Night Fires

Gabrielle raised her head and the two women stared at each other, until finally she sighed wearily. ‘All right,’ she said, pushing aside the bows and ribbons she’d scattered on the table, ‘let’s get to it, shall we?’

‘Get to what? I was simply talkin’ about ’

‘Cacti and camels,’ Gabrielle said drily, ‘yes, I know.’ Her green eyes fixed on her assistant. ‘Is that what you think I am, Alma? A cactus?’

Alma’s cheeks flushed. ‘I think it’s what you pretend to be—you know, all thorns and toughness on the outside.’ She took a breath. ‘But what I said before is true, too. Even a cactus needs care if it’s goin’ to flower.’

Gabrielle sighed and wiped her hands on her smock. ‘OK, cacti need care and…’

Alma put her elbows on the table and propped her face in her hands. ‘And for starters, you look awful.’

‘Thank you. That’s always nice to hear.’

‘You have dark circles under your eyes,’ Alma said with dogged determination.

Gabrielle looked away. ‘I didn’t sleep well last night.’

‘And each time that phone rings, you look at it as if you’re afraid it’s going to bite you.’

‘That’s not so. I’m just hoping we don’t get many more orders. I’m pleased we’ve had so many, but with mardi gras coming on and all these private balls…’

‘It’s the calls from James you’re worried about. Each time I tell you it’s him, you get this panicked look on your face and you shake your head.’

‘I haven’t time for private calls. These orders…’

‘Gaby, I wasn’t born yesterday. How can you refuse to take his calls when you care for him?’

‘Care for him?’ Gabrielle gave a forced laugh. ‘I barely know him.’

‘Well, you could remedy that easily enough.’

‘Alma.’ Gabrielle’s voice was caustic. ‘You’re making more out of this than it deserves. James Forrester is in New Orleans on a visit—he’ll be gone in a few days, but I’ll still be here and so will this shop. I suggest we put our efforts into it and not into daydreams about romance with a stranger.’

‘How many days?’

Gabrielle looked at her friend blankly. ‘How many days what?’

Alma sighed. ‘You said he’d be gone in a few days and I just wondered how many? Did he say last night?’

Gabrielle shook her head. ‘What does it matter? Soon he’ll go back to wherever he came from.’’

‘Where’s that?’ Alma shook her head and sighed at the puzzled expression on her employer’s face. ‘Where does he come from? Did he say?’

‘No. Actually, we didn’t talk about him at all.’

‘What did you talk about, then?’

Gabrielle looked at her. ‘Nothing very special. Just— just things. Music. Politics. This and that.’

‘Dull stuff, hmm? Well, no wonder you don’t want to see the man again.’

‘It wasn’t dull at all,’ Gabrielle said quickly. ‘I really enjoyed it. We…’ The sly grin on Alma’s face brought her to a stumbling halt. ‘I don’t know what that’s supposed to prove. I never claimed we didn’t have a pleasant evening. But…’

‘But what?’ Alma made a face. ‘Don’t tell me. He eats with his hands.’

‘No, of course he doesn’t.’

‘You got all dressed up and he took you to McDonald’s.’

Gabrielle smiled. ‘Stop being silly.’

‘Where did he take you, then? Some place romantic, I hope.’

‘Actually, we ate in. James brought dinner with him.’

Alma’s eyebrows rose. ‘I didn’t know Antoine’s catered.’

Gabrielle shook her head. ‘He brought steak and all the trimmings. Even wine. And he did all the cooking.’ Her eyes darkened as she remembered. ‘We ate in front of the fireplace. It was—it was…’

‘What? Awful? Did he burn the steak?’

Gabrielle laughed. ‘No.’

‘Then what’s the problem? I know—you’re a closet health nut. The foolish man brought beef and the evil fermented grape, and you’d have preferred tofu and goat’s milk.’

Again, laughter bubbled in Gabrielle’s throat. ‘In fact, he chose all my favourite things. It was all…’ Her laughter faded and she looked at Alma. ‘You didn’t tell him anything, did you? I mean, did he ask you what I liked?’

