Chapter 9
The painting looked nearly finished when I packed the canvas away the following afternoon. The lady on the bench had departed a while ago after giving me a little wave. A little giddy at her friendliness, I'd waved back. At least her duck-feeding had given me enough time to paint the contours of her trench coat to my satisfaction. Now, I was on the way to the gallery, to pick up some paperwork for Casey, and to have a talk with the caterer. I just really needed a good cup of coffee first.
The best place to get coffee in town was the Drink In. Unfortunately, everyone in the vicinity knew it and whoever didn't know very quickly found out. The line in front of the counter of the shop moved at a glacial pace and, after a while, I was severely tempted to fake some kind of emergency just to speed things up. People were taking ages agonizing over the many choices.
Just how long can it take to choose a coffee flavour?
The door to the store opened, and the little bell above it tingled, announcing yet another customer. With it, a dull throbbing settled between my temples.
Fantastic, more people.
Five more minutes went by with no movement in the line, and the three-people group behind me finally groaned and decided to try their luck elsewhere. With a grunt, I started drumming my fingers against my knee in a replica of chopsticks, trying to ignore how someone moved into the spot right behind me.
"Do you think the lady will settle on something this century, or should I get my book from the car?"
The familiar tenor sent a shiver down my back and caused my hand to freeze in the middle of its motion. Slowly, I turned around.
Emmanuelle had drawn up one perfect eyebrow. She wore a mint-green blouse that accented her eyes and a thin, intricate gold necklace around her throat. Her hair was down and curled in defiant waves around her shoulders, and there was just the hint of a teasing smile on her lips. The effect was devastating. For a second, all I could do was stare.
"I knew you wanted to buy me coffee," she quipped with a wink when I wasn't responding, "but you didn't need to pick the most expensive place in the city to do it."
A lopsided smile was all I managed as I shrugged. With a gentle hand, she pushed me to the side to make room for two people who were on the way out the door, and the short contact managed to scramble my thoughts even more thoroughly than her appearance. But she still cocked her head.
She is waiting for you to say something, idiot!
"Well … since I was here first, I'd have to say you were following me this time." I somehow managed not to croak the words. Okay, I could do this. I could act normal.
"Well, I did say we would meet again," she allowed, still amused but for a slight frown that made her eyebrows twitch down. "You on your way to work?"
"The gallery. I need to pick something up."
My voice was still a bit throaty. I didn't understand my own reactions. When she'd invited me into her house, I hadn't been this nervous, so why was I so tense right now? Was it the shock of running into her again? My inner unresolved tension? The leftover anxiety?
Someone bumped into her, and she involuntarily stepped forward, and just like that I knew. We'd never been this close before, with only a foot between us. So close, in fact, that I could even catch the whiff of a floral scent that must be coming from her hair. Then I noticed how she swayed away from someone crowding her from behind. It was obvious that she was trying not to touch anyone. A wave of sympathy rolled through me. The crowd forced her into close proximity, so I should neither read anything into it nor feel nervous.
"Let's switch," I suggested. "Easiest way to do this. You just order, and I'll pay for us both."
I indicated she should take my spot and after a momentary hesitation, she relented. Unobtrusively, I edged back to create a little space around us, and I could see how her shoulders relaxed as some of the tension left them. It was worth putting up with my own unease of someone almost breathing into my neck.
"Thank you." Even her most simple expression of gratitude wormed its way into my soul like a rebellious spark.
"It's no problem."
The masses in the shop seemed to behave like a swarm, shifting back and forth. The lady at the counter finally chose something nut-flavoured, and more than one person released a sigh of relief. When the line moved forward, more people stepped into the shop from outside, the little bell announcing their entrance far too cheerfully.
Emmanuelle regarded me. "It's a little too crowded, isn't it?"
"Yeah. I usually avoid coming here."
"Except for today?" She was clearly curious.
"Except for today. Not sure if you heard, but Casey's out sick for a few days. I agreed to step in while she's recovering, but I need coffee to function properly."
"You don't have any at home?"
I snorted. "The old man doesn't believe in caffeine. Not that he's good with household stuff anyway. The other day he tried to cook and almost destroyed the kitchen. I'm still finding dried red soup in every crevice."
