Precious Bones by Irina Shapiro

of flowers and a bottle of wine. 
    “Peace offering,” he declared , waiting for me to invite him in.
    “I didn’t know we were at war, ” I countered, stepping aside to let him pass.  I couldn’t imagine what he was doing here.   
    “Cassandra, I came to apologize for my behavior.  It was unforgivable.  I acted like a pompous ass and I ’m truly sorry.  I don’t know what came over me.”  He stood there waiting for me to offer forgiveness, but I wasn’t ready to let him off the hook.
    “Yes, you were a pompous ass.”  I just stood there waiting for him to leave. 
    “Please allow me to make it up to you.  Let me take you to dinner, restaurant of your choice.”
    “That won’t be necessary , Mr. Turner.  Thank you for the flowers.”  I made a move toward the door, but he stopped me.
    “Cassandra, please.  It’s only a meal.  It will give us a chance to get to know each other.”  I would have preferred for him to leave, but I didn’t want to be churlish, so I relented.  “All right.  There is a good Indian place a few blocks from here.  We can go there.  I’m in the mood for a curry.  Would that suit?”
    “Perfect ly.  Lead the way.”  I reluctantly put on my coat and followed him out of the door.  Maybe he could explain what he had been doing here the day I came to look at the house, and what he meant by his strange comment.
     
    Punjab House was a small Indian restaurant located around the corner from St. Paul’s Cathedral.  The storefront was not very impressive, but once you passed through the beaded curtain into the dining room the impression was of walking into a Hindu temple.  There were ornate wooden carvings on the walls depicting scenes from the lives of Hindu gods and colorful candles burned around the shrine to the goddess Lakshmi, who sat cross-legged on a lotus flower situated on a carved chest of rose-colored wood.  She had two arms out in front of her, palms up, and two arms raised behind her holding a flower in each hand.   A mural of the snow-capped Grand Pavilions was painted on the back wall, while soft Indian music warbled in the background.  Our waiter placed our entrees on the table and departed after bowing subserviently.
    Adrian poured me another glass of wine and then topped up his own glass before inhaling the aroma from his plate of lamb vindaloo. 
    “This smells divine.  I love this place.  Well done.”  He took an experimental bite and rolled his eyes in mock ecstasy.   I took a bite of my own food and studied Adrian over my wine glass.  He was as handsome as I remembered, with those slanted eyes that made me think of being watched in a dark wood by a ruthless predator.  His hair fell onto his face and his skin was tanned a golden brown, which was odd for London in April, unless he was a frequent patron of tanning salons.  He probably spent his days working out at some gym and then working on his tan. 
    So far, our conversation had been mostly about me.  Adrian Turner had asked me a lot of questions about my life, and I was beginning to feel that he was strangely fascinated by me.  His scrutiny was starting to make me uncomfortable, so I decided it was time to turn the tables on him.
    “Mr . Turner, what did you do before you took over your grandfather’s publishing house?”  He had to be at least thirty, and I wondered what kind of privileged existence he led at the expense of his wealthy family.
    “ Please, call me Adrian.  I’m a photographer,” he took another bite, chewing thoughtfully as he seemed to debate whether to tell me something.
    “D o you take portraits or photographs of nature?” I inquired, hoping to provoke him into telling me more about himself.  He seemed to make up his mind and put down his fork.
    “Neither, actually.  I graduated from Christ Church College with a degree in Political Science before going off to pursue my real interest.  I spent the better part of the last eight years in the