Chapter Eight
Nick pulled his green Karmann Ghia up to the front of Clara’s bookshop just before seven. He peered into his rearview mirror, bared his teeth. No spinach. Tilted his head back. No boogers. Ran his fingers through his hair. No stray fuzz. He checked his fly, then popped a mint, took a few deep breaths, and climbed out of his low-slung car. Here we go.
It had been a long time since he’d cared this much about making a good impression. Charming the ladies came easy to him. He’d learned that skill at his dad’s knee. The trick, Papa told him, was to find that special something that makes a woman unique. It’s there, if you look. But be sincere. Women can smell a phony a mile away.
Dad knew what he was talking about. After all, the cocky little Greek had charmed Nick’s proud, statuesque mother right off her feet. God, he missed him. Papa would know what to do about this fascinating, alluring widow who lived to damn far away.
Why her, why now? It was one of those questions you can’t answer with logic. The answer lay deep inside, in his primitive, animal brain. Something about her voice, her scent, the tilt of her head when she gazed up at him. With her, he felt a bone-deep sense of rightness. But this sudden certainty after such a short acquaintance—how bizarre, and alarming. He didn’t quite trust his judgment, especially after last year’s huge lapse in judgment nearly cost him his career.
Still, how perfect, to fall for the owner of such a wonderful bookshop. And a widow, too. She understood what it meant to open up her heart after such a deep loss. At least, he hoped she did.
Right. Ready. A few more deep breaths, and he strode to the entrance of Book Nirvana. Behind the counter, Clara’s petite assistant jotted something in a ledger. He tried the door. Already locked. When he knocked on the glass, she looked up, flashed a merry grin, and pointed toward the café next door.
The long, narrow space was already packed with customers. Clara perched on a stool at the counter. God, she’s lovely. He paused a moment to watch her through the café’s glass front. She’d let her hair down. It fell in soft, russet waves over her slim shoulders. Her satin blouse had come untucked in the back, revealing a crescent moon of smooth, pale skin above her dark jeans. Her fingers toyed with a coffee stirrer, her gaze far away, as if daydreaming. She shifted in her seat, leaned her cheek on her hand.
A silvery shiver vibrated deep in his belly at the memory of his own awkwardness when he first ventured out after Diana’s death.
He pushed the door open. Clara glanced up at the jingle of the doorway bell, her wide-eyed gaze locked onto his. Her lips parted, and she gripped the counter’s edge. The barista, a slim young man with a lacquered pompadour and huge doe eyes, leaned on the counter and looked Nick up and down.
“This him?” he asked Clara.
She nodded.
“Nice.” He patted her hand, straightened up, and addressed Nick. “Welcome to Coffee Dreams. The wine guy is set up in the back.” He hollered over his shoulder, “Two more, darling!”
From the back of the café, a guy with a perfectly groomed rectangular beard flashed them a thumbs-up.
Clara made the introductions. “Nick Papadopoulos, this is Arnie Stewart, barista extraordinaire.”
“For now, dear lady, for now.” Arnie heaved a theatrical sigh and wiped a wine glass with his bar towel. “Wish I had a crowd like this every night. The competition is getting fierce, especially since the big chain place opened up the street. If the new landlord raises the rent, I’m screwed.” He called to the tattooed young woman at the other end of the counter, “Lana, would you find these good people a nice seat?”
Lana led them to a tall café table with two cushioned barstools and returned a moment later with a dish of olives, cheese cubes, salami slices and nuts. “Compliments of the chef,” she said with a grin, then thumped her chest and winked at Nick. “I’m the chef. Hey, Clara, you met the new landlord yet?”
Clara shook her head and reached for an olive.
The server pursed her lips. “I hear he’s a real prick. Anyway, enjoy!”
The din of conversation and laughter made it difficult to talk without shouting, so Nick scooted his stool closer to Clara’s. His knee pressed against hers beneath the table. She didn’t pull away. Did she feel it too, that sharp zing of pleasure where their bodies touched?
“So, what brings you to Eugene, besides erotica?” She popped a cheese cube into her mouth, then slid the plate closer to him.
He munched a few almonds before answering. “A student gave me the idea, a kid in one of my anthropology classes. I’d assigned some readings on shifting notions of sexual attractiveness—you know, what was considered ‘hot’ in different places and at different times.”
She nodded, her gaze on the slice of salami she was trying to spear with a toothpick. “Sounds like a fun class.”
“He didn’t think so. This kid complained the assigned readings about sex were boring. He said I should write a book about it, one with lots of pictures, like the slides I show in class. And it got me thinking—why not? I pitched the idea to my department chair, and she agreed. A scholarly book with broad appeal would reflect well on the department, and maybe help my career too.”
“Your career needs help?” Clara fixed him with those ocean-green eyes, and he nearly lost the thread of their conversation. He reached for an olive at the same moment she did, and his hand closed over hers instead. Her skin was soft, warm, silky.
Jolted, he pulled back. “Um, right. There are three of us up for tenure next year. Let’s just say certain of my colleagues don’t approve of my area of specialty.”
“At Berkeley?” She raised an eyebrow. “I’d think you’d be rolling in sex out there.”
