Chapter 4
Grace
Luke was sitting alone and drinking a glass of red wine when I arrived.
“I am so sorry!” I exclaimed. “I had a jewelry emergency. And the traffic was a nightmare. And I couldn’t find a parking spot.”
He pulled out my chair. “Take a breath. Monica’s not here yet. Do you want a drink?”
I ordered a glass of chardonnay and sat down, feeling awful. He’d probably thought he’d been stood up, and by two women at the same time. In his shoes, I would have been mortified, certain that everybody was staring at me. But Luke didn’t seem the least bit perturbed. Unless he was the only one who didn’t know this was a date?
No. Not possible. Monica was so obvious. Luke had to know what was going on. A big brown scrapbook that I guessed was his portfolio was lying on one of the empty chairs, but that could have been a prop. It had to be. I didn’t know Luke well, but he seemed too smart to be taken in by such an obvious ruse. He’d brought his portfolio just to play along to save Monica the embarrassment of having been the one to ask him out instead of the other way around.
That was very sweet. He seemed like a nice man. And so handsome. Those beautiful eyes. What color were they? Amber?
Luke caught me staring at him and smiled. I pretended to cough, putting the white linen napkin to my mouth to cover my embarrassment.
Where was Monica?
Luke took a sip of wine and gazed out of the restaurant’s big glass window, overlooking Director Park. It’s more of a square than a park but serves the same purpose. The ground is a herringbone of gray and white pavers with trees planted around the border. There’s a fountain on one end for kids to splash in during the warm weather and a big checkerboard on the other end with knee-high plastic chess pieces left out for anyone who wants to play. If you look up, maybe twenty or thirty feet, you’ll see an enormous glass canopy hovering over a bunch of metal tables and chairs, where people can sit and picnic. When it gets dark, the glass glows with a continually changing and unpredictable pattern of lights—blue, green, purple, pink, orange. It’s eerie and beautiful, an urban aurora borealis.
“Look at that.” Luke pointed toward the fountain and a young couple bundled up in parkas, boots, scarves, and blue knit caps. They were dancing—or trying to. It didn’t seem to be going very well, but they were smiling, shuffling like a pair of clumsy circus bears.
“That’s what I love about cities,” Luke said, his beautiful eyes fixed on the dancers. “You do what you do, even when other people are around. Because you have to. You’ve got no choice but to get out there and rub elbows with humanity. You might not know everybody’s name, but you can see what they do. And plot is character, right? People reveal themselves through actions. It’s really kind of intimate, don’t you think?”
He looked at me as if he expected an answer.
“I never thought about it that way.”
He’d caught me off guard. Was this how people talked in France? Skipping the small talk and going directly into meaningful conversation? It was a little unnerving, but a part of me liked it. I’ve always sucked at small talk. And I could see he was right. The forced proximity of city life creates an unavoidable intimacy with others. You stand witness to the lives of your neighbors, whether you want to or not.
I thought about the homeless couple with the mongrel dog who lived on the block next to mine. They had moved into the neighborhood not long after I did, their belongings piled into a child’s red wagon. After choosing their spot, they laid out big sheets of cardboard between the two cement planters and spread their ragged sleeping bags on top, claiming the space as their own.
Though the smell of weed hung on them from half a block away some days, they were quiet and kept their stuff from spreading out onto the sidewalk, so there was never a problem getting past. More than once I’d seen the girl pick up trash that other people dropped, load it into the red wagon, and cart it to the garbage can on the corner, like a vigilant housewife tidying up in case company came calling. I saw them almost every day of my life, yet I never spoke to them. Partly because I felt like I might be intruding on their privacy, but mostly because I didn’t know what to say.
I thought, too, about the old man I saw in the grocery store the day before. He wore a dirty coat, had a long beard and bloodshot eyes. He stood in front of the coffee display with a red tin can in each hand and two more tucked under one arm. When he heard my cart coming down the aisle he spun around and grinned at me.
