Honeymoon

Chapter 67

A LITTLE BEFORE twelve-thirty, I pulled into Connor Brown’s driveway—that’s how I always thought of the place: Connor Brown’s house. Before I even came to a stop Nora was walking out the front door.

She was wearing a light summer dress, sleeveless with a red and green floral pattern. It showed off her tan nicely, not to mention her legs. She got in my car and announced that she was starving.

“That makes two of us,” I said.

We drove over to a restaurant called Le Jardin du Roi in the town of Chappaqua. It was upscale without being overly fancy, and I guess the mix of white linens and wooden beams qualified it as suburban chic. We took a table for two in the far corner.

It was a half-business, half-ladies-who-lunch crowd. With me in my suit and Nora in her blousy summer dress, we looked to have both halves covered. Nora was without a doubt the most attractive of the women in the restaurant, though—and the head turning done by all the other men in suits confirmed it.

A waiter came over. “Can I bring you both anything to drink?”

Nora leaned in across the table. “Will you get in trouble if we have wine?” she asked.

“Depends on how much,” I replied, cracking a smile. When she smiled back I assured her, “No, I won’t be breaking any company rules.”

“Good.” She picked up the wine menu and handed it to me.

“No, go ahead,” I said. “You decide.”

“If you insist.”

“Would you like a minute?” asked the waiter.

“No, that won’t be necessary,” said Nora. She pulled the wine list toward her and immediately ran her index finger down the page, stopping midway.

“The Châteauneuf-du-Pape,” she announced. It was a decision made in less than six seconds.

“A woman who knows what she wants,” I said as the waiter nodded and walked off.

Nora shrugged. “At least when it comes to wine.”

“I was thinking more generally.”

She shot me a curious look. “What do you mean?”

“Take your career, for instance. I get the distinct impression you knew from an early age that you wanted to be an interior decorator.”

“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.