“Wouldn’t you? Fortunately for me, our department chair likes my work, but she’s not the only one who decides whether I get tenure.”
“Ah. Office politics.”
“Can’t escape them.” He nabbed a few more almonds and watched Clara fiddle with her toothpick, like a nervous undergrad facing her first teacher conference.
The bearded vintner slid between the tables and poured their first glass of wine. “We’re starting with a crisp Pinot Grigio…” He nattered on about nose and legs and bouquet and lingering afternotes. Clara flashed a shy grin and took a sip. She closed her eyes and exhaled through her nose.
“Well?” Nick asked.
“It’s—surprising.” She took another sip.
“Do you like surprises, Clara?” He hadn’t meant it to sound like a challenge but realized too late she might take it as one.
Don’t scare her off.
She met his gaze, though, her eyes soft and thoughtful. “I used to. I think maybe a few surprises would do me good.” But before he could pick up that promising thread, she swallowed the last of her wine and interlaced her fingers. “Seems like a long way to travel just to find some sexy pictures.”
“Actually, I come up here several times a year. There aren’t many people working in my area of concentration, but there are three at the U of O.” He arched one eyebrow. “Must be something in the water up here.”
“Oh yeah, we’re a very sexy state.” A sudden flush lit up Clara’s cheeks Wine, or something else?
“Plus, my sister and her family live up in Corvallis, and my parents retired to Portland.”
Clara tilted her head, her expression hard to read. Was it a mistake to mention his family? Too intimate?
“So,” she continued as the vintner poured their next sample, a fruity Chardonnay, “you get together with these sex professors and, what, write about historical sex?”
“Cultural anthropologists. And yes, that pretty much sums it up.”
“And they pay you for that?”
He chuckled. “Not as well as I’d like, but yes.”
“Nice gig.”
“So is running a bookshop. That must be fun.”
“It mostly is.” She tasted the wine, closed her eyes, and moaned softly. “Oh, my.”
He sipped his wine, pursed his lips, and snuffled comically. “Lovely top notes of apple and pear, with muscular legs and a firm behind.”
Clara giggled. “Sounds like a sex professor.”
When he raised his forefinger, she interjected, “Sorry, cultural anthropologist.”
Their third sample arrived. The pours were getting more generous, their host’s voice more musical. Must be sampling his own wares. “This is a German-style Riesling. Notice the pleasant balance of acid and sweet, with notes of wet stone.”
Nick stuck his nose into his glass and sniffed. “Wunderschön.”
Clara took a sip, smacked her lips. “Ach du lieber.”
Nick chuckled. “Wiener Schnitzel.”
“Oktoberfest.”
“Weltschmerz.”
She tapped her pursed lips. “Umm…Dachshund?”
He barked out a laugh, rocking on his wobbly bar stool. She joined in, her laughter ringing like a silver bell.
Nick wiped his eyes. “You have a wonderful laugh, Clara.” He reached for her hand. She let him take it, but the moment had passed. Her gaze turned inward.
“It’s hard, isn’t it?” he asked.
She nodded and sighed.
Let me in, Clara. He reached for her other hand, held them both lightly. “After Diana died, I used to feel guilty whenever I found myself having fun. Crazy, right? I mean, the last thing she’d want is for me to sit alone, all wrapped up in a blanket of grief. But it was hard to enjoy the lighter moments because I felt like I was…”
“Betraying her?” Clara gazed at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
An almost irresistible urge welled up. He wanted nothing more than to enfold her in his arms. But he sensed her fragility, so rather than risk this tenuous connection, he contented himself with gently cradling her hands.
He cleared his throat, his voice thick with emotion. “Listen, Clara, I’ve been through what you’re going through now. Of course, your experience is different, but I can tell you loved your husband very much, and you’re having a hard time letting go of your pain. Am I right?”
She took a shuddering breath and nodded.
“The pain will always be there. Sometimes it’s like an ocean wave, knocking you down when you least expect it. But, here’s the thing.” He shifted in his seat, searching for the right words. “You can’t stop the tide, but you can ride the waves when they come, then get up again and keep walking.”
Her gaze rose to meet his. He held it for a quiet moment before continuing.
“I know this is hard to believe, but you will know joy again. At first, just little moments of lightness, like sun breaking through the clouds. And someday, not too far from now, you’ll find yourself happy for whole days at a time. I promise. Accept those moments when they come. Don’t push them away.”
He squeezed her hands. She dropped her gaze but held onto his fingers. Thank God. Otherwise he wouldn’t be able to resist brushing a stray curl from her cheek, then sliding his fingers through her heavy auburn hair, and then…
“Ahem.” The vintner stood beside their table, holding a bottle. “Pinot noir?”
He blinked hard and released her hands. “Sure, please.”
He watched her sip her wine, his gaze never leaving her face until she finally looked up. . The corner of her mouth twitched upward. “It’s good.”
He nodded.
“The wine, I mean.”
“Oh, right.” He sipped. “Very—what, silky?”
“Yes, and a bit…velvety.”
“With just a hint of…”
“Denim?”
“I’m thinking burlap.”
