Chapter 12 #2
The tables were covered in white cloths; rows of forks, spoons, and knives spread like petals on either side of a series of plates stacked one on top of the other; largest on the bottom, smallest on the top.
A delicately folded linen napkin, which looked like a swan, spilled out of a water glass to the right of the plates.
I was so distracted by the ambiance that I didn’t notice until I returned to the table that Quinn was sitting alone. I glanced around the small restaurant and saw Jon’s retreating form heading out the door. Without thinking, I followed him and called his name.
He paused. He turned slowly and stepped back into the bistro. His eyes moved beyond me to where Quinn sat, and then he met my gaze again. His expression, usually so open and unguarded, was remote and sullen.
“What’s going on, Jon? Where are you going?”
He huffed, and through clenched teeth, he said, “I’m leaving.”
“Why?”
Jon’s green eyes looked into mine searchingly, and his expression seemed to soften.
He shifted on his feet and took one of my hands in his.
“Listen, Janie, no matter what he says, I want you to know that I love you. Just promise me that you’ll call me tomorrow; no matter what, you’ll call me tomorrow and we’ll talk. ”
I shook my head, befuddled. “Do you two know each other?”
“No. We’ve never met.”
“What did you two talk about?”
“It was nothing…”
“Then why are you leaving?”
He squeezed my hand. “Just promise me, please?”
I shrugged. “Fine, fine—I promise. I’ll call you tomorrow. This is too bizarre.”
He smiled tightly in a way that didn’t reach his eyes, and released my hand. Swiftly, in one fluid motion, Jon leaned forward and kissed my cheek then turned and left. I stared at the door for several minutes.
When I turned around, I found Quinn watching me.
His expression was inscrutable, as always; and, as typical, his cerulean eyes seemed to be thinly masking a mischievous flicker.
I walked back to the booth that lined the wall and my pace decelerated to a slow shuffle as I approached.
I stared at him, perplexed, and then I slid into the booth opposite his chair.
As though nothing were amiss, he motioned to the martini glass in front of me. “I ordered you a lemon drop.”
My attention shifted to the whiskey-colored liquid in front of him and the glass in front of me. There were only two glasses.
I frowned.
I glared at Quinn, hoping to convey the intensity of my suspicion. “What did you and Jon talk about? Why did he leave?”
Quinn didn’t even have enough decency to look ashamed. Instead he watched me with his up-to-no-good eyes and took a long swallow of his whiskey before responding. “You should ask him.”
“I did. He insisted it was nothing.” My tone was flat and laced with the disbelief I felt.
Quinn shrugged. “Then it must have been nothing…” he said, his mouth pulled to the side in a barely-there smile, “…unless Jon was lying.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned back to contemplate him and his dissatisfactory answer. He met my gaze steadily. At length I said, “You’re not being very nice.”
“What have I done that’s not nice?”
“I think you’re being kind of sneaky. And that’s why I think you’re not being nice.”
His smile faded. “Sneaky isn’t on your four-quadrant scatter-plot graph personality matrix.”
My eyes narrowed further. “Maybe it should be. Maybe I should add honesty as an axis and make it a 3-D model.”
“Do you think I’m being dishonest?” His voice was level, but his eyes seemed to flare with challenge.
“No, I think you’re being technically honest, which is almost worse.”
All tangible expression left his features, and his steady stare burned with intensity.
I felt my cheeks redden under his scrutiny but maintained eye contact even when my heart began to race and a twisting nervousness wrestled in my chest. After a prolonged silence, he stood from his chair; his towering form moved with panther-like ease and adroit grace.
Quinn slid in next to me. He placed his arm behind me on the back of the booth, and his gaze moved between my neck, lips, and eyes.
For a moment, I thought he was going to try to kiss me. Instead, he leaned close and whispered, “What do you want to know?”
It took a moment for me to form thoughts. Words followed sometime after. “I want to know what you said to Jon when I went to the bathroom.”
Quinn eyed me speculatively then sighed. “We did talk. And what I said is likely the reason he left. I’m not trying to be evasive, but it’s not my secret to tell.”
“What do you mean it’s not your secret to tell?”
“It means that Jon has something he should tell you. If you want to know what it is, then you should ask him.”
“And you’re not going to tell me what it is?”
He shook his head; his gaze was steady and his voice was matter-of-fact. “No. It’s not my place.”
