located on the second floor of a house on Duval Street with tables on a balcony that overlooked the street. As they stood at the bottom of the narrow stairs that led to it, Niko heard the clang of silverware and the loud chatter of excited tourists. The food was good there, he knew, but he wanted a more relaxed atmosphere.
Instead, he led the way down a quiet street close to the Harry S. Truman Little White House, to a grand old place that had been converted to a restaurant. They chose a table in the garden, sheltered by huge oak trees and scented by jasmine shrubs. Small cobblestone pathways meandered through the tables that were covered with pristine white tablecloths. They’d arrived after most of the lunch crowd had finished, so it was cool and quiet. Sitting at a corner table, they sipped at the cold drinks that arrived with a fragrant loaf of bread.
Slathering on honeyed butter, Kara took a bite of the bread and sighed as if in ecstasy. “This is delicious. Sweet. What’s that flavor? Coconut?”
He’d known she’d like it. He smiled as she broke off another piece and ate it without butter. “I’m glad to see you’re not one of those women who survive on salads alone. I watched my mother starve herself for years to stay slim for modeling. I can’t help but wonder if she’ll suffer any long-term effects from it.”
“My mother loved to cook,” Kara said. “She made the best cookies, but I really liked it when she decided it was time to clean out the refrigerator and made her own recipe combinations.” She chuckled. “Once, she sautéed baby carrots and sliced hot dogs in garlic and butter. I refused to eat that, but most of the time I enjoyed her concoctions.”
Niko liked the way Kara’s eyes lit up when she talked about her family. He wanted to draw her out, get to know her better. Why, he wasn’t sure, but it seemed right to be sitting here in the sun-dappled shade, listening to her talk. “Did you grow up in New York City?”
“On Long Island.” Her gaze grew unfocused as she stared somewhere over his left shoulder. “As an attorney in the city, my father made a good living, so Mom was able to stay at home. He worked long hours so he sometimes missed my school events, but she was always there.” Her gaze shifted back to his face and she met his eyes for a moment, then looked away as if embarrassed. “It was hard for us when she died so suddenly.”
“I was never told how she passed away,” he said softly, reaching across the table to place his hand lightly on hers where it rested on the table. Her fingers were cool from holding the drinking glass, but warmed under his immediately. “Was it an accident?”
“Pneumonia. She had the flu and, somehow, it spiraled out of control.” She shook her head, a quick little gesture, as if trying to rid herself of the shadow of bad memories.
It was clear that she had grown up cared for and loved. Her father had not remarried until she was an adult, so she’d never had to deal with the issues of an extended family, multiple homes, step-parents and partial-blood-relatives. He wondered what it felt like to have that innate sense of well-being, that true sense of home and family.
She pulled her fingers out from under his as the waitress brought their entrees, placing the dishes in front of them. Regretfully, he let her go. It was such a simple thing, to touch her hand, but it made him feel attached to her, as if they shared a bond that was deeper than just two strangers having lunch.
She was looking at him now, her lip twisted as she bit at its corner, obviously considering something. He tilted his head in inquiry. “What?”
“I was surprised when my father married your sister,” she said, the words hesitant.
“Weren’t we all?” He wanted to keep the tone light, but an edge crept into his voice. It was too much to hope that she wouldn’t pick up on it. The woman was amazingly proficient at recognizing his emotions.
“Did your family
Instead, he led the way down a quiet street close to the Harry S. Truman Little White House, to a grand old place that had been converted to a restaurant. They chose a table in the garden, sheltered by huge oak trees and scented by jasmine shrubs. Small cobblestone pathways meandered through the tables that were covered with pristine white tablecloths. They’d arrived after most of the lunch crowd had finished, so it was cool and quiet. Sitting at a corner table, they sipped at the cold drinks that arrived with a fragrant loaf of bread.
Slathering on honeyed butter, Kara took a bite of the bread and sighed as if in ecstasy. “This is delicious. Sweet. What’s that flavor? Coconut?”
He’d known she’d like it. He smiled as she broke off another piece and ate it without butter. “I’m glad to see you’re not one of those women who survive on salads alone. I watched my mother starve herself for years to stay slim for modeling. I can’t help but wonder if she’ll suffer any long-term effects from it.”
“My mother loved to cook,” Kara said. “She made the best cookies, but I really liked it when she decided it was time to clean out the refrigerator and made her own recipe combinations.” She chuckled. “Once, she sautéed baby carrots and sliced hot dogs in garlic and butter. I refused to eat that, but most of the time I enjoyed her concoctions.”
Niko liked the way Kara’s eyes lit up when she talked about her family. He wanted to draw her out, get to know her better. Why, he wasn’t sure, but it seemed right to be sitting here in the sun-dappled shade, listening to her talk. “Did you grow up in New York City?”
“On Long Island.” Her gaze grew unfocused as she stared somewhere over his left shoulder. “As an attorney in the city, my father made a good living, so Mom was able to stay at home. He worked long hours so he sometimes missed my school events, but she was always there.” Her gaze shifted back to his face and she met his eyes for a moment, then looked away as if embarrassed. “It was hard for us when she died so suddenly.”
“I was never told how she passed away,” he said softly, reaching across the table to place his hand lightly on hers where it rested on the table. Her fingers were cool from holding the drinking glass, but warmed under his immediately. “Was it an accident?”
“Pneumonia. She had the flu and, somehow, it spiraled out of control.” She shook her head, a quick little gesture, as if trying to rid herself of the shadow of bad memories.
It was clear that she had grown up cared for and loved. Her father had not remarried until she was an adult, so she’d never had to deal with the issues of an extended family, multiple homes, step-parents and partial-blood-relatives. He wondered what it felt like to have that innate sense of well-being, that true sense of home and family.
She pulled her fingers out from under his as the waitress brought their entrees, placing the dishes in front of them. Regretfully, he let her go. It was such a simple thing, to touch her hand, but it made him feel attached to her, as if they shared a bond that was deeper than just two strangers having lunch.
She was looking at him now, her lip twisted as she bit at its corner, obviously considering something. He tilted his head in inquiry. “What?”
“I was surprised when my father married your sister,” she said, the words hesitant.
“Weren’t we all?” He wanted to keep the tone light, but an edge crept into his voice. It was too much to hope that she wouldn’t pick up on it. The woman was amazingly proficient at recognizing his emotions.
“Did your family
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