a slow drink of wine. “Man, if you can convince your family of something like that…”
There could be only one way for her to finish that sentence:… then I stand a chance.
I can’t tell if her statements are real or simply rationalizations for not letting me go, but either way I can read in her expression that I’ve let her down—not in terms of the violence, but in helping her find an easy way to discard me tomorrow. It was not the intention of my story, but clearly her look says this: Thanks for nothing.
TWELVE
Just after Herman brings the bill, I start fishing for my cash. I’d love to stiff the weasel, but I can never bring myself to short a server, no matter how incapable or clumsy—was brought up that way, but really gained an appreciation after seeing some of the hardest-working folks in my restaurant get shafted.
As I count my money—I’m finally running low, will have to tap into the wad in my car on our journey home—Melody is trying to explain to me what a Fibonacci number is. I appreciate her effort to highlight a fine mathematician of Italian ancestry (weren’t they all?), but I have absolutely no clue what she’s talking about. Something about how every two preceding numbers become the sum of the following number.
“I see,” I lie.
Only a few days around me and she can read my expressions with accuracy, offers help. “Like, 3, 4, 7, 11, 18, 29.”
“Lotto numbers.”
“Judging by the look on your face, I’m guessing you really weren’t that interested.”
I lean on the table and smile at her. “You couldn’t be more off. You know how cool it is that you understand stuff I could never comprehend? I can barely balance Sylvia’s books. I’m interested in everything about you, in all the pieces I could never grasp by watching you from a distance.” I lean in so I can speak softer. “You’re like a beautiful painting where the colors become richer and deeper and more captivating with every step closer to the canvas.”
She smiles, bites her bottom lip. “That is so not something I would expect to come from the mouth of a Bovaro.” She looks down and away. “But it’s something I will never forget.”
I stand, walk around to pull out her chair for her; she smoothes her dress before standing. I plop the wad of cash on the table and we exit the restaurant, walk out into the cool night air. Her sundress may have been appropriate for the sunlit harbor, but within a few steps she rubs her shoulders with her hands, shivers. In an attempt to offer warmth, I sidle up and put my arms around her from behind.
“We should probably head back to the hotel,” I say.
She nudges me as we walk. “You’re not going to take advantage of me, are you?”
“Actually,” I say, wondering if my body-warming is sending the wrong message, “we should probably get some rest. We have a big day tomorrow.”
She turns around, tries to read my eyes. “You serious?”
I half shrug. “Tomorrow will be a very serious day.”
We walk steadily northward up the harbor, our hotel waiting for us around the bend like Oz at the end of the yellow brick road.
After a long silence, Melody says, “Are you sure you want to do this thing tomorrow? Sure you’ve thought it all the way through?”
I’m finally at the point of assuredness—because no choices remain. The circumstances—everything and everyone coming together at the same time, along with my own twenty-year need to rescue her—could not be more perfectly designed. The only risk is Melody’s safety; I’ll need to be awfully convincing. But the risk of her not coming with me, running about in the fields only to be hunted and mounted on the wall by our crew, is exponentially worse. I consider offering a detailed explanation, but at this point I could only lessen her confidence.
“I have.” She shivers again and I put my hand on her lower back, pull her my way. “C’mon, let’s take a shortcut so we can get you back safe and warm.”
We start walking faster, reach the edge of Harborplace within minutes, jaywalk across the east- and westbound lanes of Pratt Street. I suggest to Melody that we cut through a narrow alley between two skyscrapers to shorten the return walk. We slip down the alley and out of sight, start walk-jogging to the other end, when we hear another set of footsteps behind us. This, in