A Dangerous Dress (10 page)

“Not about changing money. I assume you have a wallet.” He started to walk away.

Do not ask me why, but I followed him. He was terribly obnoxious. But very attractive, too. “Of course I have a wallet,” I said. He had seen me take it out, so his question confused me.

“And in that wallet you have a cash card,” he said. Still walking.

“Well of course I have a cash card,” I said. Still following.

“So,” he said. He stopped so suddenly I almost plowed into him. The absence of personal space between us made me notice that he was only three or four inches taller than me, which made him about five-nine, or maybe five-ten if he was thinking tall thoughts when they measured him. And I swear, it’s not my fault, but the thought just popped into my head that he was a very convenient height for kissing.

“What is this?” He pointed to something.

I looked. “A cash machine.” Incidentally, there are no cash machines at Independence Savings, because Uncle John thinks people will take out more money than they put in.

“Try opening your wallet. Taking out your cash card. Putting the card in the cash machine. And asking for money.” He did not say any of this in a particularly nice way, which made me totally forget about kissing him. But I did all those things anyway.

I had seen cash machines while I was running from one vintage clothing store to another. But I assumed they wouldn’t work. If my American cell phone didn’t work in France, why should my American ATM card?

My ATM card worked.

As I was thinking about how much to ask for, he said, “The euro is a buck twenty-five. So a hundred euros is a hundred twenty-five dollars.”

I got a hundred euros: four twenties and two tens. The bills were much prettier than our money, lovely blue and peach, with pictures of stained-glass windows, bridges, and a map of Europe. I put the euros in my wallet. “Tell me why I had to do that,” I said.

“Because the euro is a buck fifty at the hotel.”

“Oh.” I didn’t take the time to do the math, but I knew he had just saved me money. But why did he have to act so superior?

At that moment my stomach growled. Not grumbled—growled. Practically roared.

Maybe I did it because he had saved me money. Or because I wanted him to lose that attitude. Or because I wanted to spend my first evening in Paris dining with a handsome, kissable man. Whatever the reason, I asked him:

“Are you hungry?”

“W
here would you like to eat?” he asked.

Since he seemed to think I didn’t know anything, I couldn’t imagine why he was asking me where to eat. I didn’t want to look ignorant, but I didn’t know any restaurants in Paris.

Then I remembered the menu I had found in the suitcase with Grandma’s dress. “How about La Tour d’Argent?” I asked.

He actually laughed out loud.

Had I said something stupid? Maybe after four hundred years, the restaurant had finally closed, and I was the last one to know. “What’s so funny?”

“La Tour d’Argent is probably the most expensive restaurant in Paris,” he explained.

“Oh.”
Great.
I
had
said something stupid. I waited for him to rub my nose in it.

Only he didn’t. Instead he asked, “Do you like Italian?”

“Why would you eat Italian food in Paris?”

“Have you ever eaten real Italian food?”

Real Italian food? Maybe it was a trick question. “I’ve eaten at the Como Inn,” I said. “It’s this big place on the north end of Chicago.”

“In other words, you haven’t eaten real Italian food. So do you like Italian?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Okay, let’s go.” He started to walk, so I followed him. Without missing a step, he flipped open a cell phone and punched in a number. “Hello, Sebastien? Can you get us a reservation for eight thirty at Il Vicolo? Terrific.” He snapped his phone shut.

I looked at my watch. “That’s in five minutes.”

“Which will give us just enough time to get there,” he said.

“If they have a table open in five minutes, why do we need a reservation?”

“Because this is Paris,” he said.

He was a very fast walker, which meant that he kept getting ahead of me, and I had to run to catch up. It wasn’t very thoughtful of him, walking so fast that I kept falling behind.

On the other hand, I learned that he has a very nice butt.

We walked another half a block when something occurred to me. “Should I change?”

He stopped and looked at me. “No. You look nice the way you are.” Then he started walking again.

