taste,” Caldwell murmured.
* * *
Caldwell offered to drop me off at the door, but I told him not to be silly. I didn’t mind the walk.
He found a parking spot two blocks away and we started strolling back to his house. It was then that I realized how awkward the end of this evening might be. I mean, if this was a date, which I didn’t really think it was, but if it was, what would we do at the door, or when we got inside. At what point did we say good night?
How odd to go out with someone and go home with them—to separate rooms.
As we walked along, Caldwell pointed out the businesses on the street: the little greengrocer on the corner, the Persian rug shop, the best place to get coffee that wasn’t a Starbucks.
“I love all these shops to walk to,” I said. At that moment, I was loving everything. “Where I live you have to get in a car to get anyplace.”
“Yes, this is quite different. I sometimes only use the car once or twice a week.”
I could see his house down at the end of the block. We walked slower.
Caldwell told me stories of the people whose houses we were passing: a young couple with twins, an old woman with cats, a family from India with their grandmother. We stopped and looked at some of the front gardens; the roses bloomed an orangey pink under the streetlights.
When we arrived at his house, he opened the gate for me. We walked up the steps together and then both of us stopped at the top, right in front of the door.
“This has been quite nice,” he said, looking down at his shoes.
I stared down at his shoes too. They were well-polished black shoes. Maybe they were oxfords. “Yes, it has.”
He took a step toward me and said, “Karen?”
I looked up at him, hoping that he might see how much I liked him, how much I wanted him to touch me.
The door sprang open in front of us. Standing there was a striking woman I had never seen before.
She said, “My Caldwell. Finally you are home.”
TWENTY
Madame Frou-Frou
S he was not exactly beautiful. Too thin, too sharp to be a true beauty, but she was dramatic, with dark hair pulled back in a swirl and dark eyes that flashed in the dim light and a small but full mouth. I guessed she was in her early forties and I was sure, from her accent, that she was French.
We stepped into the house and she moved in on Caldwell, delicately kissing him on both cheeks, then murmured, “So good to see you, mon cheri .”
“Francine, you came a day early,” he said.
“It just happened. I should have called to tell you.I thought I’d surprise.” She touched his scarf. “My, you’re all dressed up. Very handsome.”
“Yes, Francine, this is Karen. She’s a writer from America. We went to see Macbeth at the Globe. She had an extra ticket.”
“Very good. A writer?” She looked me up and down and I couldn’t tell from her sharp gaze how I measured up. “An American writer? You write the romances, I suppose?”
“No, just mysteries.”
“Oh, very good. This I like.” She wrapped her arms around Caldwell’s arm and said, “So good to get him out. He is such a person of the home.”
I nodded, not really knowing what kind of person he was at all.
“Francine, I have to tell you, something terrible has happened,” Caldwell started.
She pulled away from him. “What? Sally isn’t back, is she?”
“No, but Howard—”
“Oh, you told me. So he is married. This is good. So nice that you two can be friends again.”
“No, he died.”
Francine raised her eyebrows. “But he was old.”
“Yes, but he died here in my house.”
“Oh, my poor Caldwell. That man will forever be bringing trouble to you. It is better he is gone.”
“Francine,” Caldwell reprimanded her.
“I know what will cheer you up. I brought the Gigondas—your favorite kind,” she purred at him. “Is right now breathing.”
It took me a second to realize she was talking about a bottle of wine. All I knew was that I wanted to get out of that
* * *
Caldwell offered to drop me off at the door, but I told him not to be silly. I didn’t mind the walk.
He found a parking spot two blocks away and we started strolling back to his house. It was then that I realized how awkward the end of this evening might be. I mean, if this was a date, which I didn’t really think it was, but if it was, what would we do at the door, or when we got inside. At what point did we say good night?
How odd to go out with someone and go home with them—to separate rooms.
As we walked along, Caldwell pointed out the businesses on the street: the little greengrocer on the corner, the Persian rug shop, the best place to get coffee that wasn’t a Starbucks.
“I love all these shops to walk to,” I said. At that moment, I was loving everything. “Where I live you have to get in a car to get anyplace.”
“Yes, this is quite different. I sometimes only use the car once or twice a week.”
I could see his house down at the end of the block. We walked slower.
Caldwell told me stories of the people whose houses we were passing: a young couple with twins, an old woman with cats, a family from India with their grandmother. We stopped and looked at some of the front gardens; the roses bloomed an orangey pink under the streetlights.
When we arrived at his house, he opened the gate for me. We walked up the steps together and then both of us stopped at the top, right in front of the door.
“This has been quite nice,” he said, looking down at his shoes.
I stared down at his shoes too. They were well-polished black shoes. Maybe they were oxfords. “Yes, it has.”
He took a step toward me and said, “Karen?”
I looked up at him, hoping that he might see how much I liked him, how much I wanted him to touch me.
The door sprang open in front of us. Standing there was a striking woman I had never seen before.
She said, “My Caldwell. Finally you are home.”
TWENTY
Madame Frou-Frou
S he was not exactly beautiful. Too thin, too sharp to be a true beauty, but she was dramatic, with dark hair pulled back in a swirl and dark eyes that flashed in the dim light and a small but full mouth. I guessed she was in her early forties and I was sure, from her accent, that she was French.
We stepped into the house and she moved in on Caldwell, delicately kissing him on both cheeks, then murmured, “So good to see you, mon cheri .”
“Francine, you came a day early,” he said.
“It just happened. I should have called to tell you.I thought I’d surprise.” She touched his scarf. “My, you’re all dressed up. Very handsome.”
“Yes, Francine, this is Karen. She’s a writer from America. We went to see Macbeth at the Globe. She had an extra ticket.”
“Very good. A writer?” She looked me up and down and I couldn’t tell from her sharp gaze how I measured up. “An American writer? You write the romances, I suppose?”
“No, just mysteries.”
“Oh, very good. This I like.” She wrapped her arms around Caldwell’s arm and said, “So good to get him out. He is such a person of the home.”
I nodded, not really knowing what kind of person he was at all.
“Francine, I have to tell you, something terrible has happened,” Caldwell started.
She pulled away from him. “What? Sally isn’t back, is she?”
“No, but Howard—”
“Oh, you told me. So he is married. This is good. So nice that you two can be friends again.”
“No, he died.”
Francine raised her eyebrows. “But he was old.”
“Yes, but he died here in my house.”
“Oh, my poor Caldwell. That man will forever be bringing trouble to you. It is better he is gone.”
“Francine,” Caldwell reprimanded her.
“I know what will cheer you up. I brought the Gigondas—your favorite kind,” she purred at him. “Is right now breathing.”
It took me a second to realize she was talking about a bottle of wine. All I knew was that I wanted to get out of that
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