Chapter Fifteen
“For goodness’ sake, calm down, Nick.” Ruth Goldfarb scooped baba ghanoush into a plastic bowl and smoothed the top with a spatula. “Nobody expects an elegant presentation in this place.”
She washed the pan she’d used to roast the eggplant, then wiped her hands on her embroidered Guatemalan tunic.
Darcy sashayed into the kitchenette and ripped the top off a box of crackers, then dumped them onto a dented metal tray. “Nick is worried his new lady friend won’t like this dump.”
Ruth arched one gray eyebrow. “New lady friend? You’re a fast mover, Nicolas.”
“She’s not my…” He huffed, then shrugged. “Yes, I like her, okay?” He did his best to ignore the two women’s teasing while he set out wine glasses on the battered wooden buffet. Darcy was right, though: with its scarred furniture, sagging sofa, and stained rugs, this guest house for visiting staff was a dump. At least the candles Ruth scattered lent a bit of atmosphere. A chemistry professor from the University of Washington, she’d be leaving for home in a few days and suggested co-hosting a party with Nick to thank their colleagues for their hospitality.
The scent of toasted spices wafted from the oven. “The nuts are ready,” Ruth called out. “Let’s see, what can we serve them in?”
“How about this?” Darcy held up a large souvenir ashtray. “Greetings from Las Vegas.” When Nick raised one eyebrow, she added, “It’s clean.”
“Viva Las Vegas.” Ruth dumped the sweet, spicy nut mix into the improvised serving bowl and then bustled off to her room, down the hall from Nick’s and across from Darcy’s.
“Sooo,” Darcy strolled toward him, her hips swaying. “The merry widow’s coming tonight?”
He turned away from her sharp gaze to check his reflection in the mirror over the mantelpiece. He straightened his tie, then adjusted the knot, then clucked his tongue and pulled the damned thing off. Darcy’s reflection appeared at his shoulder, a Cheshire Cat smirk on her face.
“Look who’s nervous. What’s happened to my suave, lady-killer boss?” She pulled a barrette from the pocket of her brocade vest, which didn’t quite conceal her black, lacy bra, and arranged her long, black hair.
“Mind your own business, Darcy. Don’t you have a date tonight?”
“I promised Doctor Goldfarb I’d help set up and serve.” She pulled a tube from her pocket and slowly slicked dark red gloss over her lips. “Don’t worry. I’ll be out of your hair soon.”
If Darcy weren’t such a good research assistant, he’d have given her the boot long ago. Even though she’d shrugged off his refusal of a more intimate arrangement, he had no doubt she expected him to succumb to her charms eventually. She’d probably heard about his prior indiscretion, though he’d done his best to cover it up. Meanwhile, when not scouring bookshops, libraries and museums for Nick, Darcy amused herself by seducing whomever caught her eye, like the little sprite from Clara’s shop, poor girl.
“Here, let me.” Darcy pulled a comb from the back pocket of her low-slung jeans and turned her attention to his messy curls. “See? Much better.” She stepped back and surveyed her work. “Irresistible.”
All his life, Nick had been told he was handsome, but since meeting Diana, he hadn’t needed his looks to get what he wanted. He was out of practice now, unused to flirting, and nervous about coming on too strong around Clara.
Lovely Clara. He opened the top two buttons on his shirt, then reclosed one. He was surprised she’d agreed to come at all, after he’d made such a spectacle of himself in the park. A flicker of hope tugged the corners of his mouth upward. But hope of what? A week from Sunday, he’d be on the road back to Berkeley. Just ten days to win the trust of this skittish, lovely widow. His vision slid into soft focus at the memory of her feather-light touch on his hand, her lips on his cheek, her rose perfume, her silky hair falling across her green eyes…
“Come on, Eros. Stop mooning in the mirror and help us.” Ruth pressed a lighter into his hand. “Candles, please.”
The doorbell clanged. He wiped his damp palms on his pants. Deep breath. Be cool. He turned toward the door.
“Got it,” Darcy sang out and dashed to the entrance. A moment later, Leo and three other professors burst into the room, filling it with loud laughter and shouted greetings.
“Darcy, you luscious morsel.” Leo wrapped her in a bear hug and lifted her off her feet. “Is he driving you mad with his lovesick moaning?”
Nick glared at his friend. He’d only spoken briefly about Clara to Ruth, just to let her know a non-university guest was coming, and he hadn’t discussed her at all with Darcy. And yet, all three of them were in on the joke. Was he that obvious?
