mimicked the look of old-fashioned seams on a stocking stretching from just above her ankle to a midpoint on her thigh. Were the dress any shorter, it would also reveal the deep, ragged scar from her surgery following the accident that killed her parents. That she wasn’t quite ready to reveal.
She took special time with her makeup too, creating a perfect wing tip with her black eyeliner, a pale shadow behind it. She’d darken her lips after lunch; now she dabbed on a concoction to plump them up a bit and enhance their natural color. She stepped back, looking at herself in the freestanding vintage gilded mirror, overall pleased with every angle. The only lingering question: her hair.
Yesterday she had decided to ditch the confetti for something…pretty. She’d come out with something…lavender, though not solidly so, just hints, like sprigs of lilac. Wide rollers softened her curls, and she knew without a doubt someone today would tell her she looked like Marilyn Monroe.
She wore a single pair of simple silver hoops in her ears, leaving the other piercings empty, save for the ever-present chip in her cartilage. For her first-finger, right-hand ring—the one she’d wear as a distraction from her trickster hands—she chose the one handed down to her by her mother, from her grandfather: a collection of seed pearls encrusted around a citrine stone, shaped into a heart, with a crown of tiny diamonds sitting atop. It was her favorite piece, and her most valuable—sentimentally anyway. When she’d taken it to a jeweler to have it fashioned from a brooch to a ring, she learned that its monetary value had been greatly exaggerated through the years.
Quin was waiting for her at the Menger valet parking, as they’d agreed, wearing a light sport coat with his jeans and T-shirt. He was studying his phone, and rather than honking for his attention, she opened the passenger window and called, “Hey, Professor!”
He grinned even before he looked up and closed out his phone while making an easy lope to her car. He filled the space with presence and scent, bringing an anxious frisson along her skin. The only other person ever to occupy that seat was Arya, and then only on the rare circumstance that she couldn’t drive them to their girls’ day escape.
“I’m warning you now,” she said once he’d clicked himself in, “I am an unconfident driver. I did online training and all my practice driving with Arya. So I’m going to have to ask you not to talk to me while I’m driving us to Burger Boy.”
“Burger Boy?”
She eased onto the street, holding a hand up to hush him. “Yes. A San Antonio icon. I hope you skipped breakfast.”
“Can I at least say that your hair looks cool?”
“Yes.” She popped on her blinker and held her breath as she eased into the next lane. “But nothing else starting now.”
As always after maneuvering through city traffic, Dini felt an adrenaline drop as soon as she put the car safely in PARK. She turned to give a sheepish grin. “Sorry. Driving is a necessary evil, but I hate it.”
“I’m too hungry to talk anyway.”
“Good.” She punched the ignition switch and spoke as they were exiting the car. “I know it’s an awkward time—too late for breakfast, too early for lunch, but I don’t want to eat at the event.”
Quin didn’t reply. Instead, he stood, fingers raked in his hair, staring. “You look amazing.”
She ran a hand over her hip, smoothing the skirt, adjusting the belt, and said, “Thank you,” before donning a light denim jacket. The dining room was tiny, so they’d be eating outside.
“Like a space-age Marilyn Monroe.”
“Exactly what I was going for.”
He held the glass door open and touched the small of her back as she walked in, a gesture now almost familiar. Still, the imprint of it stayed while she ordered for them at the counter, insisting on paying despite his protest. Then the same process as they walked outside to wait for their food. His glasses transitioned to dark lenses, and she fished her sunglasses out of her bag.
“Now,” he said, taking a seat on the bench opposite, “can you tell me exactly where we’re going?”
“It’s a Red Hat club. Literally a group of older women who get together as a social club. They wear purple shirts and red hats. I visited their group about a year ago to give a talk about Hedda. They liked me. Asked me back.”