I chewed on my top lip, scrutinizing him, and finally decided I believed him. “Fine,” I said with decisiveness. “Thank you for being honest.”
He nodded once. “You’re welcome. Now I get to ask a question.”
I couldn’t stop myself from rolling my eyes. “Are we playing this game again?”
His smile was immediate and dazzling. “I like this game, and I definitely like playing it with you.”
Before he could follow through with his question, we were interrupted by the waiter asking if we were ready to order.
Quinn seemed to pull his attention from me with reluctance, but he kept his arm along the booth at my back.
I picked up the menu to make a hurried selection, but for the second time in our short acquaintance, Quinn did that thing you see in movies but don’t ever experience in real life: Without asking for my opinion, he ordered for me.
“We will start with the tarte aux champignons and two salade au chevrotin. The lady will have Gigot D′Agneau au jus et Romarin, and I’ll have Steak Grillé au Poivre, medium. We’ll also take a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape, the 2005 Cuvee.”
The waiter bowed slightly at the waist as Quinn plucked the menu from my hand and passed it to him. The waiter gave us a tight smile and said, “Very good, sir,” and left.
Quinn turned his body back to me and bestowed on me his slow, sexy smile. It did strange things to my insides, like making them become a boneless mass of warm giddiness. My brain also felt hazy. I didn’t feel the annoyance at his ordering for me that I should have.
Before he could follow through with his question, I asked one of my own. “Why are you always keeping score?” Wanting to do something with my hands, I pulled my napkin out of the glass; the swan dissolved into a plain, white, linen rectangle. I placed it on my lap.
His voice was low when he spoke; his eyes caressed my lips.
“In every relationship or interaction there are winners and losers. It doesn’t matter if it’s business or family or…
” he paused for just a fraction of a second, his eyes burning a brighter blue, “…or involvement with the opposite sex. Someone always wins; someone always loses. I don’t like to lose. ”
His words were somewhat sobering. My insides congealed and my brain managed to catapult over the fog.
“That’s an interesting theory.” And it was.
It was an interesting theory. I saw merit in it, but I also felt it was fundamentally flawed.
“And, I suppose if the relationship is between two people who are keeping score, then you are right—there will be a winner and a loser. However, if no one is keeping score, then no one loses.”
His eyes narrowed at me briefly, and then he leaned forward and rested one forearm along the table.
“Just because you don’t keep score doesn’t mean one person isn’t functioning at a deficit in the relationship, taking more than giving.
” He reached across the table and grabbed his abandoned whiskey glass.
“There were a lot of negatives in that sentence, ‘don’t, doesn’t, isn’t.’ Maybe that’s your problem.”
“My problem?” His eyes narrowed further.
“Yes, your problem. Maybe you’re focused too much on the negative invoices on the relationship spreadsheet.” I laughed. “My problem is that I miss the obvious; your problem is that you pay too much attention to it.”
He seemed to smile in spite of himself; a reluctant laugh passed his lips. His gaze was unguarded and appraising as he said, “You might be on to something.” He pulled at his bottom lip with his thumb and forefinger distractedly, continuing his open assessment of me, his smile widening.
I basked in the warmth of his approving gaze before I poked him.
“So, what led you to this pessimistic perspective? Do your parents call you all the time wanting you to babysit their cat or install gutters on their house? I helped my dad install gutters on our house when I was sixteen. It was truly awful.”
An expression that could only be described as grim melancholy cast a shadow over Quinn’s face. He swallowed with effort then said, “I don’t talk to my parents. I haven’t talked to them since my brother died.”
My own smile faded immediately, and I stared at him for a long moment.
I fiddled with my napkin then set it down and clasped my hands in my lap.
“Oh. Well…” I nodded, feeling like I needed to offer something in return, just in case he was keeping score on personal factoids.
“I talked to my dad a few weeks ago when I lost my job. We don’t really talk much, but he’s a good guy.
He forwards emails to me that he receives from others, but he never writes anything just to me. I don’t talk to either of my sisters.”
He gave me a sideways glance. “Why not?”
“We don’t really have anything in common, and their career choices make it difficult to maintain a meaningful relationship with them.”
“Both my father and my brother were police officers in Boston. They were not too happy with my choice of career.”
“What? A security guard or consultant or whatever you are?”