He said quickly, “Your artwork at the bakery demonstrates an excellent eye for detail. For my purposes, that is ideal. I only need sketches, to be shown to other experts. If it turns out there is enough there to require an archaeological expedition, of course the university would bring in teams, with proper equipment. All I need in this preliminary stage is sketches. Of course you will be paid for your time and expertise.”
Bird’s worry that Mikhail was expecting some kind of technical expert faded.
“I’d be glad to,” she said truthfully, secretly hoping that he would need hundreds of drawings—that he would stay for weeks. Months. And then? “Ah, when should we start?”
“The tidal ebb will be low enough at seven tomorrow morning. Can you meet me at the same place we first met?”
“I’ll be there,” she said happily. Their eyes met, once again sending warm, glowing pulses sparking from somewhere behind her bellybutton to the regions below.
Hoo-ee, she thought. Here she was in her fifties, once-married with two kids, but it wasn’t until now she understood what panty-melting gazes meant. She had never felt that way about Bartholomew.
The combined force of that realization and the memory of her ex-husband made her brain lock up. Luckily, their food arrived then, saving her from having to speak again. Smoked shrimp tacos and cornmeal crusted chile relleno were Bird’s favorites, and she adored the view right over the ocean, but she was so hyperaware of the man sitting across from her that she scarcely tasted her meal.
Her toes crimped in her sandals, and she tried to relax as a stream of questions flitted through her mind, each more inane (or too nosy) than the last. The silence pressed in on her.
“May I ask—”
“Uh, what do you think—”
Their voice clashed as she met his silver gaze straight on, and her fork clattered to her plate. It was like staring into the sun, except entirely, frighteningly exhilarating. It scared her because she thought she had become an expert in all the grades of emotional pain, from doubt to betrayal, humiliation to hurt. But the wild emotions this man raised in her made her immediately leap to the worst case scenario, which (she told herself firmly) was the adult way to look at such things: it was just attraction, here today
gone tomorrow—he didn’t feel a thing—he was here today, gone tomorrow.
She swallowed in a dry throat, gulped some water, and, mindful of that last thought, “Uh, so where do you live?”
“My work causes me to travel extensively,” he replied.
“Is this your first time in California?”
“Yes—my first in North America. I can’t say I really have a home. Though I was born in—”
Her cellphone rang.
They had just begun to talk! But that Mozart air was her daughter’s ringtone. Her hand dove toward her purse, then she yanked it back. “Uh, sorry. Go on.”
He said with that warm smile, “If you need to answer, please do.”
“No. That’s all right. It’s just my daughter. Not ‘just’—not just at all. I don’t want to give you the wrong idea. In fact, it’s only been five months . . .” Bird, you’re babbling! She shut her teeth with a click. Then she said, “It’s okay.”
“You have a daughter?”
“And a son.” Don’t say too much, don’t say too much . . . “Ah, do you have any family?”
“I’ve also a son.”
“Oh! What’s his name?”
“Fei Zhan. Your daughter’s name?”
“Rebecca—that is, Bec.” Bird blushed as she corrected herself, her mind flung back to the courtroom when she’d lost everything, hugging little Rebecca to her, both of them sobbing as she was forced to say goodbye until her court-appointed visit. But why, Mama, why? Bird hadn’t been able to explain.
Somehow in the intervening years, the child had become the beautiful, poised young woman Bec. “My son is Bartholomew, after his father and grandfather.” She refused to add “the third” as her ex had insisted. “But I recently learned he prefers to go by Skater, which he got in the Marines—” Babbling again. “So that’s my two.”
Okay . . . names of kids, she had pretty much killed that subject dead. Don’t look at him, don’t look at him. Bird busied herself with food she didn’t taste, her mind sorting wildly through possible topics of conversation. How did people manage this? Questions that were not boring, but weren’t too personal. Especially since this was not a date, but her panties seemed to be packed with dynamite—
I know! “What kind of music do you—”
“How long have you—”