Emmanuelle's lips had slowly drawn into a grin when I started talking about Frank. "He sounds like a character."
"You could say that. So, what's your excuse?" I made a circling motion with my hand to indicate the shop.
"My excuse … hm." She tapped a finger against her lower lip, then shrugged. "I guess I'm just a sucker for good coffee. And Ms Morgan mentioned that this place was, and I quote, ‘The equivalent of coffee nirvana.' I rather agree."
"That's fair."
Well, I already knew that she was loaded, so I guess I shouldn't be taken aback that she comes here to buy her coffee.
One more person left the shop with a brown paper bag stuck under his arm, and we swayed to the left to make room for him.
"I think I remember your grandfather," Emmanuelle commented. "He was a part of the group that was working in the Taylors' garden, right?"
"How did you know?" I stared at her, mystified. I had never pointed him out to her.
"You have the same eyes. Cornflower blues."
"I, uh, see." I rubbed the back of my neck. "Didn't think it was that noticeable."
"It was. Very distinct colour, hard to forget."
Her green eyes seemed to speak a language of their own as they gazed at me. I felt the impact all the way to my toes. Did she know what kind of charm she exuded?
We waited in line for a few minutes longer, and I noted that the throbbing between my temples had eased. The artist's glances were kind, and her words were soothing, and I followed the line of her throat toward dangerous territory like a moth drawn towards a flame. The tugging in my belly had upgraded to a churning.
I really needed to get a handle on this stubborn attraction.
Emmanuelle ordered first, choosing something vanilla-flavoured with whipped cream, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I could finally grab my cup of black coffee from the counter. Coffee was the one thing my sweet tooth didn't extend to.
"These are some hard-won goods," I joked on our way out, causing the artist to chuckle.
Outside, she stopped at the curb and made a show of looking up and down the street.
I felt my eyebrows rise. "What are you doing?"
"Just making sure I'm not about to bump into someone who's carrying something and not looking where they're going."
I had to laugh. "Hey! I already apologised for that. And I just bought you coffee!"
Emmanuelle rocked her head from side to side before pursing her lips. "I suppose that'll have to do, then."
She was teasing me. And now that I thought about it, I realised that she'd done it, too, when we were in her house. A grin spread over my face as I gleefully decided to play along.
"If you need some more time to deliberate, I could just hold that coffee for you in the meantime. Perhaps give it to someone who'd appreciate it?" I made a show of grabbing for the cup, and she yanked it out of my reach.
Her headshake was strong, brown curls swishing around her laughing face. "Nuh-uh. Don't you dare!"
I drew my hand back and nonchalantly shrugged. "Just checking."
We chuckled and shared a look before our attention was drawn to the street. A car honked at an erratic old lady on an even more erratic e-scooter, who slalomed down her lane and hit the pavement twice before coming to a stop. Next to it, an older gentleman walked five wiener dogs that barked at the seagulls but howled as soon as they passed the guitar shop. The sounds of the Beatles' "Let It Be" reached us as we both took a sip from our cups, and the artist shook her head with a smile.
"This place really is quite…"
"Quite what?"
Crazy, interesting, weird?
It could be either one of those, or all together.
"Quite … something," she finished deliberately slowly.
My phone buzzed in my back pocket, destroying the moment, and with an apologetic expression, I checked the message. Casey was asking if I was at the gallery yet.
I sighed. "I hate to run but..."
"You actually need to work today? Imagine that."
"Well, we can't all be famous artists and spend our time leisurely painting away," I joked before I had a chance to really think about it. But, before I could start to panic that she could take it the wrong way, the dark-haired woman laughed.
"You're right. Still, this famous artist enjoyed this break from her leisure painting. It's always nice to make a new friend."
My heart warmed even as my stomach sank.
Friend, of course. What did you expect?
Hearing her state it so clearly … it really put things into perspective.
"I agree," I said, my smile only a little forced.
She leaned forward before I could even take a step, and it took her lips touching my cheek for me to realise that she was saying goodbye. At that moment, despite the boundary of our relationship having been devastatingly defined, I didn't have any objections against how the French parted company.