They resumed their wordplay over the wines, light and easy and fun. Finally, as they drained their glasses, Nick brought the conversation back around to Clara, treading carefully. “So, has Eugene always been your home?”
“No, just since college.” She stretched her arms over her head and yawned. “Sorry, it’s been a long day. I went running this morning, and I’m starting to feel it.”
“You’re a runner?”
“Not for a long time. You?”
So, she deflects questions about herself. “I’m a rower.”
“In the San Francisco Bay? Isn’t that dangerous?”
“There’s a lagoon where we practice. It’s peaceful out there, especially early in the morning.”
She nodded, her eyelids half-closed. “I’d like to try that someday, just gliding along on like a—what do you call it—a water strider?”
“Oh no, you’re much too lovely to be a water strider. You’re more of a dragonfly, I think. Bright, like a jewel, and hard to pin down.”
That pierced her armor. Her lashes fluttered, then she lowered her gaze. Her mouth relaxed into a soft smile. “Thank you, Nick. I’ve always liked dragonflies.”
“I’m afraid I’ve been more of a bumble bee tonight, buzzing on about myself. I’d like to know more about you, Clara.”
“Oh.” She glanced at the delicate silver watch on her wrist. “Well, it’s getting late.”
“There you go, flitting away again.” Please stay, Clara.
“Mea culpa.” She held up both hands in surrender. “So, how long are you in town?”
“Let’s see…” He pulled out his phone. “I have to head back to Berkeley no later than…so…twelve more days.”
“Oh. Well then, maybe we can continue our discussion later.”
He bit back the grin that threatened to blow his cool cover. “Your boyfriend won’t mind?”
She blushed again. She was so pretty in pink.
“He’s not really my…I mean…” She cleared her throat. “Anyway, I’d like to hear more about your project. But I really need to get back home.” She wobbled a bit as she stepped down from her stool.
He rushed to steady her, wrapped his arm around her shoulders and inhaled her scent. She smelled of roses, simple and sweet and intoxicating.
“Can I drive you home?”
She gazed up at him, and for a dizzying moment he thought she might say yes. But she stepped back and slid out of his grip. “No, thank you. My car’s right outside. I’m just a bit stiff from my run. I’ll be fine.”
“Let me walk you to your car, at least.”
She sighed. “Okay. Thanks.”
The sky had clouded over, and a fine drizzle patted their cheeks like a caress. They strolled side by side to Clara’s Subaru, its windows fogged with dew. Illuminated by the streetlamps, the mist sparkled and danced down like a swarm of tiny fireflies. He wanted to linger there until the rain drenched them both.
As she inserted her key into the lock, he sensed the tension radiating from her body. She squared her shoulders, then turned to face him, her jaw tight. “I had a good time, Nick. Thank you.”
He held the door open while she slid behind the wheel. Perhaps the barrier between them made her more secure because she rolled down the window, then reached for his hand. “It’s such a relief to talk to someone who understands.”
His heartbeat galloped. She was getting away, and they hadn’t even set a date to meet again. She started to roll up the window, but he hooked his fingers over the glass. “Clara, wait.”
She paused, eyebrows raised.
Don’t push too hard. Don’t scare her away.
He crouched, bringing his face level with hers. “Whatever happens, if you need someone who understands this journey, I hope you’ll think of me. I’m always ready to listen.”
And then, much to his astonishment, she slid her warm, delicate hand behind his neck, pulled him closer, and brushed a soft kiss across his cheek.
“Thank you, Nick. Good night.”
He stood there, rooted to the spot, and watched her drive away. When she disappeared around the corner, he spread his arms wide, turned his face to the sky, and whispered, “Yes!”
****
Clara ran her tongue over her tingling lips.
Why did I kiss him?
The hiss of her tires on the wet asphalt echoed the buzzing in her brain. Once again, the strong tug of Nick’s physical magnetism drew a startling reaction from her.
Just a friendly gesture. No big deal.
But the butterflies in her stomach disagreed, and so did the heat between her thighs.
Still, how lucky to find someone who understood what she was going through, especially with the first anniversary of Jared’s death so near. Of course, she’d have Harry by her side, and Margot. Her younger sister would check in, her stepsister too. Dad would try to persuade her to come stay for a few days. But the thought of enduring such pain under the scrutiny of her brassy, bossy stepmother…Clara shuddered. Better to just push through in familiar surroundings, cling to routine to prop her up until the wave of grief washed past her.
Maybe Nick could tell her how to weather the anniversary of her terrible loss. He’d already been through it. Twice, in fact. And he’d promised she would one day know joy again. He was right, too. For those few hours in his company, she’d felt—what? Lighter. Warmer. Tickled by the possibility of something better.
She pulled into the driveway of the upstairs flat she’d shared with Jared, now dark and still, full of echoes and memories. What would Jared say about Nick? Clara glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror. “I need your help, babe,” she whispered.
An answering gust of wind blew across the windshield, carrying a few damp petals from the linden tree beside the driveway. They stuck there, plastered to the glass by the rain, just inches from her face. She reached out, stroked the glass with her fingertips.
“Thank you.”