Darcy wriggled out of Leo’s grasp and trotted to the door to admit the next group of guests, leaving Nick to make small talk and play nervously with the stem of his wine glass, waiting for Clara’s arrival. He shook hands and kissed cheeks, but all the while his attention was riveted on the front door.
****
The evening wind picked up, and Clara pulled her wrap tighter around her shoulders as she tottered up the sidewalk on the ridiculously high heels she’d chosen for their not-really-a-date. She had no experience with faculty parties. What did professors wear when socializing? Did they all share Nick’s casual elegance, or were they rumpled and bawdy like his friend Leo? She hoped her velvet jeans and silky T-shirt struck the right note—fancy, but not too.
Nick’s temporary quarters turned out to be a little stucco cottage just up the street from the campus. Driving past the university, she noticed how little the scenery had changed. Even as the air chilled and the light dimmed, scores of students still lounged on benches, sprawled on the lawns, or strolled hand in hand between the massive brick residence halls and classroom buildings.
The sight of Knight Library brought a vivid flash of memory: this is where she first met Jared. He’d been lounging under a tree, his long, muscular legs stretched out in front of him. She was walking by, her nose buried in a book, and tripped over him, leaving them both scraped and bruised. He insisted on taking her to the health clinic, and the rest, as they say, was kismet.
Before climbing the low steps to the front door of Nick’s place, Clara paused on the sidewalk to fumble in her purse. She ran a brush through her hair, flipped it over her shoulders, then immediately regretted not having pinned it up. Up looked sophisticated. Down looked messy. Damn.
Help me, Jared. I’m scared.
“Behind you.” A young man on a racing bike zoomed past, and the wind of his passing lifted her hair.
“Me too.” A young woman followed him, her passage wobblier. “Sorry,” she threw over her shoulder.
And then someone threw open the cottage’s wooden door. Light and laughter spilled onto the narrow walkway.
“Here she is!” Nick’s friend Leo boomed from the doorway. Backlit by the warm light inside, his bushy red beard gleamed, reminding Clara of a friendly cartoon bear.
“Well, come on, dear lady. We’re looking at your dirty books.”
A twinge of warning pinged behind her forehead and, for a split-second, she considered pivoting and just going back the way she’d come. Fielding questions about erotica from a bunch of strangers was not her idea of a good time. But Nick had been so kind to her the day before. With the memory of his dark eyes, of his soft touch still fresh in her mind, she closed her eyes, blew out a long breath, then climbed the stairs.
Nick’s dark head appeared over his friend’s shoulder. When his eyes met hers, they widened, and his nostrils flared. Just a lightning-fast reaction, probably unconscious, but she noticed, and her heart fluttered like a manic squirrel.
Nick pushed Leo aside “Clara, I’m so glad you came.” He took both her hands and stood in the doorway for a long moment, his mouth half-open as if about to say something.
She waited, barely breathing, her shoulders tensed. His hands warm against hers, he slowly stepped backward, pulling her across the threshold.
Nothing scary happened. In fact, was just like a typical grad-student house party, just with better wine and quieter music. About fifteen people, ranging from early thirties to Harry’s age, sat on the saggy leather couch, perched on wooden stools, or stood in clusters, chatting and laughing. Candles in jars flickered from the mantelpiece, the scarred wooden sideboard, and various other pieces of scuffed-up furniture. The worn Persian rug had probably once been red. On the dining room table, half-emptied dishes of food reminded her she hadn’t eaten in hours.
A motherly woman of about sixty strode over, her beaded earrings jingling.
“You must be Clara. I’m Ruth Goldfarb, Nick’s roommate.” Crinkly laugh lines framed her friendly gray eyes. “Don’t worry, dear, I’ll be leaving in a few days, so Nick will have this palace all to himself. Come, let me introduce you to my colleagues.”
Ruth linked her plump arm through Clara’s and introduced her to several chemistry professors munching and conversing over the coffee table. This bunch was more or less what she’d expected: older academics wearing battered sport coats or plain knit dresses. In her embroidered tunic and leggings, Ruth was by far the most colorful.
The anthropologists, on the other hand, were a more boisterous bunch. Reclaiming her from Ruth, Nick led Clara to where Leo held court at the dining room table, roaring with laughter and dishing out teasing comments along with plates of food.
“Here’s the lady now,” he bellowed as they approached.
From a tall stool in the corner, Darcy glanced up from her phone and raised one corner of her scarlet mouth, then ambled toward them, her hips sliding from side to side like a pendulum.
“If you’re all set, Nick, I’ll take off now.” She fixed Clara with a heavy-lidded stare. “You two have fun.” Then she sashayed slowly to the door.
