“This. Talking. Socializing. Conversation. Because it is possible, you know, to have a natural flow. Little interruptions and then right back to it.”
“Sorry,” she said, not feeling nearly as self-conscious as she knew she ought. “I haven’t done anything like this—haven’t had anything like this for…I don’t know how long. I don’t remember.”
“Since you’ve had a date?”
Now it was awkward. “A date? No. I mean, sure, that’s been a while too, but I meant a talk about Hedda Krause. New information, new—anything. I’ve exhausted my resources.” A soft laugh bubbled out. “And I’ve exhausted my friends talking about her. You’re new territory.”
“So you’re using me for my …” His voice trailed, and she rushed in to fill it.
“For whatever you have. My friend Arya thinks I’m obsessed.”
“And are you?”
As an answer, she filled him in on everything he might not know about the Menger Hotel. How it was initially a brewery and eventually one of the most prestigious hotels in Texas. Its famous guests—Babe Ruth and Teddy Roosevelt the only names he recognized—its scope and renovation. And, of course, its reputation for ghosts. “But you learned all about that on the tour.”
“So, after talking for five solid minutes, do we conclude that you’re not obsessed?”
His delivery didn’t carry a bit of malice, so she took no insult. “There’s something. Something I don’t know. Which means there’s something nobody knows, because I know everything. You’re going to give me that something.”
He was laughing now, soft and affirming. “So, clearly, this is not a date.”
She was spared a response when the trio of musicians stopped at their table, the tenor singing a mournful song, drawing out the notes like a stream telling a story. She couldn’t understand a word of it and suspected Quin couldn’t either, but the way the singer’s eyes twinkled as he enunciated amore, sweeping his guitar as if binding them together, made it impossible to focus on anything other than the ornate stitching around the brim of his wide hat.
The three took their leave as Crystal approached. She gave the customary warning about the dangerous hotness of the plates and the cheerful invitation to enjoy. A tiny strip of tortilla poked out from under the lid of the warmer. Dini lifted it and bounced the steaming, piping-hot disk on her fingers, cooling it. “Have to be careful you know,” she said. “These hands—they’re my life. But”—she rolled the tortilla and dipped it in the mass of beans and took a bite—“totally worth the pain.”
She chewed, watching Quin use his knife and fork to cut through the near solid mass of cheese-covered egg and meat and peppers then spoon the refried beans and diced potatoes into its midst, giving everything a swirl before taking one forkful that miraculously contained a bit of everything. His eyes closed for a brief second in appreciation. She kept her own open to experience the deliciousness of the moment vicariously.
“I’ve never seen anyone do that before,” she said.
He lifted a questioning brow.
“Mix it all together, like a casserole.”
“I eat everything that way.” He lifted out a tortilla. “And this, by the way, is amazing.”
“But you don’t get to isolate the flavors.” She used her fork to spear a perfect piece of steak. “You’ll never know how amazing this—”
“Let’s talk about Hedda.” He offered it like a distraction. “It’s time now, right?”
She moved to the edge of her seat. “How far did you read?”
“Just as far as you said. The voice at the door.”
“And the conversation after.”
“And the kiss.”
Dini studied her food closely. “Yes. I love that. There’s a sweetness to it. An innocence. And it shows that a kiss doesn’t always have to be from some huge romantic buildup. Sometimes, it’s an acknowledgment of a moment.”
“But most people don’t kiss each other unless there was something building up before, right? And some promise—some hope, I guess—of something to happen after.”
“Something to happen?”
“A relationship, I mean. You don’t think a kiss is a promise for a future?”
“I don’t know, Quin. Have you had a future with every woman you’ve ever kissed?”
He tore off a portion of his tortilla. “No, I have not.” He chewed, trying, she was sure, to hold an air of nonchalance, but something had changed. For the first time since he sat down, he wasn’t looking at her in the way that made it seem he was trying to figure her out. Like the rare equation he couldn’t solve.
“How about we move on to a safer topic?” she said, before he could