aware of the ten thousand sensations of a new-made being: the pressure of the soles of his feet against the concrete, the pull of the briefcase handle on his fingers, a cinnamon-sugar scent from a nearby bakery, faint skritching of scaled toes on brick as a pigeon strutted by, the balm of the sun’s warmth against the back of his hand.
He stepped off the curb—off the edge of the known world—and moved toward her. His brother Danny could have stopped him—would have stopped him—but Danny wasn’t there. Watching himself, an awestruck spectator of his own destruction, he crossed the brick lane, drifted up the steps into the garden, and approached the bench where she sat.
A moment passed. Then she looked up to see who had intruded upon her solitude. Her eyes were of moss and lichen, vines over old wood, slow streams in autumn, rich with tannin and fallen leaves.
“Would you join me for tea?” he heard himself say in a level voice. “It’s a little past time, I know.” He spoke as if he’d been born in the century in which he worked every day—the eighteen hundreds when people had an elevated sense of the importance of human intercourse. It should have struck him as absurd, but it didn’t.
In the cool, running depths of her eyes, thoughts flickered near the surface, then retreated again to the shadows. “My name is Polly,” she said with a smile and a lilting drawl that could put mint in juleps. “I am a woman of a certain age, divorced, and with two daughters, seven and nine; I am in the middle of a good book, so, if you’re a shallow fiddling kind of a fellah, I have no time for you.”
“I’m not that kind of fellow,” Marshall said gravely.
She laughed, and in his mind, the sound built playgrounds for children, church steeples for bells, and walls with clear, cold, cascading fountains.
“In that case I would simply love to have a cup of tea with you.”
9
Polly told Marshall Marchand the story of her life—the G-rated version. With the sex and violence edited out, it was a charming fairytale: how a lost child of fifteen had come to Jackson Square, how a gypsy had foreseen a glittering future for her, and how that future had come to pass.
Marshall was captivated as she’d meant him to be. She smiled and leaned in, her head tilted slightly, bangs brushing the thick, dark lashes. “Now tell me,” she said sweetly, “how is it that you have come to be a man old enough to have silver at his temples, hold a partnership in a well-regarded firm, and yet are not married?”
Marshall started visibly.
“You don’t beat around the bush do you?” He laughed and set his cup back in its saucer.
“Well, I do,” Polly drawled, “but only when I have no interest regarding what is in that bush.” She was flirting; she could feel the magnetism between them as easily as she could see the sparkle of the candlelight on the wine. It had been a while since she enjoyed such a physical awareness of a man.
“Am I to have no secrets?”
“No, darlin’, not a one. If a man wants to keep secrets, he must never let a woman close. We are as curious cats with secrets. We simply cannot leave them alone.”
He hid the shape of his mouth with his cup. For an unsettling moment, she couldn’t tell if he hid a smile or a grimace of fear.
“No secrets,” he said, and the warmth of his voice reassured her she was not losing her touch. “Gad, why haven’t I ever married? I don’t think about it much. My work, maybe? I haven’t had a lot of time to find Ms. Right. I like my solitude. I live with my brother. Danny and I were orphaned as kids and have pretty much just each other for family.”
He shook his head in confusion, and Polly almost believed he actually hadn’t given matrimony a good deal of thought. That, or he was making up the story as he went along and hadn’t decided how it was going to end. “Obviously, I’m not the introspective type.”
“You live with your
He stepped off the curb—off the edge of the known world—and moved toward her. His brother Danny could have stopped him—would have stopped him—but Danny wasn’t there. Watching himself, an awestruck spectator of his own destruction, he crossed the brick lane, drifted up the steps into the garden, and approached the bench where she sat.
A moment passed. Then she looked up to see who had intruded upon her solitude. Her eyes were of moss and lichen, vines over old wood, slow streams in autumn, rich with tannin and fallen leaves.
“Would you join me for tea?” he heard himself say in a level voice. “It’s a little past time, I know.” He spoke as if he’d been born in the century in which he worked every day—the eighteen hundreds when people had an elevated sense of the importance of human intercourse. It should have struck him as absurd, but it didn’t.
In the cool, running depths of her eyes, thoughts flickered near the surface, then retreated again to the shadows. “My name is Polly,” she said with a smile and a lilting drawl that could put mint in juleps. “I am a woman of a certain age, divorced, and with two daughters, seven and nine; I am in the middle of a good book, so, if you’re a shallow fiddling kind of a fellah, I have no time for you.”
“I’m not that kind of fellow,” Marshall said gravely.
She laughed, and in his mind, the sound built playgrounds for children, church steeples for bells, and walls with clear, cold, cascading fountains.
“In that case I would simply love to have a cup of tea with you.”
9
Polly told Marshall Marchand the story of her life—the G-rated version. With the sex and violence edited out, it was a charming fairytale: how a lost child of fifteen had come to Jackson Square, how a gypsy had foreseen a glittering future for her, and how that future had come to pass.
Marshall was captivated as she’d meant him to be. She smiled and leaned in, her head tilted slightly, bangs brushing the thick, dark lashes. “Now tell me,” she said sweetly, “how is it that you have come to be a man old enough to have silver at his temples, hold a partnership in a well-regarded firm, and yet are not married?”
Marshall started visibly.
“You don’t beat around the bush do you?” He laughed and set his cup back in its saucer.
“Well, I do,” Polly drawled, “but only when I have no interest regarding what is in that bush.” She was flirting; she could feel the magnetism between them as easily as she could see the sparkle of the candlelight on the wine. It had been a while since she enjoyed such a physical awareness of a man.
“Am I to have no secrets?”
“No, darlin’, not a one. If a man wants to keep secrets, he must never let a woman close. We are as curious cats with secrets. We simply cannot leave them alone.”
He hid the shape of his mouth with his cup. For an unsettling moment, she couldn’t tell if he hid a smile or a grimace of fear.
“No secrets,” he said, and the warmth of his voice reassured her she was not losing her touch. “Gad, why haven’t I ever married? I don’t think about it much. My work, maybe? I haven’t had a lot of time to find Ms. Right. I like my solitude. I live with my brother. Danny and I were orphaned as kids and have pretty much just each other for family.”
He shook his head in confusion, and Polly almost believed he actually hadn’t given matrimony a good deal of thought. That, or he was making up the story as he went along and hadn’t decided how it was going to end. “Obviously, I’m not the introspective type.”
“You live with your
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