Their voices clashed again. She said to the table floral arrangement, “You go first this time.”
“You told me before you’ve been here a number of years,” Mikhail said. “Is this where you grew up?”
“No. That was up in LA. I moved down here when I got married, and stayed in the area after that ended.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Bird rushed to change the subject, blurting out the first question that came to mind. “Um, do you like music?”
Ugh, she thought. What a stupid question. Who doesn’t like music?
But Mikhail replied with a considered thoughtfulness, “I do. Though I’ve a preference for the older forms, whatever the culture.”
It occurred to her that he was working as hard as she was at this stilted conversation. That made her feel a little better.
“I love classical music,” she said, toiling on. “Though I’m no expert. I also like to listen to female vocalists, especially folk singers, but any will do.”
He leaned forward. “My favorite is Maria de los Angeles.”
Bird gasped. “Her version of Madame Butterfly is so devastatingly beautiful. If only I could have seen her sing.”
“I saw her once,” he murmured, eyes half shut, and the silvery glimmer was back. “It was a transcendent experience. So much so that I find I avoid the opera if anyone else is singing it. Unfair, I know.”
“Oh, I wish I could have seen her,” Bird said. “Have you ever heard her sing Maurice Ravel’s Kaddish?”
“You know that piece?” His eyes widened.
“Only on records,” she admitted. My other favorite is Ravel’s—”
“Shehérézade?” The soft way his voice caressed the word, the echo of the beautiful singing sent shivers through her. She sucked in a breath to invite him over to hear it, then remembered her shabby place, her cheapo stereo, her old LPs.
Instead she asked what other operas he liked. They went on through Mozart, Rimsky-Korsakov, and back again to Puccini, until the waiter appeared, breaking the spell by asking if they wanted coffee?
She realized that they’d lingered long after they’d finished eating. But she refused to feel guilty. No one else in her life liked opera.
They both ordered tea. Such a small thing to have in common, but one that pleased her.
“I began reading a Bertie Wooster book last night,” Mikhail said. “I found it at the book store on the main street.”
“Which one? Do you like it?”
“The Code of the Woosters. It’s very amusing, though it seems to depict a world that doesn’t exist anymore. If it ever did.”
Bird laughed. As they talked about P.G. Wodehouse’s world of primeval aunts howling over their teacups from swamp to swamp and young men in spats, Bird found herself wishing this lunch would never end. But the tea was all drunk, and the check arrived, a silent hint that the restaurant needed the table that they’d kept for . . . almost three hours!
Embarrassed, she picked up the armful of roses and walked out quickly, as if that would make up for using up three hours of his life.
“Thank you for lunch,” she said at the door.
“No, I thank you,” he said with that lovely smile that made her feel outlined in light. “I look forward to our investigations on the morrow.”
She started to stutter a good-bye, then realized he was politely walking her to her bike. But before things could get awkward, he gave her that quaint, grave little bow that made her feel like a queen, then he walked away.
Bird gazed after him, completely conflicted. She had been afraid he’d ask where she lived, or want to take her home. She knew better than to give our her address to a guy she’d just met, even if her place had been a showcase. It was sensible and responsible . . . and yet her strongest emotion was reluctance to let him go.
She was so scared she was reading this situation all wrong. After all these years of living alone, she was crushing on a perfect stranger.
Even as her brain listed all the reasons why she was totally crazy, she gently, carefully laid the roses in her bike basket. Then she remembered that she’d been hired to do those drawings, and her inner teenager rejoiced, You get to see him tomorrow! Another chance!
Another chance at . . . what? Godiva would say something like, Toward another adventure. You’re never too old for adventures.
That was certainly true for Godiva, Bird thought wistfully. Godiva’s life had been wilder than any of her books. But she was smart and not afraid of anything.