“Not true.”
“You mean you weren’t always changing the furniture around in your Barbie Dream House?”
She laughed, and seemed to be having a good time so far. “Okay, true,” she said. “What about you, though? Did you always know what you wanted to do?”
“No, I only sold lemonade at my lemonade stand. No insurance policies.”
“Maybe that’s what I’m really asking,” she said. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but with you I get the opposite impression: that you were maybe cut out for something else.”
“Like what? Give me an example. How do you see me, Nora? What should I be doing?”
“I don’t know. Something…”
“More exciting?”
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
“Yes, you were—and it’s okay. I’m not insulted.”
“You shouldn’t be. In fact, you should take it as a compliment.”
I chuckled. “Now you’re pushing your luck.”
“No, I’m serious. You have a certain way about you, a kind of inner strength. And you’re funny.”
I was spared from having to respond by our waiter returning with the wine. As he opened the bottle, Nora and I exchanged a few glances over our menus. Was she flirting with me?
No, Einstein, we’re flirting with each other.
With a swirl and a sip, Nora okayed the Châteauneuf-du-Pape. The waiter poured. When he left, she proposed a toast. “To Craig Reynolds. For being so incredibly nice to me throughout this entire ordeal.”
I thanked her and we clinked glasses, our eyes locked on each other.
And little did I know that the real ordeal was just beginning.
Chapter 68
THE BUSINESS SUITS had left. So had the ladies who lunch. There were only two holdouts from the afternoon crowd at Le Jardin. Nora and moi. The house pâté and the hearts of palm salad, the roasted salmon and the coquilles St. Jacques—most of it was devoured, though at a leisurely pace. All that remained on our table in the corner were the last sips of wine.
From our third bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape.
Mind you, it wasn’t part of my original plan to drink half a vineyard at lunch. Once we got going, though, the plan was revised and then revised again. Alcohol, after all, makes a great truth serum. What better way to find out something about Nora that I wasn’t supposed to? The more we talked, the better my chances. At least, that was the story I kept telling myself.
Eventually I glanced over my shoulder at the waitstaff, who were setting the tables for dinner. A busboy was lazily sweeping a broom near the bar. I turned back to Nora. “You know, there’s a fine line between lingering and loitering, and I think we’ve officially crossed it.”
She looked around to see what I was talking about. “You’re right,” she said with an embarrassed smile. “We’d better get out of here before he sweeps us out with the breadcrumbs.”
I signaled for the check from our much-relieved waiter. The 30 percent tip I left meant a relatively guilt-free departure for the two of us—if not exactly a sober one. I expected as much from Nora. After all, she was thin as a rail. But despite having about eighty pounds on her, I was feeling the effects, too.
“Why don’t we walk for a bit,” I said as we stepped outside.
I was reassured when she agreed. Drinking on the job is one thing. Drinking and driving is another. A little fresh air and I knew I’d be all right.
“Maybe we’ll see the Clintons,” Nora chirped. “They live right up the street.”
I decided to lay off that one. Too easy. We strolled the sidewalk along the various storefronts. I stopped at a window of an embroidery place called the Silver Needle.
“This reminds me of my mother,” I said. “She loves to knit.”
“What kind of things does she make?” asked Nora, who was a surprisingly good listener, not as into herself as I would have expected.
“The usual. Afghans, scarves, sweaters. Actually, I remember this one Christmas back in my high school days when she knitted me two sweaters: one red, the other blue.”
“That’s sweet.”
“Yeah, but you don’t know my mother,” I said with a finger raised. “For Christmas dinner I show up at the table wearing the red sweater—and what does she say to me? ‘What’s wrong, you don’t like the blue one?’”
Nora gave me a push on the shoulder. “You’re making that up!”
Yes, I was.
“No, it’s true,” I said. We started walking again. “What about your mother? Is she a knitter?”
Nora suddenly looked uncomfortable. “My mother… she passed away some years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. She was a great mom while I had her.”
We continued to walk, only now in silence.
I shook my head. “See what I’ve done?”
“What?”
“I’ve taken a perfectly good time and spoiled it.”
“Don’t be silly,” Nora said with a wave of her hand. “This is still a perfectly good time. In fact, it’s one of the best times I’ve had in a while. I needed this.”
“Aw, you’re just saying that to make me feel better.”
“No, I’m saying it because it’s you who makes me feel better. As you might imagine, these last couple of weeks have been awful. Then, out of nowhere, you come along.”
“Yeah, except I was making things even tougher for you.”
“At first, yes,” she said. “However, it turns out you were a blessing in disguise.”
I tried not to flinch at the irony of that last word as we stopped at an intersection and waited to cross. The afternoon sun was beginning to dip below the trees. Nora folded her arms against her chest with a slight shudder. She seemed vulnerable, actually.
“Here,” I said. I had removed my suit jacket and I draped it over her shoulders. As she pulled the lapels together our hands touched briefly. In front of us the WALK sign flashed, but we didn’t move a step. Instead, we stood there, perfectly still, looking at each other.
“I don’t want this to end,” she said. Then Nora leaned in close, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Let’s go somewhere, okay?”
Chapter 69
I DIDN’T HAVE to be Johnny Casanova to figure out what she meant. Let’s go somewhere. Even Johnny Knucklehead could’ve gotten the not-so-subtle hint. Nora wasn’t talking about getting a cup of coffee to clear our heads.
No, the only thing not obvious to me at that moment was the following: How was Johnny O’Hara going to respond?
All through lunch I didn’t mind that Nora and I were getting cozy with each other, flirting, whatever it was we were doing. In fact, that was kind of the idea. Now suddenly things had gotten a little too cozy.
Could she be interested in me? Of course, it wasn’t really me. It was Craig Reynolds, the insurance man.
Maybe it was the wine she’d had. Or maybe it was something else, something I wasn’t seeing. An angle she was playing. One thing was for sure. It wasn’t my money she was after.
Selling life insurance isn’t usually recognized as a rich guy’s game. Even the best at it are no match for the likes of a Connor Brown, hedge-fund manager and financial guru. Besides, Nora had seen where I was living as Craig. She already knew the BMW and the fancy suits were a front. Yet, despite all that, she said what she said.
Let’s go somewhere.
I stood there, staring deep into her green eyes on the corner of that intersection in downtown Chappaqua. The chance to go in any direction.
“Follow me,” I said.