Chapter Nineteen
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“You came.”
Dev plants his palms flat on the bar in front of me. He looks happier than last night, which probably has to do less with being in my presence than in being at his own bar instead of helping out at a dinner for tourists.
“I figured I should try artisanal gin,” I say.
“Which is, indeed, a thing.”
I think he’s making fun of me, but he’s smiling, so I don’t mind.
Dev gestures to the bottles behind him and says, “What’s your fancy?”
“Gin and tonic?”
“Not on my watch.”
He hands me a small menu in the shape of a bottle. I scan the cocktails. I point to something called a Bramble and say, “This sounds good, but I have no idea what crème de m?re is.”
“It’s a French liqueur, from blackberries.”
“My favorite berry.” I remember getting stains on my fingers from picking the wild berries that used to grow behind my grandmother’s house. I should have taken better care of the bushes.
“One Bramble, coming up.”
Dev fills a cocktail shaker with ice. He runs his fingers over a row of fat little bottles with blue labels—his gins, I suppose—and pulls one out.
With the excited focus of an artist starting a new canvas, he pours in gin, and simple syrup, and squeezes in some lemon juice.
He flicks the shaker back and forth, watching me watching him, and then strains it into a tumbler of crushed ice.
He picks up a bottle with a long, thin neck and displays it for me the way a sommelier would present a fine wine.
“Voilà, le crème de m?re.”
I lean in and say, “I concur.”
He has a warm laugh. I want to believe what he told me yesterday, which is that he was not playing a role in the fake murder.
Until I remember that even if he was telling the truth about his mother, his flirtation could be scripted.
I’m going to have to observe him carefully.
Slowly, he pours the liqueur into the drink, which turns a purplish pink, and tops it with a lemon wheel and two blackberries.
He places it on a cocktail napkin in front of me.
Eyes on him, I take a sip. It’s a perfect blend of sweet and tart.
“Not bad.”
There are three women at the other end of the bar now, members of the mystery book group from Tampa.
They glance my way but show no signs of recognition, maybe because I’m not with Wyatt and Amity.
Dev walks over and says something that makes them all laugh.
One of the women tucks a loose tendril behind her ear.
Another whoop of laughter. I remember that bartenders are professionally social and that it’s their job to make customers, especially women, feel comfortable and even desirable.
My drink goes down easy, like lemonade. Dev is busy now, making drinks for the Tampa women, who are getting louder, leaning in toward him.
When he looks my way, I hold up my glass and mouth, “Another?” He nods, keeps moving, pouring and shaking, delicately placing herb sprigs and citrus slices.
When he brings my second drink, he says, “Cheers,” and turns to wipe down the bar where he’d been working.
A few more customers come in. By the time Dev comes back my way, I’m buzzed.
“You’re sure you’re not an actor? Never been on the stage?” I ask.
“If you must know”—he looks around, like he’s checking to see if anyone’s listening—“at school, I was in You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown. ”
“Which role?”
“Linus.”
“With an American accent?”
“God, no. But the critics said I sucked my thumb with great panache.”
I peer at him, too dramatically, but I can’t help myself. “Why do you live here, really? Are you trying to single-handedly bring down the village’s average age?”
He laughs.
“After my parents got divorced, my mum moved back here and my dad moved to Delhi to find his roots. I left London two years ago, when mum took a turn for the worse.”
“You live with your mother?”
If he says yes, he’s definitely not acting; even Roland Wingford wouldn’t script that detail into a character meant to be the local heartthrob.
“I live in a cottage on her property. Alone.”
“Oh.” I give myself a moment. “I live alone too.” I pick up the cocktail menu and look like I’m studying it, but I don’t register the words.
Should I not have said that? But when I look up, he’s leaning in close, dark hair flopping onto his forehead, and pointing to the menu.
He recommends the Hanky Panky, and I have to make an extra effort to swallow.
“It’s gin, sweet vermouth, and Fernet-Branca,” he says.
I have no idea what that means.
“It’s an Italian brand of fernet, a kind of bitters,” he adds, turning and taking a bottle off the shelf.
I ask what’s in it.
“The recipe has been a secret since it was formulated in 1845, but if I had to guess,” he says, opening a bottle and taking a sniff, “I’d say it has gentian, probably chamomile, maybe Chinese rhubarb, definitely peppermint and saffron, and myrrh.”
“Get out. Like frankincense and myrrh? From the Bible? They’re real?”
He gets that excited look on his face again. “They’re resin extracted from trees. They’re brilliant, really. Chemists in Italy discovered a molecule in myrrh that affects the brain’s opioid receptors and acts like an analgesic.”
“Well, then, make mine a double.”
He looks amused. He mixes the ingredients, strains the blend into a glass with ice, garnishes it with an orange twist. The drink is a luscious red.