Ooh.
He thought I looked nice. Which gave me a warm little feeling. I realized,
I am not just anywhere, I am in
Paris.
Going to dinner with a handsome stranger I just met.
That warm feeling started to grow, and in a few seconds I felt like I was glowing again.

Only then I thought,
He could’ve said “You look
great”
or “You look
fantastic.” Saying “You look
nice
” wasn’t all that much more than saying “You look fine.” And saying “You look fine” would be about the same as saying “You don’t look embarrassing.” Kissing was officially off the table.

He wasn’t much taller than me, but boy could he walk fast. I was starting to get out of breath. “Hey,” I said.

“Uh-huh?”

“I don’t know your name.”

He stopped again. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right. I’m Josh.” He shook my hand. He had a nice handshake. Solid. Not too hard, but definitely not too soft either. Just right.

“I’m Jane,” I said.

We kept walking. We turned down a quiet block with not a restaurant in sight. I started to think maybe Josh didn’t actually know where he was going. Then there it was, an adorable little place, kind of tucked back from the street.

The hostess kissed Josh on both cheeks and said, “
Buona sera, Signore
Tomahs.” She seated us, then came back thirty seconds later with big glasses of champagne, or whatever it is that real Italian restaurants serve that looks and tastes just like champagne.

Josh set his baseball cap on the table. It was my first chance to take a good look at him, so I did. I told you that he had nice hair. But now, without the hat, I could see that his hair was
really
nice: sandy brown, the perfect length, with a little bit of a wave that I bet just happens without his working on it. Which is totally unfair, given how much time I have to spend on mine.

I also told you his eyes were attractive. But what color were they? Green, maybe. Or blue. But not exactly.
Hmm.
Josh was the first person I ever met where I couldn’t figure out the color of his eyes. Eyes tell you a lot. And he had the eyes of a very complex, intriguing person.

“What?” Josh asked all of a sudden.

“I didn’t say anything,” I said.

“You were looking at me,” he said.

“No I wasn’t,” I said.

“Yes you were,” he said.

Well of course I was, but I didn’t want to admit it. So I said, “No, I was looking at”—I glanced around—“your hat.”

“My hat,” he said. Skeptically.

The waiter arrived. He was a friendly young man in a white shirt and black pants, and he had an Italian accent that I bet even Italian girls would think was sexy. If I hadn’t been with Josh, I am positive I would have flirted with him.

I was trying to decide whether I had formed a wrong first impression of Josh. He really had been obnoxious with the cash machine thing. Then again, he’d saved me money. Now he had taken me to this lovely restaurant, and he was being very nice. He offered to let me pick the wine, and only chose it after I insisted. He also helped me with the menu. He suggested we share a buffalo mozzarella appetizer, risotto with black truffles for him, and for me something called pappardelle ai funghi, which he said was a wonderful pasta with wild mushrooms. Although it is really unfortunate that the Italian word for mushrooms is
funghi,
because, well,
funghi
is . . . fungus.
Ew.

After the waiter left, Josh smiled at me. He had a very nice smile. A real-person smile. I smiled back.

“So,” Josh said.

“So,” I said.

“My hat,” Josh said.

Oops.
I thought he forgot. I had to say something about the hat. It was black, with a white
H
over a gold star. I tried to think of an
H
city with a baseball team. “Houston?” I asked.

“Astros,” he said. “Very good.”

“Texas,” I said.

“The Houston Astros are undeniably from Texas,” he said.

“I meant you,” I said. Although I certainly didn’t hear an accent.

“No,” he said.

“But you’re a Houston Astros fan,” I said.

“No,” he said.

“I’m confused,” I said.

Josh leaned close to me. Even though he was confusing me, I liked him leaning close. He lowered his voice. “Let me tell you,” he said, “about the worst night of my life.”

T
hat may not sound like a promising subject for conversation on a first date. But I was intrigued. Plus it didn’t hurt that Josh was so cute and intelligent.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t officially a date. He did not ask me to dinner, I asked him. But this was turning into a date. Which was just fine.

“October fifteenth, 1986.” Josh said it so ominously that I half expected him to say “A date which will live in infamy,” but he didn’t.