“Two for five bucks! I’m stocking up! Can’t beat that price, can you?”
I wheeled past him, avoiding eye contact. He seemed crazy, but would it have hurt to respond? Or at least smile? Luke, I suspected, would have stopped for a lengthy conversation. He obviously enjoyed talking to people, but I wasn’t prepared for conversation. I was just supposed to be the chaperone.
Where was Monica?
The server arrived with my wine. I took a grateful sip, then reached for my bag, fumbling around inside, and pulled out my phone. Monica had sent me a text.
Can’t make it. Dishwasher quit. Party of ten showed up without a reservation. Also, feel awful. Another headache. Terrible. Going to Urgent Care on my way home.
I clicked on a link she attached, an article from one of the more disreputable health and fitness websites, and saw a panicked headline with two exclamation points, about supposed links between cell phone use and brain tumors.
Tell Luke I’m sorry. Have fun. Don’t be mad. More crab cakes for you!
She wasn’t coming? She couldn’t be serious. She couldn’t really believe I was going to sit here with this stranger and calmly eat crab cakes, could she?
“Monica!” I hissed, scanning the text again. “I am going to kill you. Then you won’t have to worry about headaches anymore!”
Luke put down his glass.
“Something wrong with Monica?”
“Nothing is wrong with Monica,” I replied, which was one hundred percent true. “But . . . she can’t make it. The dishwasher quit, they’re short on waitstaff, and they’ve got a big party coming in—a wedding rehearsal dinner. She can’t get away.”
Okay, yes. I embellished Monica’s list of excuses. And left out the part about the imaginary brain tumor. There was no reason Luke needed to know about Monica’s hypochondria until he had a chance to notice all the good things about her (which I was currently struggling to remember), things that make up for the fact that she is—let’s face it—a little nuts.
But I was convinced that falling in love, or even in like, with a guy like Luke would be the antidote to her imaginary diseases. The only thing she really suffered from was loneliness. There’s a lot of that going around.
“Oh,” he said. His expression was sort of . . . unreadable. “Huh. That’s too bad.”
I stuffed my phone into my bag and took a slurp from my glass, feeling ridiculous. “I’m really sorry. I’ll just finish my drink and then get out of your hair.”
He frowned. “Why? I thought we were having dinner? The server said the gift cards had already been entered and that we could order anytime.”
“Luke,” I said, tilting my head to one side. “You don’t have to pretend. We both know what’s going on here. I’m only here because Monica was nervous about dating again and wanted me along for moral support.”
I picked up my glass and drained it by half, anxious to save us both further embarrassment by making a quick getaway from an awkward situation.
“Don’t let this discourage you, okay? Monica’s life is complicated,” I admitted. “Vince was serially unfaithful to her. Now she’s left holding the bag, doing her best to take care of two teenage step-kids and run the restaurant. Monica trained as a chef, not a businesswoman. Or a mother. She tries, but she’s in way over her head.”
I tipped the wineglass high against my lips and gulped the contents.
“Don’t give up on her. She’s a good person.” I pushed back my chair. “Next time, you ask her out. You won’t regret it.”
“Grace?”
“Yes?”
“Sit down.”
Something about his tone reminded me of my high school history teacher, Mr. Harding, who ran such a tight ship that we didn’t breathe without raising a hand to ask permission first. I sat down. The server passed by and saw my empty glass.
“Wow. That was quick. You must have been thirsty. Can I bring you another?”
“No, I’m fine. I was just—”
“Yes, please. Another round for both of us.” Luke’s voice seemed to affect the server the same way it did me. She hurried off to do his bidding.
“So,” he said. “Let me clear up a couple of things. I’m not interested in dating Monica. I’m here because I’m trying to get my business going. And because there was no way I was going to turn down free oysters. I developed a taste for them while I was in France. And for good wine.”
He lifted his glass to his lips and took another sip.
