Meet Me in Paris

“Which she didn’t.”

“Nope.”

She set the photo carefully down in the area of the bookcase they’d set aside for display items. “Are your parents…”

“Alive and kicking. Both retired, still living in the house I grew up in, a few miles outside of Atlanta. Been there ever since, until now.”

“You’re a southern boy.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thought I heard something in your voice.”

“Can’t shake it. Wouldn’t want to.”

She rummaged in the crate and withdrew a larger, professionally framed photo. He was all grown up, embracing a beautiful, long-limbed woman on a boat. One arm was around her waist, the other cradled her cheek as she leaned against him. The woman had striking, exotic features, perfect Brazil nut skin and cheekbones sharp enough to draw blood. Her mouth was like a firm fruit, and her makeup looked as if it had been airbrushed on by a fine artist. She bore herself with the poise and elegance of royalty. Kendra felt the slightest chill ripple through her. Trey’s wife, no doubt. She peered closer. Trey was relaxed, happy, smiling, gray eyes full of warmth, humor and life. His lips were parted, teeth white, Adam’s apple faintly visible past the button-down shirt he wore. She almost couldn’t recognize him as the same man.

“My wife died six years ago. Her name was Ashia. She was from Somalia.” Somehow, he’d managed to stand behind her without her realizing he’d moved. Watching her watch the picture. In her embarrassment, she almost dropped it. “I didn’t mean…”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he took the photo from her fingers and placed it tenderly on his desk. When she glanced up several moments later, he was still looking at it. She couldn’t read his face. She went back to work, feeling as though she intruded. Trey left the photo alone and joined her.

The next few boxes were full of model airplanes and ships. “Wonders never cease,” she murmured.

He laughed. “A passion I haven’t shaken from boyhood. I used to love making model planes and aircraft. These were modeled after authentic wartime craft.”

“You made these? From scratch? No kits?”

“Some of the older ones are from kits. Look, this is a German Dornier Do-17. See the fat snub nose? They called it the Flying Pencil. I made it when I was thirteen or so. It’s one of my personal favorites.” He took up a tiny one emblazoned with a rising sun. “This one’s Japanese. A Mitsubishi A5-M. Very fast. I made hundreds of kit models before I got bored. Drove my mother crazy.”

“I’ll bet.” She was warmed by the pride in his voice, and enchanted by the glimpse he was allowing her into the boy he had been.

“My room was so full of models I could barely move about. We used to have ring-down battles twice a year or so. She used to make me throw half of them out. Wasn’t prepared to live in a junkyard, she said.”

“Pity. If you’d saved them you could have made a fortune selling them alone.”

“I’d sooner sell my own soul,” he countered. “You can imagine what it was like when I started making my own out of whatever bits and pieces I could drag home. My mother’s junkyard metaphor took on a whole ’nother dimension.”

She found herself chuckling with him. When the box they were working on was empty, she lifted the lid off another, and unpacked a heavy, wrapped object. Peeling away the layers of bubble wrap, she discovered a ship in a bottle. A rather old ship in a bottle. The shape, the feel of it, transported her back in time. She held it up to the sunlight. The ship inside was exquisite, its sails fully raised, even slightly curved, as though billowing in a gentle breeze. She didn’t know the first thing about models, but she could see it was handcrafted. “This one’s a beauty. It looks old. Where’d you get it?”

He was on her like a pouncing cat, snatching it from her hands. “Don’t touch that.” She watched openmouthed as he picked up a new piece of cheesecloth and rubbed it down, as though her fingerprints would contaminate it. There was a wooden stand in the box where she’d found the ship. He pulled that out, dusted it off just as carefully and placed the ship upon it on the main shelf, at the center of his collection.

She didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to react, feeling awkward and ashamed, but still unable to determine the exact nature of her crime. “I’m sorry. I…”

He wouldn’t even look at her. “Maybe we should break for lunch.” Not waiting for her response, he threw the cheesecloth aside and walked off. She followed, not bothering to hide her confusion. What had she done? What had she said?

As the wadding on the kitchen chairs hadn’t been removed yet, they ate Chinese take-out, cross-legged on the floor. Throughout the meal, and after, Trey tried to act as if nothing had happened, but the camaraderie of the morning was broken. She was glad when the afternoon was over. At five o’ clock he called it a day, and walked her to the door.

He handed her a plain white envelope, and she knew without having to open it what it held: half her day’s wages. She took it, face and neck hot with embarrassment over all it implied. She shoved it into her jeans pocket, out of sight.

“Thank you,” he told her. “You were a big help.”

She nodded wordlessly. They stood there on the doorstep facing each other, Trey appearing even taller because he was one step above. It was as awkward as that charged moment at the end of a blind date when both parties wait for someone to say or do something to break the tension…except she wasn’t waiting on a kiss, she was waiting on an explanation—or an apology. She didn’t get one.

Instead, he asked, “Tomorrow? I know it’s Sunday, but I’ll be home all day, and I was thinking we could get the living room straightened out.”

Like I have a choice, she thought. But there was a pleading in his eyes that gave her the odd feeling he didn’t just want her for her work. He wanted her for her company. Damn. Handsome, smart, self-assured, top of his game Trey Hammond is lonely. Don’t that beat all. She nodded. “Tomorrow.”