A tall woman with thick blonde-gray braids said, “Well, someone doesn’t like sharing the spotlight.” She held out her hand. “I’m Greta. Nice to meet you, Clara. I want to hear more about your bookshop.” She slung her arm around Clara’s shoulder and walked her toward an old wooden desk in the corner, where the books Nick bought sat in two piles. “Get the lady some wine, Nick,” she called out. “Where are your manners?”
Greta turned out to be another anthropologist at the U of O, specializing in archeology. She opened one of the volumes on the desk, Erotic Temple Art of Ancient India.
Oh Lord, this is embarrassing. She didn’t like to think of herself as a prude, but examining erotic art with strangers, even professional experts, made her cheeks flush. She glanced around for an escape route, but Nick had disappeared.
“This is one of the best books I’ve seen on the Khajuraho temples.” Greta pointed to a carving of a man and woman coupling in a particularly acrobatic way, each perched on one foot with a leg wrapped around the other’s waist.
“I’ve taken a lot of yoga classes, but I’ve never tried this pose. Imagine if you fell.” She giggled like a girl half her age.
“I like this one better,” a heavyset young man said, pointing over Greta’s shoulder to a stone frieze of couples in erotic poses: lying down, standing up, upside-down, front to back, a woman sandwiched between two men, oral sex for her, for him, for both…
“Something for everyone,” he said, then extended his hand. “Louie Stern, U Dub, bio anthro.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Clara’s a civilian. You’ll have to speak English to her.” Nick stepped up behind her, holding two glasses of wine. She barely resisted the urge to lean back against him and drink in his warmth, his woodsy scent.
Louie elaborated. “University of Washington, biological anthropology. Mostly bones of ancient humans. Not as sexy as Nick’s work, I’m afraid.”
“Nick’s a sexy guy,” Leo bellowed, clapping his friend on the back. “Even his bones are sexy.”
Nick rolled his eyes. “Leo’s always busting my, er, chops.” He handed Clara a glass. “I hope red’s okay. The chemists already drank up all the white.” He inclined his head toward Ruth and her colleagues, huddled on the sofa, gesticulating over three empty wine bottles.
“Red is fine.” She took a sip. “Very good.”
The wine was rich, spicy, heady, like the man who’d poured it. She’d have to pace herself or she’d end up intoxicated.
The anthropologists went back to examining the erotica books, their conversation punctuated with chuckles and guffaws. Nick inclined his head, and she followed him to the little kitchenette. He pulled two stools from beneath the Formica breakfast bar, where they could watch the others while enjoying a little privacy.
Nick nudged her softly with his shoulder. “Thanks for coming, Clara. I’m sorry they’re such doofuses tonight.”
“Your friends are not what I expected.” She smiled up at him, then lost her train of thought under the spell of his heavy-lashed, dark eyes. Holding his gaze was the bravest thing she’d done in a long, long time. Little fireflies danced deep in her belly.
Finally, he looked away and sipped his wine, freeing her to breathe again.
“If you never leave college, you sometimes forget how grownups act. These guys swoop in, gobble up all the food, drink all the booze, then leave.” He leaned in closer, half-whispered in her ear, “That’s the good news. They’ll be gone soon.”
And now the fireflies in her middle zoomed in dizzy circles, crashing into each other and setting off sparks. She sipped her wine, just as Leo rushed over waving another book. “Get a load of the rump on this one!” Leo’s comment made her giggle, then cough until she sprayed wine into her hand. Mortified, she searched for something to wipe up the mess.
“Leo!” Nick shot him a bug-eyed glare as he pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket.
“Oh, sorry. Proceed.” Leo retreated to the dining table and refilled his plate.
She held the handkerchief with her clean hand, unwilling to stain it with the dribble of red wine running down her chin.
“It’s okay, I have lots. My grandmother sends a box every year at Christmas.”
“Well, thank you.” Feeling like a clumsy dork, she mopped up the mess. Folding it, she noticed his embroidered initials: NDP.
“What’s the D for?”
He sighed. “Dimitrios. I’m lucky Dad let me get away just carrying it as my middle name. I have six cousins named Dimitri.”
“Ah.” Itchy with embarrassment, she fiddled with the damp cloth. “So, how’s your project going?”
“Very well, thanks to you.”
“Oh. I’m, uh, glad to help.”
Nick spun his stool to face her, his elbow on the counter. “I was telling Leo and the others about your erotica collection. Leo did a web search and found several mentions of your shop in a book collectors’ forum, but nothing on any academic site. He says you’re missing a big market.”
“You mean, all the professors with sexy bones?”
