An Unfinished Story(72)
Before he was busted exploring dangerous territory, Whitaker turned to the door and said expeditiously, “You look great. I think our Uber is here.” In hindsight, he’d never spoken two sentences so quickly in his life. Didn’t she realize what she was doing to him?
She’d suggested they leave her car with the valet so they could enjoy a bottle of wine. Once he’d located their ride, he opened the back door for her and noticed she’d removed her rings. Was that recently? He couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen them. More importantly, why had she removed the rings? Was this her way of saying she was finally ready to take the next step? Knowing him, he might read into this bit of good news and get his hopes up, only to find out she’d left them with a jeweler for polishing.
Either way, it wasn’t a question he would run by her, which forced a rather quiet ride through town. The ball was in her court, period. He’d already made his move, and she surely understood his fear of rejection. Removing the rings wasn’t going to cut it as a green light. If she wanted to take their relationship into romantic territory, she needed to fly a banner behind a plane.
Why was Whitaker being awkward? Had he noticed her naked finger?
Claire thanked him for opening the door for her and stepped into the quaint Italian restaurant the concierge had suggested. It was six o’clock and already packed. Being a restaurateur herself, she couldn’t help shaking down the restaurant’s first impression.
The first thing she noticed was the opera music, and it fit well—authentic, not hokey. Just the right volume. The lights were dimmed down nicely. A man was shaping dough in front of a real brick oven. Golden candelabras with years of dripped wax stood on a center table along with several large bottles of wine. The hostess welcomed them with a smile and led them to their seats by the window, where a small candle burned atop a white tablecloth. It was feeling more and more like a date, but she was the only one who knew it. Or was she?
As they both perused menus, Whitaker said, “I could eat Italian every day of the week.”
“I know this about you,” she said. “That’s why they all know you at Pia’s in Gulfport.”
Their server approached the table and, in a heavy Italian accent, said, “Excuse me. Happy to have you here. What to drink?”
Whitaker tapped the table. “Lista dei vini, signore.”
The server lit up. “Sei Italiano?”
“No, no, amo il cibo Italiano.” From there, Whitaker fell into a lengthy exchange with the man.
To stoke his pride some and to keep his confident smile going, she said, “Even after three months of knowing you, I’m still trying to process the fact that you’re fluent in four languages.”
“Thank you. It’s just about the only thing I do well.”
She wasn’t sure that was true and had a feeling there were many more layers to be pulled back. “What did you two talk about?”
“I told him my roots are far from Italian, but that I loved Italian food so much that I had to learn the language. And then I told him I considered it a travesty that they grow cabernet sauvignon and merlot in Tuscany and asked if he had a nice Sangiovese. He’s bringing it now.”
“What’s wrong with cabernet and merlot?”
“Absolutely nothing, but sadly, many Italian farmers pulled out their ancient indigenous varieties to plant grapes more familiar to the Americans, who happen to be the largest consumer of Italian wines in the world. Though there are many Tuscans who would disagree, I think they are putting their business before their art—something I’m not a fan of.”
“What are you supposed to do if you don’t recognize the wines on a list, then?” She squinted momentarily. “I’m asking for a friend.”
Whitaker took a sip of water. “Good question. Take a chance or ask the server or somm. That’s what they’re there for.”
“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you? I’ve always hated that I can’t speak another language.” It was true, a deficiency that had always bothered her.
“Oh, c’mon. You didn’t learn Spanish growing up?”
“A few words, but I’m a long way from fluency.”
“Hang around long enough and maybe I can help.”
Claire was actually thinking about hanging around him for a while. Did he know that?
“Repeat after me,” he said. “Prometo aprender otro idioma antes de cumplir los treinta.”
Claire said, “Whoa, whoa. That’s a lot to say.”
“A couple words at a time.” He walked her through it.
“What did I just say?” Claire asked, going along with this little game of his.
Whitaker leaned in toward her. “I promise to learn another language before I’m thirty.”
Claire chortled with delight. “Thirty! I wish.”
“Did I get your age wrong?”
Was he joking? “You really think I’m under thirty?”
“We’ve never talked about it. It’s not polite to ask a lady her age.”
“For your information, I’m well over thirty, and we’ll stop there.” She blushed. “Thank you for the compliment.” Claire adjusted in her seat. She liked seeing Whitaker open up and continued to play her part in being a good conversationalist. “So how do you say, My name is Whitaker, and I’m an intriguing, sensitive, and complicated man?”