it?”
Dante shook his head quickly. “No, let’s not go there. Where’s your favorite place? Someplace not too crowded,” he added in a hurry.
“How much time do you have?” I turned the heater to full and breathed warm air into my cupped hands.
Dante’s eyes were serious. “I have all the time in the world.”
“Excellent. Helen’s Café it is.” I turned on my CD player and pulled out onto the street, the opening notes of “Stopping Time” by Darwin Glass trailing behind us like falling snow.
Only you can turn the time
Only you can stop the tide
Only you can turn and save me
From tomorrow’s bitter ride
~
The parking lot for Helen’s Café was empty. As usual. The service was so slow at Helen’s that hardly anyone ever ate there anymore. But I didn’t mind. In fact, on some days I liked the peace and quiet that Helen’s offered.
The café was deserted when we walked in, and the sign by the hostess desk invited us to seat ourselves, so Dante and I selected a booth by the large picture-frame front window. The décor was classic kitsch—porcelain chickens nesting on high shelves; knockoff watercolors of limp water lilies; collections of spoons, shot glasses, and thimbles from around the world.
Dante looked around, seeming half interested, half appalled.
“Try not to look at anything directly,” I suggested. “It makes it easier.”
“This is your favorite place?”
I shrugged. “I admit the décor is terrible, and the service is worse, but the food is surprisingly good. Plus, with no one around, we can stay and talk as long as we’d like.”
“Are we going to talk long?” Dante raised an eyebrow.
“Depends.” I handed him one of the menus stacked on the side of the table.
“On?” He took the menu but didn’t open it.
“On how much there is to say,” I said lightly.
Dante regarded me with those clear eyes. “Then we might be here a long time.”
I felt a flutter of anticipation and excitement. Quickly, I perused the menu even though I knew exactly what I wanted to order. I could still feel Dante’s eyes on me. A thrill danced on my skin.
How long had it been since I’d had a getting-to-know-you conversation? I knew everything about Jason; I knew nothing about Dante.
“Sorry for the wait.” A waitress appeared at our table, notepad in hand, not sounding sorry at all. “What’ll you have?”
Dante ordered pancakes (blueberry), eggs (over easy), and two slices of toast (rye). I ordered my favorite: a Belgian waffle with a custom raspberry, blackberry, and whipped cream puree, half an English muffin, toasted, and a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. In January, a rare treat.
As the waitress left, I closed the menu and reached for my backpack. “Okay, here are the rules.”
“Excuse me?” Dante frowned in confusion.
“The getting-to-know-Dante rules,” I said, placing a notebook and a pen on the table. “Don’t panic. There are only two rules to remember. First, you have to write down the first thing that comes to your mind when I say so. Second, you have to be completely honest. The game won’t work if you lie about your answers.” I ripped out a blank sheet of paper from my notebook and slid it across the table. “Ready?”
Dante looked from me to the paper and back again, a strange light in his eyes. “You are a dangerous woman, Abby,” he said softly.
“Ha! No one’s ever called me dangerous before.” I felt myself blush under his gaze and thought that perhaps I shouldn’t like so much the way my name sounded in his mouth.
“You are not afraid to ask for the truth. And you strike me as a person who is not afraid to hear the truth, either. That makes you dangerous.” He picked up the pen and uncapped it. “I will play your game.” He grinned at me. “I can be as dangerous as you.”
He’s dangerous, Valerie’s voice reminded me. I pointedly ignored it. Dante had been the perfect gentleman so far this morning. I wiggled my
Dante shook his head quickly. “No, let’s not go there. Where’s your favorite place? Someplace not too crowded,” he added in a hurry.
“How much time do you have?” I turned the heater to full and breathed warm air into my cupped hands.
Dante’s eyes were serious. “I have all the time in the world.”
“Excellent. Helen’s Café it is.” I turned on my CD player and pulled out onto the street, the opening notes of “Stopping Time” by Darwin Glass trailing behind us like falling snow.
Only you can turn the time
Only you can stop the tide
Only you can turn and save me
From tomorrow’s bitter ride
~
The parking lot for Helen’s Café was empty. As usual. The service was so slow at Helen’s that hardly anyone ever ate there anymore. But I didn’t mind. In fact, on some days I liked the peace and quiet that Helen’s offered.
The café was deserted when we walked in, and the sign by the hostess desk invited us to seat ourselves, so Dante and I selected a booth by the large picture-frame front window. The décor was classic kitsch—porcelain chickens nesting on high shelves; knockoff watercolors of limp water lilies; collections of spoons, shot glasses, and thimbles from around the world.
Dante looked around, seeming half interested, half appalled.
“Try not to look at anything directly,” I suggested. “It makes it easier.”
“This is your favorite place?”
I shrugged. “I admit the décor is terrible, and the service is worse, but the food is surprisingly good. Plus, with no one around, we can stay and talk as long as we’d like.”
“Are we going to talk long?” Dante raised an eyebrow.
“Depends.” I handed him one of the menus stacked on the side of the table.
“On?” He took the menu but didn’t open it.
“On how much there is to say,” I said lightly.
Dante regarded me with those clear eyes. “Then we might be here a long time.”
I felt a flutter of anticipation and excitement. Quickly, I perused the menu even though I knew exactly what I wanted to order. I could still feel Dante’s eyes on me. A thrill danced on my skin.
How long had it been since I’d had a getting-to-know-you conversation? I knew everything about Jason; I knew nothing about Dante.
“Sorry for the wait.” A waitress appeared at our table, notepad in hand, not sounding sorry at all. “What’ll you have?”
Dante ordered pancakes (blueberry), eggs (over easy), and two slices of toast (rye). I ordered my favorite: a Belgian waffle with a custom raspberry, blackberry, and whipped cream puree, half an English muffin, toasted, and a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. In January, a rare treat.
As the waitress left, I closed the menu and reached for my backpack. “Okay, here are the rules.”
“Excuse me?” Dante frowned in confusion.
“The getting-to-know-Dante rules,” I said, placing a notebook and a pen on the table. “Don’t panic. There are only two rules to remember. First, you have to write down the first thing that comes to your mind when I say so. Second, you have to be completely honest. The game won’t work if you lie about your answers.” I ripped out a blank sheet of paper from my notebook and slid it across the table. “Ready?”
Dante looked from me to the paper and back again, a strange light in his eyes. “You are a dangerous woman, Abby,” he said softly.
“Ha! No one’s ever called me dangerous before.” I felt myself blush under his gaze and thought that perhaps I shouldn’t like so much the way my name sounded in his mouth.
“You are not afraid to ask for the truth. And you strike me as a person who is not afraid to hear the truth, either. That makes you dangerous.” He picked up the pen and uncapped it. “I will play your game.” He grinned at me. “I can be as dangerous as you.”
He’s dangerous, Valerie’s voice reminded me. I pointedly ignored it. Dante had been the perfect gentleman so far this morning. I wiggled my
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