Chapter 5

Cruel Words and Accidental Kisses

T he next day, Kendra was dead on time, even without getting paranoid over the alarm clock. The reduced Sunday traffic made the commute a breeze. She even had time to enjoy the short walk into his street and listening to the sound of children laughing in the gardens around her. They made her think of the forlorn seesaw in Trey’s backyard, and his pained response to her innocent question. Something told her he’d picked this neighborhood for a reason, consciously or subconsciously. Whether he knew it or not, Trey Hammond was nesting.

She walked boldly up his stone path, and again he met her at the door. “Morning. Come on in.” He was doing his darnedest not to let on how happy he was to see her, but the curve at the corners of his lips gave him away.

“Can’t sneak up on you, huh?”

“You might be able to, once I get my curtains. It’s good to see you. I—”

“Thought I wouldn’t show?” she challenged.

“I knew you would. You promised. I was about to say I was waiting on you to get the waffles going. Batter’s done, just sitting there. I thought you’d like them hot.”

“Waffles?”

“It’s Sunday. Technically, you shouldn’t be working at all. I thought a hearty breakfast would start us off right.”

“Oh.” That sounded good—and intimate.

He noticed she was holding something in her hands. “What’s that?”

She held up the small paper bag. “Nothing special. There’s a fruit stand a little way up the road. I got two overripe mangoes for your birds. I thought they might…” She trailed off. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now it felt idiotic.

“Oh, man, that’s wonderful.” He opened the bag and peered inside. “They’ll love these. Thank you.” He headed for the front garden. She noticed that—bless him—he was wearing the same pair of jeans as yesterday, and though slightly more grubby than they had been, they had the same fabulous fit. He’d used another clean white tank top from his stash. He really needed to buy his clothes in a larger size.

She stayed where she was, glad his back was turned so he wouldn’t see how much she was enjoying the sight of him walking barefoot in the grass, stretching his arm upward to spike the mangoes on the jagged branches, where only the limp, dried-out peels of yesterday’s bananas were left. As he walked, butterflies and bugs rose from the grass and swirled around him like leaves caught up in a dust devil. He dusted off his hands with purpose as he returned to her. “Good. We’ve fed God’s little creatures, now let’s see what we can do about ourselves.”

Sounded good to her.

He walked her into the kitchen. Among all the mess and clutter of yesterday, there was a clean spot on the table. Upon that, he’d laid out cream, honey and fruit preserves.

“Been to the supermarket, I see.”

“The guys hooked up my gas yesterday evening, and then it hit me that the stove wouldn’t do much good if I didn’t have anything to cook on it. So I went on a shopping spree.” He threw open the doors of his stainless steel fridge and gestured inside like a male version of Vanna White. It was loaded to the gills.

“You going to eat all that before it spoils?”

“I’m sure as hell gonna try. So…” He washed his hands at the sink and dried them on a dish towel. “You eat waffles, right?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Nobody in their right mind.”

She watched him work. There was a cast-iron waffle iron on the stove. She could tell by its rich, dark patina that it had seen some use. “Your mother’s?”

He pretended to be offended. “Oh, please, girl. Just because a man knows his way about the kitchen doesn’t mean he’s swiped half his mother’s stuff. I’ve had this iron since college. There’s a griddle and a skillet to go with it, too.”

She was hesitant to risk further offending him by asking whether he’d made the batter from scratch, but then she spotted the mess of flour and sugar on the counter and had her answer. There was a sizzle as the batter hit the waffle iron, and like Pavlov’s dog, Kendra licked her lips. This man was always offering her food. Her one weakness. How’d he know? She patted her hips and murmured, “Looks awful fattening.”

He took his attention away from his cooking to look her over as slowly as he had in the restaurant. “Fishing for compliments?”

“I was certainly not fishing,” she huffed. He must think she was so vain. His crack about emerald-studded handcuffs came back to her, and she wondered, was this how it was going to be today?

“I didn’t mean that like it sounded. I was trying to pay you a compliment, but it came out wrong. You look great. You really don’t need to worry about your weight.”

If he only knew.

“Sit down. These’ll be ready in a sec. Pour yourself a cup.”

She sat obediently, lulled by the scent of berries, the warmth of the kitchen and his quiet efficiency. He served her first, urging her to eat up while her waffles were still hot, and in minutes his were done. He made congenial conversation, plying her with melted butter and honey, seeming anxious to make up for his rebuff of yesterday. Again, she sensed that loneliness rather than hunger was his motive for trying to prolong the meal. When they were done, she set down her cutlery with a satisfied sigh. She was proud of herself; she’d been relaxed enough not to feel the desire to go overboard with her eating. “Congratulate the chef for me.”

“I’ll pass it on as soon as I see him.” He lifted a newspaper off of a small stack. “Sunday paper?”

She had to put her foot down. “I’m here to work, Trey. Remember?” It was the first time she used his name out loud. How easily it came to her!

Trey replaced the paper, abashed. “Right. Sorry.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose with a purposeful, let’s-get-down-to-business gesture.

“’S okay.”

They rose together. “I cleaned up all the rubble and junk in the living room, so we can get straight to work.” He was already ahead of the game. The furniture was all laid out. Again, she noted his excellent taste in fine things. The sofa and armchairs were made of good leather and wood, with elegant, well-crafted side pieces. He’d gone as far as to hang a painting on a wall. It was African. Somali, she guessed.

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