He stepped aside to let Darlene in, and closed the door behind her. My heart nearly fucking stopped beating in my chest; I don’t think I’d ever been so glad for my photographic memory in my entire life.
I took her all in, every detail. Her sleeveless dress hugged her slender body in black silk, then flared out at the waist. Instead of her usual combat boots, her shoes were the black, low-heeled, strappy kind dancers wore, and she carried a black coat in her arms. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face on the sides and curled softly down over her shoulders. She’d done her eyes in smoky shadow; and the dark of her clothing and makeup left me transfixed by her translucent skin and fire-engine red lips that stood out, like white and red slashes of paint in a dark masterpiece.
I blinked from staring at her to realize she was staring at me.
“Hi,” she said, a nervous little smile. “You clean up good, Sawyer the Lawyer.”
“Ha!” Henrietta cackled and slapped her thigh. “Haven’t heard that one in a while.” She got up and came over to Darlene and took both her hands in hers.
“Why, aren’t you an angel?” she said. “I’m Henrietta, Jackson’s mother.”
“So nice to meet you. Your son is quite a charmer,” Darlene said warmly.
“That’s one word for him,” I muttered.
“Dareen!” Olivia said, reaching a hand up.
Darlene knelt beside her. “Hi, sweet pea. Are you playing with your blocks?”
“Bocks.”
I wrenched my gaze from her and my daughter to see Jackson watching me with a shit-eating grin on his face. He held his hands up like a circus ringmaster for whom everything was going precisely as planned.
“Shall we?”
We met some friends of ours I hadn’t seen in a long time at Flore restaurant. Twelve of us crowded around the long table by the window that afforded a perfect view of bustling Market Street.
Jackson sat next to Darlene and directed me to sit across from her. For a split second, I wondered at my friend’s actual motives, but Jackson wasn’t a dick. As soon as I sat down, I understood his plan; I had a full view of Darlene sitting across from me, looking stunningly gorgeous in the amber light of the restaurant.
Our friends took to her immediately. Even the most outgoing women among them seemed reserved compared to Darlene. She wasn’t loud or obnoxious, but laughed and talked easily with no self-consciousness about being amongst a group of new people. Now and again, her eyes stole glances at me, and as the dinner plates were being served, she leaned over the table.
“How am I doing?” she asked. “It’s been a while.”
“You’re fucking perfect,” I said, but the noise and clatter of silverware on dishes was so loud, she didn’t hear me.
“What? Say again?”
I shook my head with a smile, and we both were pulled toward other conversations.
After dinner, the group of us walked down Market Street. I’d forgotten what it was like to hang out with friends, to be part of the city’s energy. Darlene linked her arm in mine as we set out.
“Is that okay?” she asked, when I stiffened.
“Yeah, sure,” I said. Her sudden touch on my arm had sent a current shooting through me and I cursed myself. Jackson was right; I was completely off my game. I’d forgotten what it was like to flirt with a girl.
Because you always flirted with an agenda, a voice whispered. With Darlene, just being with her, having her hand on my arm, was enough.
Café Du Nord was a small, former speakeasy underneath an actual restaurant. We walked down the short stairs into the windowless, oval-shaped room. At the far end was a place for a band, but tonight the red curtains were closed and swing music came in from the sound system. We passed pool tables on the left, and Jackson led us immediately to the bar on the right.
“The first one’s on me,” he told Darlene, and clapped his hand on my shoulder. “The rest are on him.”
She laughed. “I’ll take a Coke with three cherries.”
The music was loud. Jackson craned in. “A what? Rum and Coke?”
“No, a Coke with three cherries in it.” Her smile tightened. “I don’t drink…when I dance.”
“Fair enough.” Jackson turned to me. “What will it be, slugger? The usual?”