Zuzu looks confused. “Katherine…?”
Franklin frowns. “Charlotte, I tried to tell you in Kevin’s office. Katie didn’t set this up for us. I did.”
My turn to frown. Okay, then. “I’m sorry, Zuzu. I should have asked you. Did your lawyer say anything about a fire in western Massachusetts?”
Now Zuzu looks doubly confused. She shakes her head, and turns to Luca, who’s tucking his BlackBerry back into a pocket. “Do you know a Katherine-?”
“No,” Luca replies. “But I will be delighted to escort our visitors to the door.”
This is probably a colossal mistake.
Luca, smiling as if we’ve known each other for years, is pouring what I learned from the menu is an expensive burgundy into my crystal globe of a glass. The atmosphere at La Caleche is flickering candles, caressing music. And one confused reporter. Luca had invited both of us to dinner, of course. Franklin had begged off to call Stephen and order room service.
But I couldn’t resist. I’m certainly allowed to have a business dinner with a man. Josh was the one who floated the possibility of us taking some nondrastic time off. That’s not what this is, of course. But no one had lunch today. And I’m curious. About a lot of things.
Luca’s gray silk shirt shimmers almost silver in the candlelight. Matching his eyes, I can’t help but notice. I also couldn’t help but notice he’s not wearing a wedding ring. He’d pulled out my chair, ordered the wine, ordered our appetizers, suggested sharing the rack of lamb. Waved off the waiter’s offer to pour more wine so he could do it himself. He’s the un-Josh. And at this moment, he’s making me feel like a very pampered, very coddled, un-Charlie. Or at least, a different Charlie.
“Did you hear any more about the raid?” I drag the real Charlie back to the table, risking a sip of wine. I’m strictly sticking to the purse business. If I can extract some info for our story, no one could raise an eyebrow at this dinner expedition. The text message turned out to be Kevin, making sure we were getting the goods. So I’m getting them. I remember the word I think I heard the lawyer say. “Is it the Angelina bag they were concerned with?”
Luca shakes his head, lifting both hands as he pretends to fend off more questions. “You must always be the reporter, I suppose. But our lawyer must always be the lawyer. And she insists, and I know you’ll understand, I am prohibited from saying anything.”
I shrug, as if defeated. But I’m still concerned about Keresey. Wondering if she took part in the raid. Wondering if something went wrong.
“It’s just,” I say, “I have a friend who may be working undercover with the federal government. A woman. Do you know if anyone was hurt in the raid?”
“I’m so sorry,” he begins.
I feel my face flush, then go cold.
“No, no,” he says. “I was going to say-I’m sorry, but I don’t have any details. And again, I must insist. May we…talk about something else? Your life, perhaps?”
No way. “How about your life? How did you get into the purse business?” Friendly and professional. Maybe I can get him to open up this way. Find out something later.
“It was Sylvie and her father who brought me in. Now her father’s gone, she and I are chief designers. We met in school, and after we were married, of course, it all just evolved.”
Luckily I wasn’t in midsip, or expensive Côte de Beaune would have splatted across the pristine white tablecloth. I can’t resist looking at his left-hand ring finger again. And this time, he notices. I’m caught.
He holds up his hand, waggling his slim fingers as if making it easier for me to see. His eyes twinkle. Or maybe it’s the candlelight. “We are no longer married, of course,” he explains. “And she never changed her name from Marachelle. But we worked together for so long our careers were more inextricably intertwined than our personal lives. We parted. So many years ago. But professionally, we stayed together.”
A white-coated waiter arrives, fussing with our lamb, using silver utensils to serve haricots verts with slivers of almonds, and minuscule purple potatoes. As the waiter leaves, Luca relates the history of the once-struggling Delleton-Marachelle, how it relocated to the United States after the death of Monsieur Delleton, the arrival of Zuzu three years ago, and then the sale to ITC Conglomerate. How back in the ’90s someone managed to give Meryl Streep a prototype bag. When the movie star was photographed with it, the demand for the “Meryl” launched the tiny company into the fashion stratosphere. How he and Sylvie were suddenly in vogue. And in Vogue.
I lean forward, elbows on the table, fascinated. Then I remember the elbows on the table thing. You’d think I’d never shared a rack of lamb with a charming and successful French fashion designer. I guess I haven’t. Luckily Luca’s eyes are focused far away as he tells his story, maybe remembering.
His accent makes his still-careful English intriguingly continental. Our dinners disappear. Time disappears.
“Did you have children?” I ask. I remember the photo I picked up, the one of him in the sweater. With the beautiful young girl. Maybe there’s an obvious explanation.
The waiter arrives, offering the check in a cordovan leather flap. I reach for it, but Luca stops me.
“Someone as lovely as you,” he says, narrowing those eyes at me. Engaging, almost mocking. “I noticed your left hand, too. Are you, like Sylvie, married to your work?” He hands the leather flap back to the waiter. I half notice he’s paid in cash. “Or are you-forgive me-involved?”
I look away, at my wineglass. At my plate. At the candles. Anywhere to avoid stepping into that quicksand of a question. I knew this was a mistake.
“Yes,” I say, struggling to keep my tone casual. I can handle this. “And no. It’s complicated.” I put my linen napkin on the table, international signal for “we’re done.” And I don’t just mean dinner.
Luca looks at me. Amused? Assessing. “I’ll show you to your door,” he says.
“Oh. No. I’m fine.” I stand up. Why didn’t I just order room service?
“I insist,” he says.
I hold out my hand. The one without the key. Behind me, the door says room 965. There are two of us in the hall. And only one of us is going inside.
“Thank you so much, Luca,” I say, shaking his hand goodbye. I can hear the nerves in my voice, hear my long-departed midwestern twang somehow remerging. My words sound first-date stilted. And somehow the more I fight the onslaught of inarticulateness, the worse it gets. “It was fascinating. And so interesting. And I hope we will meet again.”
Ah. Possibly the wrong thing to say. I turn my body toward the door, brandishing the key, attempting to telegraph I’m going in now. Alone.
But Luca has not let go of my hand. “A little surprise?” he says.
I turn back to look at him, trying to gauge what’s he’s planning. We’re in the middle of a hotel corridor, a public place. Deserted, yes, at eleven at night, but public enough, where anyone could open a door at any second. So the surprise can’t be that surprising.
“A little anticipation?” he continues. His voice is not quite a whisper, but muted, personal. Meant only for me. Someone five steps away could not hear him.
His eyes, the gray now turned steely and intent on mine, are putting me a little off balance. I take back my hand, as politely as I can. I keep my voice down, too. “Anticipation?”
Luca reaches into his jacket pocket and draws out a small box, the signature lavender and gray of Delleton-Marachelle, tied with a lavender silk ribbon. “Don’t open it until you get to the airport,” he says. “A little anticipation always will make the journey’s end sweeter.”
I only had a glass and a half of wine. But this isn’t making sense. Still, no matter.