over him just as frankly. “You’re amusing when you flirt, Tony,” she said at last. “But when you’re being serious, you’re downright riveting.”
“That’s too bad. I can’t sustain serious for more than ten minutes.”
“Maybe you should practice. You might get up to fifteen.”
“My record is twelve. Who’s going to kiss who?” he asked.
“Who said there’s going to be kissing?”
“You’re thinking it. I’m thinking it.” His black eyes danced. “Who goes first? I’d hate to bump noses.”
“Why do I need to kiss you? I just took half a roll of film of your mouth as you talked. By the time I’m done cropping and filtering the image, I’ll know everything there is to know about it, without kissing you once.”
“But what a waste that would be.”
“Time in the darkroom is never wasted.”
“That depends entirely on what you’re doing down there.”
“Working. And don’t you dare say that all work and no play makes Jordan a dull girl,” Jordan added. “I hate that saying. Mostly people use it because they want me doing things for them, not for myself.”
“Besides which, they’re wrong. Work doesn’t make you a dull girl. Work makes you an absolutely fascinating girl.” He lifted her hand from the camera and kissed the pad of her index finger, the one that spent most of its time lying against the Leica’s button.
Click, went something in Jordan’s middle.
“Swan boats?” he said eventually. “Or is paddling around on a pond too boring for you, Jordan McBride? I could be persuaded to waive my fee.”
You just broke off a long engagement, a voice inside Jordan chided. You shouldn’t move too fast! But she told that voice to hush, hooking her finger at the neck of Tony’s shirt and tugging him toward her. “Maybe an alternative form of payment?”
A long, lazy, open kiss under the beating sun, Jordan’s fingertips resting against his warm throat, his thumb stroking along the line of her cheekbone. He kissed with slow, shattering thoroughness, like he could do this all day and not get tired of it, like it could take him a year if that was what she wanted. Right now, she wanted.
“Is there anywhere you have to be?” Tony said eventually, kissing along the line of her jaw toward her ear. “Or can we do this all day?”
Oh, yes, please. Jordan cleared her throat, looking down at her watch to give her breath a chance to slow. Dammit, Anneliese would be packing by now for Concord and New York, rushed off her feet. “I promised I’d help at home. Then it’s the darkroom for me—work.”
Tony dropped a last kiss below her ear, then pulled back. “All right.” No arguing that work could wait. Just assent, and that unwavering dark gaze. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ruth’s lesson. Maybe we could go to the movies after.”
“Yes,” Jordan said without hesitation. How pleasant it was just to enjoy a man’s company, his attention, his kisses without feeling the weight of expectation from parents and neighbors. When are you going to settle down, Jordan? When will you two make it official, Jordan?
How pleasant to enjoy a man who was not official, not in the slightest.
Chapter 40
Ian
July 1950
Boston
Ian was surprised how much he enjoyed showing Ruth how to handle her half-size instrument. Perhaps because she was so voracious, so desperate for everything he could show her. Weren’t most children her age playing with dolls rather than begging to play scales? She hung rapt as he took her through positioning and stance, the basics. “Always tune to an A,” Ian said, and Ruth sang a perfect A unprompted. “Very good. Remember that Saint-Saëns I was playing, how that began?” She hummed the opening in G major. Ian glanced at Jordan McBride, sitting behind the shop counter with a cup of tea. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she has perfect pitch, Miss McBride.”
Ruth’s sister beamed. She’d brought the little girl into the shop just as Ian was hanging up his battered fedora on an antique umbrella stand and Tony was flipping the sign around to read Closed. Ian had been feeling a touch impatient with himself for making this offer when there was already so much to do, but Ruth’s face had turned on the violin so eagerly and Jordan McBride’s gaze followed her with such happiness, his misgivings faded into a wry smile. “Take your instrument, and dear God, do not drop it. To destroy a Mayr, even a replica, would be a crime against art.” Jordan puttered about preparing tea in Minton cups,