angle, the woman’s request felt like a great break in the search. When Whitaker had asked Laura if she was making progress, she said, “I can’t make any promises right now.”
After the instructor moved to the next couple, Claire asked, “How can someone who speaks fluent Spanish, among several other languages, possess no dancing skills whatsoever?”
Whitaker took no offense and said with a smile, “That’s like saying just because you can speak Russian you can dance The Nutcracker.”
“I would pay a lot of money to see you dance The Nutcracker. Even more money to see you in a leotard.” The image drew a smile.
“Baby steps, Claire. Baby steps.”
As the next track came on and the Latin beat set the pace, she asked, “Well, shall we make an attempt?”
Whitaker moved into ready position, his hands in the air, waiting for her. “Let’s do this.”
After attending for several months now, she was starting to get the hang of the dance. She counted for him, encouraging him along. “Forward, two, three. Back, two, three. There you go, not as bad as I thought.”
“Oh, c’mon. Cubans everywhere are cringing.”
“That’s not true,” Claire assured him. “I can almost see the skyline of Havana in your eyes.”
He smiled and kissed her. “Look who should be the writer.”
After the class, Claire, Whitaker, and Didi rode together to one of Claire’s favorite restaurants, Chief’s Creole Café, in an area known as the “Deuces” on Twenty-Second Street. During segregation, this part of town was the bustling Main Street for the black community, and just up the road the Manhattan Casino had hosted some of the most important names in show business, including Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, Nat King Cole, and James Brown. Now this neighborhood was making a comeback.
They walked past the giant mural of Louis and his trumpet on the side of the restaurant and walked through the open gates. Mr. B, one of the owners, chatted them up for a while and then sat them outside under the pergola. A bottle of Crystal Hot Sauce graced every table.
Sipping on sweet tea, they snacked on the complimentary fried okra, chatted casually, and perused the menu of New Orleans fare. They ordered the jambalaya, the crawfish étouffée, a shrimp po’boy, and beignets to share.
Claire popped an okra into her mouth. “So what’s new with you, Didi? I’m sorry I’ve been distant.” Claire hadn’t called her friend in more than a week.
“Oh, I get it. You two have been busy. And clearly developing a little thing.”
Blushing, Claire took Whitaker’s hand, and they met eyes. The guilt she’d felt when they’d first kissed had all but gone away, and in its stead she found such wonderful comfort in knowing they had each other. “This man has certainly gotten my attention.”
Whitaker leaned over to kiss her. “And you mine.”
Didi clapped her hands together. “Oh, how happy this makes me.”
Claire broke away from their kiss and turned to Didi. “So where’s your Spanish lover?”
“Long gone. There’s just too many men in the world. I can’t seem to stop.”
“You broke his heart?”
“I’m sorry to say that I ripped his heart out and crumbled it in my hands, if I’m being honest.” She dropped her head. “He’s still calling me.”
Claire couldn’t imagine living Didi’s roller-coaster life, especially when it came to dating and men. She turned to the only man she needed. “Imagine a younger, better-looking Antonio Banderas. That’s whose heart she broke.”
Whitaker inclined his head. “I’m not sure anyone is better looking than Antonio Banderas.”
Didi threw her hands up in the air. “Oh, he was great, but there are plenty more. Who wants Spanish food every night? I love jamón as much as the next girl, but sometimes I’m craving doner kebab . . . or wiener schnitzel, sometimes beef bourguignon.”
Whitaker and Claire died laughing. More power to Didi if that was her thing.
Mr. B sat another party nearby as Didi added with lower volume, “And sometimes, a good-old-fashioned hamburger.”
“That’s a lot of protein,” Claire said, wiping her eyes.
Didi touched her chest and batted her eyelashes.
Whitaker measured an inch with his thumb and forefinger. “And sometimes you crave crawfish and shrimp.”
Didi shook her head amid the laughter. “You’re the one that ordered the shrimp. I’m a lobster girl.” She held her two hands out, well past shoulder’s distance.
Claire and Whitaker laughed to tears as Didi regaled them with stories of chasing men around the globe. In the middle of Didi’s story about a date with a Hollywood celebrity, Claire noticed Whitaker’s muted phone light