was as surprised as she was when the words tumbled out of his mouth. Dinner? He hadn't had dinner with a woman in a year. But she was a nice girl, she was doing a good job, and she meant well. And she was looking up at him, pink-cheeked and embarrassed.
“I … you don't have to …”
“I know, but I'd like to.” And this time he meant it. “Are you free?”
“Yes. And I'd love to.”
“Fine. Then I'll pick you up at your place in an hour.” He jotted the address on the back of his notepad and smiled as he hurried back to his office. It was a crazy thing to do, but why the hell not?
He arrived punctually at her apartment an hour later, and he liked what he saw. It was a neat little brownstone with a shiny black door and a large brass knocker. The house was divided into four apartments, and Wendy had the smallest one, but hers boasted a perfectly kept little garden in the back. Her apartment was a wonderful mesh of old and new, antique shop, thrift shop, and good modern; it was all done in soft warm colors with soft lighting, plants, and candles. She seemed to have a great fondness for old silver, all of which she had polished to mirror perfection. He looked around him with pleasure, and sat down to enjoy the hors d'oeuvres she had made. They drank Bloody Marys and exchanged absurdities about the various projects they had worked on. An hour flew by in easy conversation, and Michael hated to break it up and move on to dinner, but he had made reservations at a French restaurant nearby, and they never held latecomers' tables for more than five minutes.
“I'm afraid we'll have to run if we want to make it. Or do we really care?” He was startled to hear her voice his own thoughts, and he wasn't quite sure what the mischief in her eyes meant. It had been so long since he'd been out with anyone that he was afraid to misinterpret and make the wrong move.
“Just exactly what are you thinking, Miss Townsend? Is the thought as outrageous as the look on your face?”
“Worse. I was thinking we could put together a picnic and go watch the boats on the East River.” She looked like a little kid with a naughty idea. There they both were, dressed for dinner, he in a dark suit and she in a black silk dress, and she was proposing a picnic on the East River.
“It sounds terrific. Do you have any peanut butter?”
“Certainly not” She looked offended. “But I make my own pâté, Mr. Hillyard. And I have sourdough bread.” She looked very proud of herself, and Michael was suitably impressed.
“My God. I was thinking more in the line of peanut butter and jelly, or hot dogs.”
“Never.” With a grin, she disappeared into the kitchen, where in ten minutes she concocted the perfect picnic for two. Some leftover ratatouille, the promised pâté, a loaf of sourdough bread, a healthy hunk of Brie, three very ripe pears, some grapes, and a small bottle of wine. “Does that seem like enough?” She looked worried, and he laughed.
“Are you serious? I haven't eaten that well since I was twelve. I live mostly on leftover roast beef sandwiches and whatever my secretary feeds me when I'm not looking. Probably dog food, I never notice.”
“That's great. It's a wonder you don't die of starvation.” He wasn't starving, but he was certainly very thin. “Are we all set?” She looked around the living room and picked up a delicate beige shawl while Michael gathered up the picnic basket. Then they were off. They walked the few blocks to the East River, found a bench, and settled themselves happily to look at the boats. It was a beautiful warm night with a sky full of stars, and the river was well populated with tugs, cabin cruisers, and even a few sailboats from time to time, out for an evening excursion. Mike and Wendy weren't the only ones with spring fever.
“Is this your first job, Wendy?” His mouth was half-full of pâté, and he looked younger than he had in a year.
She nodded happily. “Yes. First one I applied for, too. I was really glad I got it. As soon as I graduated from Parsons I came straight to you.”
“That's nice. It's my first job, too.” He was dying to ask her how she liked