“It’s good.”
“And good for you,” he says. “Bitters have cancer-fighting properties.”
“You sound like a scientist.”
“That was the plan. But chemistry led me to distilling, which is a lot more fun.” He folds his arms, leans onto the bar. “So, what do you do when not solving pretend murders?”
It’s hard to think with him so close to me.
“I help people see,” I say.
“You’re a fortune teller?”
I shake my head.
“A psychotherapist?”
I laugh. “That’d be a joke. I tried therapy once in college, and it was kind of a bust.” The only secret I revealed is that I don’t like talking about myself.
“You’re an art history professor?”
“I don’t even like museums,” I whisper.
He’s scrutinizing me like my face will reveal what I am.
I’m not a fan of being interrogated, but I want him to keep guessing wrong so he’ll have to keep looking at me.
He shrugs and says he’s stumped. I’m reluctant to tell him.
I’ve never felt ashamed of my job, but any pride I take from it has been more about keeping a local business afloat than loving my work.
It’s what I do: I live in the same house where I grew up and have worked in the same establishment since high school.
“I’m an optician.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Then you don’t need my services?” For a second, I regret how flirty that sounds, but Dev says, “On the contrary. It’s been ages since I’ve had my eyes checked.”
I lean closer. “Your eyes look very good to me. And that’s a professional opinion.”
“What do I owe you for the diagnosis?”
“No charge.” I explain that I don’t do eye exams, just fit people with glasses. I imagine him in dark frames that would complement his thick brows, warm eyes, beautifully curved lips. “You’d look sexy in geeky glasses,” I say.
“Or geeky in sexy glasses.”
I’m not exactly spinning, but I’m feeling the effects of the Hanky Panky. My hands are on the bar, tantalizingly close to Dev’s forearms. Arms that have been deep in the dirt of his garden, making things grow. Rhubarb. What a funny word. I whisper it. Rhubarb .
Dev asks if I’m okay. I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again.
“Please tell me you’re not drinking on an empty stomach,” he says. The familiarity of the remark reads more like genuine concern than bossiness.
“Does a sausage roll count?”
Dev goes to the end of the bar and comes back with a packet of cashews and a bright yellow bag of something called Scampi Fries.
“These seem like a weird match for fancy cocktails,” I say.
I push the bag away and tell him the nuts will do fine.
He shakes his head and walks off to take someone’s order.
I nibble cashews, watching him. The nuts awaken my appetite.
I reconsider the Scampi Fries, which according to the bright yellow packet are “a cereal snack with a delicious scampi and lemon taste.” I open the bag and take some out.
How about that, they look like Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
Worth a try. Bursts of buttery, lemony, bacony, fishy heaven.
A few more. Why don’t we have these at home?
I polish off the rest of them, tip my head back, and shake the bag to pour the crumbs into my mouth.
When I right myself, I’m face-to-face with Dev.
He looks at me like I’ve done something hilarious.
I hiccup and put my hand to my mouth. Smiling, Dev turns away to get drinks for a couple who’s just settled at the bar.
I figure I’d better leave before I get sloppy, but as I push off my stool, Dev is back.
He takes the towel from his waistband, and for a second I think he’s going to undress.
Clearly, it’s time for me to call it a night.
He asks if he can walk me back to my cottage.
I tell him that would be nice. He folds the towel and places it on the bar.
He calls to a waiter and says he’ll be back in ten.
Outside, the air is cool and damp. The village is eerily quiet.
The whiz of a car passing by. Footsteps in the distance.
It reminds me of a stage set for a murder mystery, which I suppose it is.
The stone houses are close to the street.
Through lace curtains, I see the flickering glow of a television.
A woman reaching for a light switch. The sidewalk is too narrow for both of us, so Dev walks beside me in the street.
Without looking, I can sense him glancing at me.
“Do you often walk inebriated customers home?” I ask.
“No, I wouldn’t say that,” Dev says. “This is a first.” A few more paces. “Do you often get too sloshed to manage on your own?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that.” I’d like to be able to say this is a first, but the year after my grandmother died was rough.
We turn off the main road and up the lane. Dev stops at the gate in front of Wisteria Cottage. I’m surprised that he knows where I’m staying, but then I remember he’s pals with Germaine. Dev opens the gate and waits for me to cross into the garden.
“I should get back,” he says.
“Right.” I turn around.
“Good night,” he says.
We don’t move. We each reach for the gate, and our hands touch. Does he think I did that on purpose? I grasp his hand and give it a firm, businesslike handshake.
“Thank you for the safe delivery,” I say.
He looks amused.
“Thank you for being a valued client,” he says.
He’s still holding my hand.
“Good night,” I say.
“Good night, Cath.”
The way he whispers my name is as intimate as a kiss.