Damien introduced Helena and once they were seated, the owner shuttled off to fetch his own personal wineglasses for these guests.
The restaurant was housed in a tiny brick building. The tables were covered with crisp linens, and the murals on the walls evoked the Mediterranean and the South of France. The music of Stéphane Grappelli poured like a warm café au lait from speakers hidden somewhere nearby.
If she had closed her eyes, Helena could have almost imagined she was in France. There was just one thing preventing her — the sight of the extremely pretty young woman sitting at a table with Bentzi, on the other side of the restaurant.
Who was she? Helena wondered. Was she a Mossad operative? Was she another one of his assets? What was she doing here? Was he trying to send her some sort of message? Had he replaced her already? But Bentzi doesn’t even know yet that I am leaving him, Helena thought to herself.
“Are you okay my dear?” Damien asked, snapping Helena out of her obsessive reverie.
She smiled at him. “The music, the smells from the kitchen, I guess I was daydreaming for a moment that we actually were in France.”
“Wait until we add the Montrachet to the picture,” he said with a wink.
“Two bottles, though, Pierre? You’re going to have to carry me home.”
The older man grinned. “I have always held that bottles of wine are like breasts. Three is too many and one is never enough.”
“Pierre!” Helena exclaimed, blushing. “Shhhh. We’re not the only ones here.”
“I don’t care,” he replied reaching for her hand. His smile broadened when his fingers intertwined with hers. “You have become very special to me.”
“I’m sure you tell that to all of the women you whisk away to America on your private jet.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“You’re the first woman who didn’t want anything from me.”
“Are you sure about that?” she asked as she gently traced his palm with the tip of her finger.
“Besides that.”
“I think that’s the reason why you brought two bottles of wine. You want to get me drunk, so you can take advantage of me when we get home.”
He gave her hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it. “Did you see what year the Montrachet is?”
She shook her head.
Damien looked up to signal the owner, but he was already on his way over. After setting down three glasses, the man presented the wine to Damien, and upon his approval, produced a corkscrew and carefully went to work opening the bottle.
After cellaring for so long, there were a million things that could go wrong with the wine. The cork, though, was perfect; not even a hint of taint. The owner placed the cork on the table so Damien could inspect it.
Once he had, he encouraged the owner to pour the first taste for himself.
The man took his time admiring the color and then savoring the aromas and bouquet. When he finally tasted it, his eyes remained closed for several moments. Upon opening them, he proclaimed, “Absolutely amazing,” and poured glasses for Helena and Damien.
Laying his hand lightly on the bottle, he gauged its temperature. The great white wines from Burgundy drank more like reds. You didn’t submerge them in a bucket of ice. Their flavors were best enjoyed between 60 and 65 degrees Fahrenheit. The Montrachet was right on the money and needed no additional assistance.
Damien encouraged the owner to pour himself a proper serving, instead of just a taste, which he did. After detailing the lunch specials, he excused himself, and went to check on his other customers.
Damien looked at Helena and turned the bottle so she could read the label. “Nineteen seventy-eight,” he said.
“The year I was born.”
“I know. That’s why I chose it for our lunch today.” Raising his glass, he proposed a toast. “To moderation in all things, except in love.”
Helena touched her glass to his. She was dumbfounded. She didn’t know what to say. Did Damien just tell her that he loved her?
She took a sip of her wine, buying time so she could collect her thoughts.
“I have something for you,” he said.
Reaching down to the outer pocket of his wine tote, he removed a velvet jewelry box the size of a salad plate.
Lifting the lid, he presented it to her across the table.
It was the most exquisite diamond necklace she had ever seen. It had to be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.
“May I?” Damien asked.
Helena was speechless. All she could do was nod.
Rising from his chair, Damien took the necklace from its case and walked over and stood behind her.
He laid the necklace against the soft cashmere of her turtleneck sweater, the heavy central diamond coming to rest right between her breasts.
She swept her hair up so he could fasten the clasp. When he was finished, he returned to his seat and once again smiled at her.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” he replied.
Pressing the necklace against her sweater, she asked, “Is this where you went this morning? To get this for me?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand. Why?”
“Does there have to be a reason?”
“Pierre, look at this necklace. It’s gorgeous. Men don’t just give jewelry like this to anybody.”
“You’re not just anybody,” he replied.
She smiled and looked at him lovingly. “Don’t do this to me, Pierre.”
“Do what?”
“This,” she said with one hand still on her necklace, the other lifting her glass. “The trips. The necklace. The wine. I don’t want to get used to this.”
“But could you?”
“You have me, Pierre. You don’t have to do all of this.”
“I like doing it.”
“And I like that you like doing it, but don’t make it complicated. Please.”
Damien stared at her for several moments. “When my wife died, it was a pain like nothing I had ever experienced. I swore that if I survived it, I would never allow it to happen again. And then I met you and everything changed.”
“You’re drunk already,” she said, winking at him.
He smiled at her. “You have a perfect sense of humor, do you know that? Everything about you is perfect.”
“You are drunk, because I am far from perfect.”
“You are perfect to me. We are perfect for each other.”
She looked at him. “Pierre, are you proposing to me?”
Damien laughed. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know what I’m doing. All I know is that I cannot imagine being without you.”
Helena reached across the table and took his hand.
He held her hand tightly. “Promise me you won’t leave me.”
It was an amazingly tender entreaty. She squeezed his hand right back and replied, “I’m not going anywhere.”
They sat, like two lovesick teenagers, staring into each other’s eyes and laughing. Damien refilled their glasses and ordered appetizers.
Between their salads and the main course, Helena said to him, “I have a confession to make.”
Out of instinct, he braced. Suddenly, there was a flash of that pain that he hadn’t known for decades — a taste of what he prayed wasn’t to come.
“What is it?” he asked.
“When I told you I wasn’t going anywhere?”
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t being completely honest with you.”
“You weren’t?”
“No. I have to go to the ladies’ room.”
It took a fraction of a second, but he got the joke and his look of concern evaporated into a smile.
Helena walked over to his chair, ran her fingers through his hair, and kissed him. “Thank you for this,” she said. “For all of this. The necklace, everything.”