“I’ll tell you something,” he said, his voice wistful, “French food”—he spread his hands—“there’s just no word for how good it is.”
“Really?” I said, propping my chin in my hand.
“Really. Have you ever had poached quail eggs with hollandaise? Or potatoes fried in duck fat? You should. Not too much because it’s so rich. But that’s the thing about French cooking—small portions but incredibly satisfying.” He took a drink. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to change the subject. I’m boring you.”
“Not at all. I’m fascinated. I’ve always dreamed of going to France.”
“You should. I really am glad to be back in the States, especially Oregon, but France is a wonderful place to visit. And dining out in the Loire Valley, even at the simplest little bistro, was a real experience. But,” he said, taking another sip, “I hate eating out by myself.”
“Oh, I hear you. Makes me feel so conspicuous. I always think people are staring at me. At home you can at least turn on the TV for company.”
Luke nodded his understanding. “Since I came back to Portland, Alex Trebek and I have become very close.”
“You like Jeopardy!? I pegged you as more of an ESPN guy.”
“I’d rather play sports than watch them. But if we’re sizing each other up . . .”
He narrowed his eyes, made a show of examining my face. “PBS,” he said, snapping his fingers. “You like Masterpiece Theatre. And Nova. Am I right?”
“Turner Classics. I love old movies. I like knowing good guys from bad guys and being certain that, in the end, the good guy wins.”
“Happy endings,” Luke said. “Real life ought to come with more of those.”
He took another drink. I did the same, then put down my glass and ran my finger around the rim, trying to decide if I should ask the obvious question.
“So . . . you ran away to France for three years. Now you’re back and you and Alex Trebek are besties. Divorce?”
He nodded. “Yeah, but that happened a couple of years before I went to France. I came home from the office one day, announced that I was leaving the law firm. Within a month, I opened my carpentry business. Within a year, I knew I would fail if I didn’t find a way to offer something other people couldn’t. I needed more training. So, I did some research and found a master carpenter in Amboise who was willing to take on an American apprentice, then sold my stuff and booked my ticket. But the marriage was really over on the day I quit the firm. She moved out the next week.
“I get it,” he shrugged. “She didn’t sign up to be married to a tradesman, and I didn’t sign up to work in a job I hated to support a lifestyle I didn’t give a damn about. We just wanted different things. No hard feelings. You?”
I put my hands in my lap, felt the indentation at the base of my finger where my ring should have been. “It’s . . .”
“Complicated?”
I nodded, but not just because I didn’t want to talk about it. It really was complicated. And sad. And I wasn’t up for sad just then. Luke was right; real life ought to come with more happy endings. Who do I see to complain about that?
“I should go.”
Luke swallowed quickly. “Don’t! Stay and have dinner with me.”
“I can’t. This is just too . . .” The word dangerous unexpectedly popped into my mind. I mentally swept it under the rug. “Awkward. But thank you for the drink.”
I stood up. Luke did the same but more quickly. He reached out as if he meant to grab my arm, but I shifted to the side, avoiding his touch.
“Was it because I asked about your ex? Hey, none of my business. We don’t have to talk about it. We can talk about old movies. Or our favorite books, or golf . . .”
“Golf?”
“Golf. Goldfish. Anything you want. We can sit here and exchange recipes for all I care, just please, Grace. Sit back down. You can’t go.”
He sounded a little desperate. I frowned.
“Why not?”
“Because of that.”
He pointed across the restaurant. Two servers were walking toward our table with enormous platters of seafood.
“You were late, so I went ahead and ordered about eighty dollars’ worth of appetizers,” he explained. “I can’t eat all that by myself. But if you leave, I’ll have to. I am a product of my hardscrabble, clear-your-plate-because-children-are-starving-in-the-third-world upbringing. So I’ll have no choice. Come on, Grace. Help me out here.”
His voice was pleading. And charming. So charming that I had to smile a little. Luke walked around to my side of the table and pulled my chair out again.
“You said you like oysters, right?”