Amanda shut the door after the deliveryman left and stared at the package. It consisted of two things: a medium-size cardboard box and a white ceramic pot.

The pot contained a magnificent orchid.

She opened the box and retrieved two big illustrated books: one about orchids and the other about spiders. At the bottom of the box was an envelope with a typed letter inside it.

* * *

The second page was a short, hand-written note: Meet me in front of the Grand Rex movie theater at eight. You’ll see something special tonight. Please call if you can’t make it.

She glanced at the clock on the wall. There was no need to call—she’d make it. She’d even have enough time to unwrap the orchid and find a visible spot for it.

“I hope your ‘something special’ is better than an episode of Josephine, Guardian Angel I was going to watch on TV tonight,” she said, spotting him in the crowd in front of the Grand Rex.

“You won’t be disappointed,” he promised.

“Which movie are we seeing?”

“No movie tonight. Our show is a ten-minute walk from here at the Théâtre des Variétés.” He grabbed her hand. “We better get cracking.”

“So,” Amanda said, falling into a stride next to him. “I got your package.”

“Good.”

“You’re plagiarizing my guide.”

He knit his brows in fake indignation. “Absolutely not. I was simply inspired by it.”

“Hmm.” Amanda pinched her lower lip. “I could maybe manage to keep the orchid alive, but honestly, you’re asking too much with regard to Christophe.”

“You’ve given that spider a name, for Christ’s sake,” he said. “It would be murder if you bug-sprayed it.”

“Why does it matter to you?”

“Two reasons. First, I don’t believe in killing living creatures unless they’re a threat to you or your loved ones. Which Christophe isn’t.”

“So you keep telling me.”

“He’s in the spider book—I’ve marked the page.”

She gave him a sidelong look. “What about your second reason?”

“I want you to practice on a more . . .”—he sucked his teeth—“challenging life-form than an orchid before you graduate to me. Something that isn’t naturally and easily lovable. I considered sending you a toad, but then I remembered you had Christophe.”

“Let me get this straight.” Amanda stopped walking, released Kes’s hand, and folded her arms across her chest. “Your plan is to get me to love you—the right way—by having me water an orchid and talk to a spider. Right?”

“More or less.”

“Kes, that’s the dumbest plan I’ve ever heard of.”

“Not so fast.” He tut-tutted. “It’s designed to work in conjunction with the brain-torching properties of my left shoulder.”

She giggled. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.” He glanced at his watch. “We really need to hurry.”

Ten minutes later they were seated in the second row of a small, dimly lit room. They had entered the theater too quickly for Amanda to take in the different posters adorning the façade and figure out which show they were about to watch. She looked around. The audience was a hodgepodge of well-dressed couples, unkempt tourists, and extravagant-looking families. In short, they were too heterogeneous to determine if the piece was going to be a Greek tragedy or a rock concert.

Kes gave her hand a light squeeze. “You’re about to find out. Patience, ma belle.”

At that precise moment, three stout men in black shirts climbed onto the stage and settled in the right-hand corner. Two of them sat down and placed their acoustic guitars across their laps. The third one remained standing.

The room went quiet, and the guitarists began to strum a soulful ballad. Their music rose and fell, the tempo escalating from gentle to feverish and back to gentle again. The third man nodded at the musicians and began to sing in Spanish.

Amanda marveled at the haunted beauty of his voice.

A few minutes later, a circle of light illuminated the middle of the stage. A slender young woman stood there in a long, form-hugging dress that flared out at the hem. Head high and eyes closed, she absorbed the beat.

“Flamenco?” Amanda mouthed, turning to Kes.

He smiled and whispered. “The best Gitan flamenco company in Andalusia.”

She nodded and turned back to the stage.

The woman was now clapping her hands in perfect harmony with the music. She had no castanets or fans that you saw on postcards. A few moments later, her foot began to tap and her hips and arms to move with a restrained passion that was more sensual than the most shameless carnival samba.

And then she launched into a full-fledged dance.

Amanda watched, mesmerized as she took in the dancer’s olive skin and shiny black hair pulled into an elegant knot at her nape. She admired the woman’s supple body and the frenzied stamping of her feet, marveling at the arresting grace with which she arched her back. At some point during the dance, the woman stopped tapping. She straightened her back and spread her arms, pushing them up and back, elbows high—like a seagull’s wings.

“Olé, Pilar,” the musicians cheered.

She rewarded them with a dazzling smile and resumed her dance.

Amanda glanced at Kes and felt a pang of absurd jealousy pierce her heart. This Gitan woman—Pilar—was so much like him, full of color and life. Next to this woman, Amanda felt too gray, too lethargic.

Pilar and Kes.

She silently rolled the two names on her tongue. Two stunning, permanently tanned Gitans. They’d make such a perfect couple. They’d set the world on fire.

Stop it.

She shouldn’t allow ridiculous, self-destructive thoughts to invade her mind. Pilar probably didn’t know Kes from a bar of soap. Kes admired her only as an artist. Despite the dancer’s colorfulness and passion, he wasn’t enamored of her.

He was enamored of Amanda.

And I’m not in love with him.

Amanda’s heartbeat slowed, and the lump in her throat began to dissolve. By the end of the show, she had managed to convince herself that even if Kes became crazy about Pilar, it would be totally OK.

Because he wasn’t Amanda’s boyfriend.

He was her sex friend and pastime companion.

And above all, he was a footloose Traveler leaving town before the end of the month.