Invitation to Provence(11)
He took a sip of his beer. Outside the hotel, traffic hummed, birds sang, phones rang. The scent of the great bouquet of flowers in the hall reminded him of Franny Marten’s flowery perfume. He found himself wondering what she would look like with her hair out of that braid and flowing loose, out of her vet persona and into her own life. He wondered what that life was like, what kind of place she lived in, who her friends were, whether she also had a dog who was her closest companion. And he wondered if she knew that she’d gotten herself involved with a married man.
He remembered her gentle touch on his arm, the genuine concern in her beautiful eyes. He knew this was no girl on the make, no Hollywood babe looking for success, no beauty looking to be a trophy wife, no eager heiress ready to grab all she could. She was who she was, which was totally unlike any other woman he knew.
He glanced at his steel watch. Like fancy cocktails in fancy glasses, he disliked fancy watches. Five o’clock. A bit late to ask a woman out to dinner but what the hell, nothing ventured, nothing won. He was smiling as he dialed the number of Your Local Veterinary Clinic and asked to speak to Dr. Marten.
“Dr. Marten here,” she said in that sunny voice he felt he knew well, even though he’d met her only once and that for a scant few minutes.
“Jake Bronson,” he said. “I came in to see you today about my dog.”
“Criminal. I remember. Oh, I hope nothing’s wrong?”
There was that touching note of concern in her voice again. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said. “It’s just, well, Doctor, even though I told myself there was no chance a woman like you would be free for dinner tonight, I thought I’d call anyway, just to check. That is, if you would like to have dinner, of course,” he added, amazed by how hopeful he sounded.
“Oh … well … hmmmm … dinner …” He could almost hear the cogs turning in her brain as she thought about it quickly: a total stranger, he came in off the street, didn’t even have the dog with him.
“Don’t worry, I’m not a stalker,” he said. “Listen, how about Joe’s in Venice. That’s near you. We could dine on the patio with lots of other people around so you wouldn’t have to worry.”
“How’d you read my thoughts?”
“It’s what every woman in her right mind should think when a total stranger asks her out.”
“Well, thank you, I’d like to have dinner with you tonight,” she agreed suddenly, as though if she waited any longer she might change her mind. “That would be really nice. About eight? Is that okay?”
“Eight o’clock then,” he agreed, smiling as he clicked off his phone.
JAKE WAS STANDING UNDER a cool shower when he realized there was a flaw in tonight’s plan. He’d met Franny Marten under false pretences; he couldn’t tell her that he was here to check her out, nor could he tell her he would be at Rafaella’s family reunion. That was Rafaella’s secret. He got out of the shower and, still dripping, grabbed the phone. He’d call her right back and cancel.
But what excuse could he give her? That something had come up in the couple of minutes since he’d invited her out? That he suddenly felt ill? One excuse sounded lamer than the other. No, better just go through with the dinner and hope she would forgive him when the truth came out later. Meanwhile he’d keep his distance, make it short.
He also wondered if he should warn her about Marcus, but remembered he wasn’t supposed to know anything about her private life. He guessed she would just have to find out the hard way. Anyhow, who did he think he was, the patron saint of innocents who didn’t have the gumption to know they were getting involved with married men? Dr. Marten had made her bed and, as the saying went, she would have to lie on it, until, as they also said, the proverbial penny dropped. She was just another woman caught up in a bad affair.
7
JOE’S CAFé on Abbot Kinney in Venice was a small storefront place with a tree-lined patio in back and a young urban clientele who enjoyed the good food, the high-decibel chatter, and the sense of being somewhere special.
“Mr. Bronson is already here,” the host told Franny, leading the way to a corner table out on the patio. Franny glanced anxiously at her watch. She was twenty minutes late. Jake got to his feet when he saw her coming, a blond gypsy in a flowing skirt, dangling earrings, and an armload of bracelets. He grinned—she looked as though she might tell his fortune any minute. Still, her hair swung loose in a silken curtain over eyes that struck blue sparks from his as she smiled at him.
“Sorry I’m so late,” she said, offering him her hand.
He held onto it, smiling back at her, more pleased to see her than he had any right to be. “As a working woman, you’re excused.”
She pushed the slipping curtain of hair aside and stared gravely at him, no doubt comparing him to the loser boyfriend, Jake thought. He was an expert at reading people, and he discerned an unexpectedly strong woman underneath that soft blond exterior, like a soft peach with that hard kernel inside. Knowing her past, he understood that the inner strength was what had kept her going.
Franny felt as though he could see into her life, her soul. She was suddenly glad she was having dinner with Jake Bronson tonight instead of wrapping herself in her old patchwork quilt and huddling into her pillows, hiding from the truth about her relationship with Marcus.