pointers!”
“I’m not going to lie to her.”
Silence.
“Much.”
“Just take her out, remind her of the guy she knew in Prague, and see what happens.”
But he didn’t want to be the guy he’d been in Prague. He wanted to be better.
“And call me tomorrow with an update. I’m eight months pregnant and you’re my only social life.” Claire rang off, and Roark laughed as he tossed the mobile onto the bed.
He stared in the mirror, listening to Amelia’s words today. Are you out of your mind?
Probably, he’d said, but he wasn’t. He’d never been surer about anything than when Amelia had walked into the Java Cup wearing jeans and a trench coat, her auburn hair flowing out from under a green beret, and taking his breath away.
Again.
Not unlike their meeting in Old Town Square, two days after he’d first seen her on the Charles Bridge.
He walked out into the main room, trying to choose a shirt, the memory of their first date sweet as it surfaced inside him.
“You again?” he’d said, although he knew perfectly well she’d be there, had asked Claude for the itinerary and details of the class.
He arrived with his satchel over his shoulder, camera around his neck, ready to take notes. To learn. To discover if Amelia had given any further thought to their meeting on the bridge.
“Hi,” she said, wearing the same trench coat and boots as the first time they’d met, her hair caught in a cap, her smile lighting up the square. “Isn’t it magnificent?”
Of course, she was probably referring to Týn Church, the famous gothic church located just off the square.
He nodded, paying it no mind.
Claude arrived without showing a hint of recognition —good man —and lectured for an hour in the grassy area in front of the fountain on f-stops and apertures. The entire class began to blur as Roark watched Amelia sit in the grass and take notes, twirling one long hair around her finger. They photographed the church then with different settings, and afterward, he invited her back to Charles Bridge because he knew of a café in the shadows. They walked through the cobbled streets, around gardens and monasteries, and he pointed out statues and ancient landmarks.
“You seem to know this city well,” she said later, spinning a glass of cabernet. The evening sun setting on the river turned her hair dark, the color of autumn leaves.
“Not well enough,” he said. “I went to school in Scotland, so only when I came on holiday.” True enough. He and Francesca had traveled here at least twice to visit her family —once for a concert, another time when he accompanied her on a photo shoot.
“By the time I leave, I plan to know all the best hole-in-the-wall cafés in the city,” she said.
He made that promise to himself too.
“Where’s home?” he’d asked, and she’d leaned in, told him about a hamlet in the north woods of Minnesota —a home pitched at the edge of a lake, three brothers, two sisters, and a life that reached out and entwined him with its charm.
A life that seemed reminiscent of one tucked deep in his memory.
By the time their pork knuckles arrived with creamy garlic potatoes and crusty bread, he’d plunked himself into her life, seeing a future with her.
He’d walked her home, longing to hold her hand, deciding that no, he should probably wait. Hope.
And show up for the next class.
Now Roark chose a blue shirt, pressed it on the bed, then threw on his leather jacket. He forwent the hat, the scarf, and set out for the half-block walk down the street early so he could pick their table. Perhaps order an appetizer.
He found the restaurant —the one located next to the fish shop —nearly vacant. Not odd for a Monday night, and it meant he had his pick of tables; he chose one overlooking the harbor. A schooner, its sails still lashed to the masts, rolled with the waves, and on the dock, gulls wandered, waiting for scraps.
He asked for a lit candle. Perused the
“I’m not going to lie to her.”
Silence.
“Much.”
“Just take her out, remind her of the guy she knew in Prague, and see what happens.”
But he didn’t want to be the guy he’d been in Prague. He wanted to be better.
“And call me tomorrow with an update. I’m eight months pregnant and you’re my only social life.” Claire rang off, and Roark laughed as he tossed the mobile onto the bed.
He stared in the mirror, listening to Amelia’s words today. Are you out of your mind?
Probably, he’d said, but he wasn’t. He’d never been surer about anything than when Amelia had walked into the Java Cup wearing jeans and a trench coat, her auburn hair flowing out from under a green beret, and taking his breath away.
Again.
Not unlike their meeting in Old Town Square, two days after he’d first seen her on the Charles Bridge.
He walked out into the main room, trying to choose a shirt, the memory of their first date sweet as it surfaced inside him.
“You again?” he’d said, although he knew perfectly well she’d be there, had asked Claude for the itinerary and details of the class.
He arrived with his satchel over his shoulder, camera around his neck, ready to take notes. To learn. To discover if Amelia had given any further thought to their meeting on the bridge.
“Hi,” she said, wearing the same trench coat and boots as the first time they’d met, her hair caught in a cap, her smile lighting up the square. “Isn’t it magnificent?”
Of course, she was probably referring to Týn Church, the famous gothic church located just off the square.
He nodded, paying it no mind.
Claude arrived without showing a hint of recognition —good man —and lectured for an hour in the grassy area in front of the fountain on f-stops and apertures. The entire class began to blur as Roark watched Amelia sit in the grass and take notes, twirling one long hair around her finger. They photographed the church then with different settings, and afterward, he invited her back to Charles Bridge because he knew of a café in the shadows. They walked through the cobbled streets, around gardens and monasteries, and he pointed out statues and ancient landmarks.
“You seem to know this city well,” she said later, spinning a glass of cabernet. The evening sun setting on the river turned her hair dark, the color of autumn leaves.
“Not well enough,” he said. “I went to school in Scotland, so only when I came on holiday.” True enough. He and Francesca had traveled here at least twice to visit her family —once for a concert, another time when he accompanied her on a photo shoot.
“By the time I leave, I plan to know all the best hole-in-the-wall cafés in the city,” she said.
He made that promise to himself too.
“Where’s home?” he’d asked, and she’d leaned in, told him about a hamlet in the north woods of Minnesota —a home pitched at the edge of a lake, three brothers, two sisters, and a life that reached out and entwined him with its charm.
A life that seemed reminiscent of one tucked deep in his memory.
By the time their pork knuckles arrived with creamy garlic potatoes and crusty bread, he’d plunked himself into her life, seeing a future with her.
He’d walked her home, longing to hold her hand, deciding that no, he should probably wait. Hope.
And show up for the next class.
Now Roark chose a blue shirt, pressed it on the bed, then threw on his leather jacket. He forwent the hat, the scarf, and set out for the half-block walk down the street early so he could pick their table. Perhaps order an appetizer.
He found the restaurant —the one located next to the fish shop —nearly vacant. Not odd for a Monday night, and it meant he had his pick of tables; he chose one overlooking the harbor. A schooner, its sails still lashed to the masts, rolled with the waves, and on the dock, gulls wandered, waiting for scraps.
He asked for a lit candle. Perused the
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