Chapter Eight
T here was something going on with Artur; it was the expression on his face when Liv saw him standing in front of the dessert table, that tension in his shoulders she wasn’t ready to admit to herself that she recognized.
What about that dessert table made him so tense?
He’d refused to discuss it when she brought him outside, whatever compelled her to go in search of him to discuss gone completely. He gave her some random answer, but she’d been around enough people to know that he was actually engaging in the kind of ‘I don’t want to talk about this now’ conversation that really meant ‘I hope you forget we had this conversation.’
But whatever it was disappeared when they came back to dessert; the babka took center stage and the Cohens seemed…a bit more relaxed.
Of course once she got him in the car, there was another thing to talk about. Professionalism first. “So,” she said. “How do you think dinner went?”
“Good,” he said as he settled into his seat. “I think the Cohens are ready for what’s going to happen. More importantly, they trust that you and I will be ready to handle tomorrow’s meeting.”
“That’s what I thought too,” she said. “The power of babka.”
She could see his smile just out of the corner of her eye.
“Yes,” he said. “Babka and pure understanding.”
“What do you mean?”
He sighed, and she wondered what was going through his head; did it have to do with his expression and the tension at the dessert table?
“The Cohens were treated horribly by a previous PR person,” he said. “You know it bothers me. They were set up for interviews and conversations, because Tyler’s a superstar, but the person wasn’t sensitive.”
“Right.” Didn’t they have this conversation already?
“Anyway,” he continued, as if she hadn’t said anything, “there’s a difference between following someone’s house rules and understanding them. I brought a parve babka from a meat shop and didn’t ask for sour cream with the blintzes. I didn’t even carry sour cream because…”
“You know the Cohens are sensitive.”
There wasn’t an immediate response, but in the darkness when they were stopped at the light, she heard at soft “Yeah.”
“So the table?”
He laughed, and she wished she could see the expression on his face. “Yeah. Feelings.”
“About the sour cream?” she asked, just wanting to make sure.
“Some people have cigars; others have sour cream. I’d say it was an emotional support condiment, but I think it’s more than that.”
“My sister has pickles,” she finally said, not knowing whether Naomi had gotten over the pickle obsession. “Which is not exactly secret but not exactly open either.”
“Do you have one?”
Not a food one, but she wasn’t going to tell him about her figurines just yet. “I don’t. I just keep track of everybody else’s.”
“And you don’t have a question?”
There was something about the tone, the words…something, that made her not just randomly dismiss it. Surprise that she understood? Surprise that she didn’t react?
It didn’t matter. “If I didn’t question my sister and her need for everything pickle,” she said as clearly and as carefully as she could, “I wouldn’t question your sour cream.”
And when she made the turn into her development, she realized she’d never been so upset to be home in her lifetime.
Thursday was going to be ridiculously busy: strategy session upon strategy session, and then the meeting itself. Yet despite all of that, and how much of a horrible idea it was going to be, she didn’t want the night to end.
As she pulled into her driveway, she had an idea.
“Your jacket,” she said. “I need to get it for you. Do you want to come in while I get it?”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded. “Yes. I’ll even throw in one of those warm drinks I owe you.”
“Then,” he said, “I’ll take you up on it.”
Of course, she had no idea what she was doing, but she was going to figure it out.
*
“Now that you have me here,” Artur said with a laugh, as he walked into the Mayor’s house, “what are you going to do with me?”
Liv snickered. “I’m not going to show you my etchings if that’s what you’re asking.”
“As long as you don’t intend to feed me applesauce, we’re okay…” And then he realized what he was saying and to whom before he stopped. “I’m sorry,” he managed. “I…”
“It’s fine,” she said. “I like the way you sound when you don’t censor yourself…”
She didn’t just stop talking; she covered her mouth with her hand.
“Are you okay?”
“I don’t know what’s going on,” she said. “And…”
“And what?”
She sighed, gesturing toward the couch. “My life is complex, and people don’t usually get it. And because of the…goals I have, I’m even more careful about what I do and who I spend time with. And what that might mean.”
Those were words he understood. “I deal with…scandals regularly,” he said, glad his job was what it was, “so I have an idea of the pressure you might be under. Don’t want you to end up covered in tomatoes.”
The expression on her face fascinated him; she clearly didn’t want to laugh but it was obvious she had no choice.
“But at the same time,” he said, walking toward the couch, stopping in front of her, gesturing toward the space between them, “I’m not sure what’s going on, what’s between us. But I’m sure that whatever this is, it doesn’t happen every day. To me…ever, really.”
The silence that lapsed between them was going to choke him. When someone like her even remotely expressed vulnerability? That was it.
Because that kind of behavior from someone so strong led to protective instincts, which had already reared to life within him.
“So,” she asked. “What do you suggest? How do we deal with this?”
“Blame the starlight; heck, blame the sour cream.”
And when she put her head on his shoulder, he reached his arm around her and pulled her close, ran his fingers through her hair.
It was comfortable, more than comfortable; just like his jacket when she eventually gave it back to him, covered in her scent. It would take every single inch of strength he had to actually put the jacket on and not turn it into an air freshener.