“You must have been . . .”

“Nine years old.”

Oh, great,
I thought. I was about to hear some deeply disturbing story of childhood trauma that would keep me up at night.

“National League championship series. Game six.” Josh said. “The Astros and the Mets.”

Whew.
We were going to talk about baseball, not child abuse. I could handle baseball.

“I thought you weren’t an Astros fan,” I said. I wanted him to see I was paying attention.

“I’m not,” he said. “But I was then. I grew up in Bridgeport, Connecticut.”

“Connecticut doesn’t have a baseball team,” I said. I am not a huge baseball fan, but I know a little. If a girl wants to go on dates, or at least if she wants to go on second dates, she’d better know a little about baseball. And football. Basketball. Hockey. NASCAR. Beach volleyball. Australian rugby. Thanks a lot, ESPN2.

Anyway, I think Josh liked that I knew Connecticut doesn’t have a baseball team. “Exactly,” he said. “So you had to pick a team from someplace else. Where I grew up, pretty much everybody picked the Yankees.”

“But you picked the Astros,” I said.

“Looking back, I can’t imagine why. They had the worst uniforms in the history of baseball. They had
AstroTurf,
for God’s sake. But I thought they were cool.” He shrugged. “I guess I have this character flaw. Something about rooting for the underdog. The Astros never won the World Series. Back then, they had never even won the pennant.”

“They sound like the Cubs,” I said. “Do they have a curse?” In case you don’t know, the Chicago Cubs have a curse involving a billy goat. Which seems like an odd thing to have a curse about, but that is neither here nor there.

“No curse,” Josh said. “Nothing supernatural or glamorous. They just never won.” He got this little-boy look in his eyes. “Only 1986 is different. The Astros win the National League West. They’re playing the New York Mets for the pennant. The Mets are up three games to two, but the last two games are in Houston, in the Astrodome. And Tony Scott is pitching game seven. Tony Scott
owns
the Mets. So if they can win game six, the pennant is a lock.”

Maybe it was the jet lag. Or the Chianti. Or the fact that I am genuinely just not all that interested in baseball. But the more he talked about this very important baseball game, the more my eyes started to swim.

“Bottom of the fourteenth, it’s like magic: The Astros tie it.”

I willed myself to pay attention. Because through the haze, I could sense that Josh was getting to the point that really mattered to him.

“So when the Mets score three more in the top of the sixteenth, it’s okay. Because we’re going to win. I’m positive. And sure enough, bottom of the sixteenth, Houston scores two. We’ve got the tying run on first. The winning run at the plate. Jesse Orosco is on the mound for the Mets. Kevin Bass is at bat for the Astros. Two outs. And the count goes full, three and two.”

Honestly, I did not come all the way to Paris to listen to a guy talk about baseball—no matter how cute and complex and kissable he was. But Josh wanted me to care, so I tried. As hard as I could. Only I wished he would
please
get to the point.

“Bass strikes out. The Astros lose. The Mets go to the World Series.”

“Oh,” I said. I hoped I sounded really disappointed. “So what about the hat?”

“When the Astros lost that game, I promised myself I’d wear the cap until they won the World Series. I was a kid. I figured they’d win it the next year. I didn’t know I’d still be wearing it twenty years later.”

“But you’re not a fan anymore.”

He shrugged. Wistfully. “I grew up. Went away to college. Law school. Moved to New York. Baseball didn’t seem to matter as much. Plus there were the strikes. Salaries. Steroids. Eventually it didn’t feel like the same game I loved when I was nine years old.”

“But why do you still wear the hat?”

Josh looked me right in the eye. Do not ask me why, but when he spoke, I had the very distinct feeling that he was talking about more than baseball. “I made a promise,” he said. “That
has
to count for something. Don’t you think so?”

“Yes,” I said. “When you say you’re going to do something, you should do it.”

“Besides,” Josh said, “I think somebody has to stick up for lost causes.” He looked at the Astros cap and shook his head. “No matter how lost they are.”