The expression on Alma’s face was answer enough. ‘Me? I never had two minutes alone with the man.’ She smiled. ‘Sounds like a perfect date so far. What did you do after dinner? Did you go out to a film or somethin’?’

‘I told you, we sat and talked. James built a fire and we had coffee…’

Her voice drifted away. Alma cleared her throat in the silence.

‘Well,’ she said carefully, ‘that certainly explains why you don’t want to see him again. After all, there’s just so much a woman can take. Who’d want to spend an evenin’ like that too often? You might begin to like it, and then what would you do?’

Gabrielle sighed deeply. ‘All right, I admit it—I had a good time.’

Alma’s eyes sought hers. ‘Which is why you don’t want to talk to him today,’ she said with dry understatement.

Gabrielle looked at her.. She knew what was behind Alma’s taunt. Her assistant had once gently described her as a shy violet, hiding from the real world in the safety of a dark wood.

If only it were that simple, she thought.

The shrill ring of the telephone made her start. Both women looked at the instrument and then at each other.

‘Well?’ Alma’s voice was soft. ‘Will you answer it, or are we back to playin’ games?’

Gabrielle stared at the phone again and then she turned away. ‘You get it,’ she said briskly. ‘I’m going to see if we have any more bud vases in the front cupboard.’

‘Gaby ’

‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

‘Gaby—if it’s James callin’…’

Gabrielle paused in the doorway. ‘Tell him—tell him…’ She swallowed. ‘Tell him I’m out.’

The beaded curtain clattered as she moved through it into the shop’s showroom. Alma’s voice droned softly behind her, and she found herself straining to hear what her assistant was saying. The realisation that she was doing that was disquieting.

What did it matter if it was James or not? He’d called half a dozen times this morning, and he’d probably call that many times this afternoon, and she still wasn’t about to change her mind.

She wasn’t going to take his calls, and she certainly wasn’t going to see him again. Last night had been the first and last date she and James Forrester would ever have.

Gabrielle walked to the front window and looked out. It had rained all through the night and it was still raining, although Alma kept promising that the sun would break through the clouds soon.

‘It’s always nice for mardi gras,’ she’d said with conviction as Gabrielle stood dripping just inside the door that morning.

Not that it would matter much. Rain or no, the elaborate balls that preceded Shrove Tuesday would go on, and the little shop had already taken more orders th

an she’d dreamed possible. Business would be fine, no matter what the weather.

As for her own state of mind—she sighed and turned away from the window. The weather couldn’t affect that at all. Her melancholy mood hadn’t come from grey skies. It was a mood of the heart, not of the barometer.

A flash of red in the refrigerated case caught her eye. Red roses, and the memory of yesterday morning when James had bought all six dozen in the shop, brought a bittersweet smile to her mouth. Bringing her that little bouquet instead of the roses had only been one of an endless series of surprises.

During the sleepless night, she’d remembered another man who’d surprised her once. She’d been coming out of her father’s hospital room, swaying with exhaustion, and a man in a white coat had asked, compassionately, if she’d like to have a cup of tea. It had been months since anyone had offered her anything without wanting something in exchange, and she’d stopped and stared at him.

‘It will do you good, Miss Chiari,’ he’d said, and she’d let him lead her halfway to the cafeteria before she’d spotted the tape recorder in his pocket and realised he was a reporter whose concept of compassion only involved himself.

The thought that James was a reporter had occurred to her during the long night. But she’d dismissed it quickly. There was a hardness about him, a sense of self that told her he could never spend his time scurrying after meaningless stories. Besides, he hadn’t tried to steer the conversation to New York or Tony Vitale, or anything remotely connected with the life she’d left behind.

She’d stared into the darkness of her bedroom, trying to make sense of the past few days. Finally, she’d pushed aside the tangle of sweaty blankets, slipped on her robe and padded down to the kitchen, thinking that perhaps a glass of warm milk would help.

Had James’s entry into her life really been accidental? Her tired brain replayed the incident in the alley over and over again. And he seemed to know so much about her—was that coincidence, too, or was there some darker reason?

She knew those were questions no woman in her right mind would ask. Who wouldn’t want to meet a handsome, exciting man who first saved your life and then seemed to anticipate your every desire?