Chapter 7
“We’re having dinner with Sabine,” Ian said as he rushed into Natalie’s hotel room.
Looking over at him in surprise, Natalie instinctively rose from the seat in front of the mirror. “Uh, we are? Did I forget? Wait. It’s only six.”
Ian all but rolled his eyes as he dithered in the doorway. “Yes, it’s now. I mean, you didn’t forget, and yes, she says we need to go right now.”
“I don’t understand,” Natalie said. “She’s here? Also, why so early?”
With his fidgety hands and the quick way he shifted his weight from foot to foot, Ian resembled a caricature of anxiety and irritation. “She was adamant that we would love the place she wants to take us.”
Natalie scoffed. “And what exactly has changed since the day before yesterday?”
“I don’t know. Is that what you’re wearing?” He wasn’t even looking at her as he spoke but at his phone.
“Well, is it a burger joint or a three-hat restaurant?” Natalie shot back, trying to cover her indignation.
“I don’t know,” he said. “She wouldn’t tell me. It’s a surprise, apparently.”
Dread pooled in her stomach at the words. It wasn’t that she never liked surprises. However, a surprise from a woman who, until approximately thirty-six hours ago, had barely deigned to speak English to her despite being nearly fluent was another story.
She looked down at her faded jeans and running shoes. “No, I’m not. You should change your shirt, too.”
For a brief moment, it appeared that Ian might screw up his face and complain like a teenager, but he restrained himself and nodded curtly before exiting the room.
“Ugh,” Natalie muttered as she quickly sorted through her clean clothes—she hadn’t brought an extensive wardrobe.
She paused to think about what she would wear to an event like this at home.
With an unknown destination, it was risky to dress up too much, but it was better to err on the side of caution.
Her plain black cocktail dress paired with neutral heels would probably work best, but of course, she didn’t have that here.
Eyeing the pile, she smiled.
“That’ll do it,” she said, grabbing a form-fitting burgundy top and dark jean bell bottoms that always looked great with the one pair of kitten heels she managed to fit in her suitcase.
The thirty-minute drive was uncomfortable for more reasons than just the gymnastics needed to fit Natalie into the back seat of the vintage sports car. While that discomfort ended once they arrived at the modest-looking Japanese restaurant, the chilly social environment did not.
The red-painted wooden doorframe featured what seemed to be hand-painted black Japanese characters, some outlined in gold, intertwined with delicately painted cherry blossoms. To Natalie’s delight, the hand-painted details continued indoors.
As they walked through a narrow hallway, she studied the mural on the wall as best she could without slowing them down and noticed that dozens of the same cherry blossoms were scattered across the dark wooden floor.
The lights were low and warm, with each table illuminated by a small collection of lanterns hanging overhead while the tables themselves were set low to the ground. Sabine tried to get Ian to translate for their waiter as they settled in, but he politely replied in French instead.
As soon as the waiter handed over the menus, Ian ducked behind his and didn’t come out for several silent minutes, only reappearing twice to tell the waiter they needed more time. Natalie could barely read the menu, yet it hadn’t taken her long to decide what she wanted.
On the third pass, Natalie and Sabine glanced at each other awkwardly and ordered their drinks. When Ian appeared not to hear the waiter’s question, Natalie ordered him a cola, thinking it was his usual choice.
“So, Ian invited you tonight to be his translator,” Sabine said coolly. “How refreshing.”
Invited her? So she hadn’t been invited by Sabine?
Interesting, Natalie thought. She didn’t want me here.
“I don’t think he likes surprises,” Natalie replied, glancing at him as he read the menu for what must have been the twentieth time.
He didn’t seem to hear her.
Sabine hummed. “And what about you? Do you like to be surprised?”
“Depends on the intent of the person surprising me,” Natalie replied, smiling sweetly.
“True,” Sabine said. “And this place is probably a little more intimate than I would normally surprise you with.”
“Ah…” Natalie shifted in her seat uncomfortably. “Well, I suppose. I mean, it is lovely here, though.”
“Even if we are not on a date, it is an excellent restaurant. Everything is wonderful. I eat here as often as I can. Which, you know, is not so much anymore.”
“Oh?”
Sabine shrugged. “It is all right. My mother does not like the direction the estate has taken in the last few years because of her own reasons, but I do not like it because it makes less money than I would prefer.”
“Oh,” Natalie said again—this time in shock rather than in an attempt to coax more information from Sabine, who smiled.
“Ah, Americans. You do not like to talk about money,” she said.
“Well, not at dinner, as a general rule,” Natalie replied.
Sabine laughed then leaned in, resting her elbows on the table. “I remember now—no interesting topics at the dinner table. No money, no politics, and no sex.”
In that moment, Natalie was relieved the waiter had taken so long with their drinks, because she was almost certain she would have reacted embarrassingly to the comment if she had been sipping on something.
“Well, no. But those can’t be the only topics you find interesting. What about art?”
“All art is political in some way,” Sabine retorted. “Good art, anyway.”
Finally, something she could comment on. “You think so? A still life, beautifully rendered, is political?”
Sabine’s eyes lit up. “That is not art—that is the artist practicing a skill. The art comes when that artist decides to render something with meaning.”
“What if they just really enjoy painting fruit?”
“Then they are a painter,” Sabine said. “Not an artist.”
The waiter returned to their table, cleared his throat, and eased the tension. Ian glanced at the menu, sighed, and then lowered it.
Natalie could tell that, despite her conversational breakthrough with Sabine, it would be a long night.