He chuckled. “Well, anthro people like us, plus art historians, sociologists, students… If I were closer, I’d help you catalogue your collection, design a better website.”
“It’s a shame you’re not closer, Nick.” She bit her lip. Already, the wine made her too talkative. “I mean, I could use the help.”
His lips slid into an enigmatic half-smile. “Well, you know, I do have family up here. I’ll be back.”
“Oh, that’s—”
Good. That’s very, very good.
“Nicolas.” Ruth stepped into the kitchen, her voice stern. “You’re a terrible host. Have you offered this young lady something to eat? The shrimp toasts are almost gone, and the stuffed dates are getting cold.”
“Sorry, sorry. Shall we, Clara? Too much wine on an empty stomach makes me talkative.”
He followed her to the table and handed her a chipped china plate. Together, she and Nick finished off the bacon-wrapped dates, sweet and salty and delicious, along with the last of the silky baba ghanoush, some crisp sliced fennel, several marinated olives, garlicky shrimp in olive oil, and something Clara couldn’t identify.
“Mushroom something, I think,” Nick said.
“It’s like velvet.”
“Once Ruth leaves, we’ll be limited to take-out, I’m afraid. That is, if you come back. I hope you will.” He wiped his mouth. She watched the napkin’s path across his lips, riveted.
“I can cook,” she blurted. Why did I say that? Now I’ll have to invite him over, make him dinner.
“Oh, can you now?” Nick cocked one glossy black eyebrow.
Retreat! “I seldom bother anymore since it’s just me.”
“Come on, let’s sit over here.” She followed him into the living room, where they settled onto a pair of lumpy cushions on the hearth. They chatted about favorite dishes, an easy, safe topic. Nick told her about his mother’s moussaka. “Better than anything you’ll find in a Greek restaurant. Her béchamel is so fluffy.”
“Wait, isn’t your mother from Kenya?”
“Her father was. When she and Dad traveled to Greece, she learned Greek cooking from my grandmother.”
While Nick rhapsodized about his mother’s cooking, the guests began to take their leave. When Leo pulled Nick up for a good-bye hug, she realized the room had mostly cleared, and she’d barely spoken to the other guests.
“Miss Clara, it was a delight to see you again.” Leo tugged her to her feet and slung his arm around her shoulders. “Walk me to the door, won’t you?”
“Leo, you can find the door on your own,” Nick said with a slight scowl.
“And yet, I don’t want to.” When Nick opened his mouth to object, Leo held up his forefinger. “I’ll give her back, Nick. Just chill.”
Nick shrugged and moved off to the kitchen to help Ruth clean up.
They stopped on the porch. The cool evening air raised goosebumps on her bare arms. Crickets thrummed their night song from the junipers lining the path.
“So,” Leo said, “you like my friend?” His expression was friendly enough, but his blue eyes scrutinized her closely.
She blinked up at him. “I, uh…yes. I like Nick.”
He pursed his lips and nodded. “You won’t believe this, because he’s so good-looking, but our Nick has had some bad luck with the ladies.”
“You mean Diana?”
“No, though her death was a tragedy. She was one of a kind. Losing her nearly broke him. But he’s had other problems. And the way he’s looking at you worries me. It’s not like him to ignore his friends like he did tonight.”
A flush rose from her chest right up to her hairline. “What are you saying, Leo?”
He placed his big hands on her shoulders and squeezed, not enough to hurt her, but enough to pin her in place. “It’s a shame when one person is serious and the other is—trifling. You’re not trifling with my friend’s heart, are you, Clara? Because I don’t want to see that happen again.”
She opened her mouth to respond, but no sound emerged. Emotions rolled through her, knocking her off balance: anger, defensiveness, confusion. Fortunately, Nick stepped into the doorway, putting an end to Leo’s interrogation.
Leo clicked his heels and executed a crisp bow. “Good night then, lovely lady. Nick.” And he strolled off down the street, as if he hadn’t just accused her of…what, exactly?
Nick trotted down the stairs. “Is Leo putting the moves on you?”
“No, I…We were just talking.”
“Oh?” He raised both eyebrows, but when she didn’t elaborate, he shrugged. “Ruth’s going to bed. Do you have time for one more drink?” He grinned down at his shoes. “Maybe we could, I don’t know, check out some of your books?”
She wasn’t sure what Leo meant by “the way Nick was looking at her,” but the look he gave her now was playful. A glossy black curl tumbled onto his forehead, and his dark eyes sparkled. The smart part of her brain waved a warning flag. But other parts of her, lulled by wine, by the nearness of this beautiful man, those parts were flushed with courage.
“Why not? Let’s.”