first show I was near the stage, which was very high, so most of what I saw of the models walking by was their feet—pampered, pedicured feet wrapped in the most decadent, beautiful shoes. It felt almost wrong to see a body part considered nearly indecent in my homeland treated with such reverence. I fell in love with the concept of elevating the once dirty shoe into a piece of art, turning something crass into something undeniably beautiful. I don't think there ever could be a higher form of art."
Heather listened, almost forgetting the lavish meal in front of her as Altair, carried away by the strength of his feelings, explained his passion.
"I apologize," he said, seeming a little embarrassed. "You probably don't understand."
"I do!" Heather said at once, smiling. "I feel the same way about food!"
"Really?" Altair looked taken aback.
"That's one of the things that drew me to cooking in the first place," Heather said. "People eat all day every day, and half the time they aren't even really thinking about what they're putting in their mouths. They just want to get back to their lives without starving. But a really good meal can change everything! I was in college, pursuing a degree I couldn't have cared less about, when I started cooking for my study group. We were all broke, and none of us really knew how to take care of ourselves. We were living off fast food and boxed mac and cheese. I started learning to cook because I was tired of it, and then I brought the food to my friends because I cared about them and I wanted them to eat well. And seeing the way they ate, how grateful and enthusiastic they were, and the way they talked about it, thinking about what they were eating for probably the first time in their lives, soon that was more important to me than whatever we were studying. Good food could more than just brighten their day. It could start conversations that built relationships. It could summon up memories they hadn't thought of in decades. Food and our relationship with food is a window directly into the soul. All I wanted after that was just to keep cooking for people, keep seeing those reactions, keep changing people's lives for the better by changing the way they looked at food. Nothing has ever excited me as much as that."
"Exactly." Altair looked delighted, his eyes sparkling as he leaned toward her over the table. "The art of making something spectacular out of the mundane! It's incredible, isn't it?"
Heather laughed, overwhelmed by the sudden thrill of having someone understand her motivations so well.
"Speaking of," she said, looking down at her plate, "I think we've been neglecting this incredible meal rather rudely. Normally I wouldn't be able to focus on anything else."
"I suppose the only thing better than good food," Altair said, raising his glass to her, "is good company."
Heather raised her glass to his, both of them grinning like children.
Though they tried to concentrate on the food, the conversation continued to carry them both away. Heather had never met someone so easy to talk to. She would have expected it to be more difficult. He was a prince after all, and one from a vastly different cultural background. But their views on most things were surprisingly similar, and where they disagreed the debate was lighthearted and respectful. Heather could have talked to him for hours.
"I noticed you're not wearing a ring," Altair said.
They were lingering over the last of the dessert plates, both a little tipsy from the wine. Heather couldn't have said how long they had been there, only that she wasn't sure she ever wanted to leave. She held up her bare ring finger with a helpless shrug.
"Divorced?" he guessed.
"Never married," Heather replied. "I was engaged to Chloe's father, Tom. The wedding was all planned, and we were less than a month from the date when I found out I was pregnant and Tom decided everything was going too fast. We were only twenty-two, so I understood him being a little freaked out by how our futures were changing. I was freaking out too. But I didn't have the option of just bailing on the situation, unlike Tom. He left before she was born. They've never even met."
"I'm very sorry to hear that," he said, and she saw the genuine sympathy in his eyes. "I know the feeling too well."
"Were you married?" Heather asked, curious. He didn't wear a ring, and he hadn't mentioned anyone so far.
"When I was young," Altair confirmed. "A girl from Dar-Saila, Amina. It had been expected that we would marry since we were children. We did not dislike each other, and I thought that, with time, love would grow. But by our second year of marriage, she made it clear she intended to leave me. I thought I could change her mind, and after a while, I thought her promises to leave were empty. But then, five years ago, she met a Hollywood producer who said he could make her an actress, and just like that she was gone. I have not had time for many relationships since then. It's easier to just focus on work and not think about it."
Heather nodded, the sentiment familiar.
"I've only dated a handful of people since Chloe was born," she said, "none of which panned out well. Working is a lot more straightforward."
"I always thought love should be simple," Altair said, staring into his wine glass. "Something solid and easily defined. A flower that you know as soon as it appears and which blooms all on its own. But nothing is ever so simple when human beings are involved. We complicate everything with doubts and lies. Sometimes growing such a fragile flower doesn't seem worth it."
Heather sighed, the feeling resonating all too well.
"Hey," she said, trying to lift both their spirits, "it's the rarest and most beautiful flowers that take the most skilled gardeners a lifetime to cultivate. Maybe you just need to be more patient. You can't be much older than me. You still have time."
Altair chuckled. "Time seems to be the one thing I never have enough of. But thank you. You should hold on to hope as well. You are a beautiful woman with a great deal to offer."
Heather snorted, finishing her wine. "Flatterer."
"Is flattery what you're after?" Altair teased, leaning closer. "If anyone I've ever met has been deserving of flattery, it's you."
Heather laughed, embarrassed and unconvinced. "If you say so."
"You must already know how beautiful you are," Altair said, smiling as she turned red. "You would not have been on stage tonight if you weren't. What's really astounding is how your passion and wit only amplifies that beauty. The way your eyes light up when you talk about cooking is a sight better men would commemorate in poems and paintings. I'd design a shoe after it, but I know I would fall tragically short."
"Now you're just being silly," Heather stammered, overwhelmed. Altair laughed, shaking his head.
"Maybe a little," he confessed. "That doesn't mean it isn't true."
Heather waved her hand to dismiss the whole subject and reached for her purse to check her phone. She winced when she saw the time. It was much later than she'd expected.
"I should get home," she said. "I'm surprised your friend hasn't kicked us out by now."
Altair laughed, checking his own watch. "He is being unusually patient. I don't think I've ever stayed this long. You're an intoxicating presence, Miss Heather."
"And you're shameless," Heather said, giggling.
"I'll call you a taxi home," he said. "I would drive you myself, but..."
He pointedly eyed the empty wine bottles on the table. Heather's shoulders shook as she suppressed a laugh.
"A taxi is fine," she said.
They made their way out to the front of the restaurant after the taxis had been called. Right on time, the rain that had been threatening all night began to fall, a soft drizzle that was building up toward a downpour.
"Thank you so much for tonight," Heather said as they huddled together under the restaurant awning, waiting for the cars to arrive. "The show, dinner, all of it. It was amazing."
"I should be thanking you," he said. "You did me a tremendous favor. Your presence was not only a huge help to my show, but it also turned what would have been a rather dismal, lonely evening into one worth remembering. Thank you, Heather."
He leaned in, and Heather moved into his embrace without thinking. It just seemed natural after all they'd shared over dinner. His arms were strong and sturdy, squeezing her close in a way that made her feel safe but not trapped. He smelled of expensive cologne, musk and sandalwood. They held each other for a long, warm moment until Heather heard tires on pavement as a taxi pulled up to the curb. She pulled away, turning toward the car.
"Good night," she said, a little giddy as she got into the taxi.
"Good night, Heather." He helped her in and closed the door, waving as the taxi left him behind. Heather let her eyes close, dizzy with wine and happiness, as she sped toward home.