Chapter 10

Peter appreciates punctuality, and Clare’s arrival at the bookstore is just that. Six o’clock on the dot. He’d become preoccupied imagining an evening with her outside the bookstore. It’s been an excellent distraction from his usual routine; living in the present rather than regretting his past or feeling anxious over his future. Peter greets her with a smile and a small gift.

“Oh, you needn’t have done that, Peter.” She accepts the box and opens it. “Oh, did you want me to wait or…”

“No, it’s nothing,” it isn’t nothing, he tells himself and corrects the course, “it’s fine, please,” Peter urges her to open the box. He chews the end of his thumb, watching her eyes as they fall on the book inside.

“Oh, my, it’s beautiful,” she says, looking up at Peter, her mouth pulling up into a satisfied smile. Clare pulls the book from the box and studies the hardcover. “How did you find this?”

“When I ordered from your list, I saw that we had this edition in the safe.” He feels proud to be able to give her something as intimate as a book. Well, intimate to a lover of books, anyway.

“It’s just lovely, really,” her hands caress the spine, opening it. “What a nice surprise. You didn’t have to.”

“Don’t worry; I paid for it.” They laugh. “When it popped up on the screen, I couldn’t believe it. It’s kismet. Again.”

“It is.” Clare’s cheeks redden. “It just makes this evening all the more special. Thank you so much.” She looks for what to do with the gift, and Peter offers a solution.

“You don’t have to carry it around all night. I’ll put it back in the safe, and you can pick it up later.” She hands it back gently as if it’s a priceless relic.

“Tonight then, we’ll come back tonight. I’ve had fantasies over spending time in a bookstore like this after hours.”

“Oh, confession time,” Peter kids. “I’m living out my fantasy working here.”

“Look at us, sharing our fantasies in the first five minutes.” They laugh again. “I think you’ll really enjoy where I’m taking you tonight.”

“I am at your mercy.”

Clare moistens her lips with a thin, pink tongue and smiles shyly, pushing her glasses higher on her nose. “Then let’s be on our way. My car is just parked on the street a block away.”

Peter locks the shop, and they walk past the sparse collection of people as they exit and enter the bus. He again feels a rush of familiarity with Clare. They’re so comfortable in each other’s presence. It’s refreshing. He considers taking her hand; the urge is incredible. Peter likens the sensation to two magnets trying desperately to draw together.

“How was your day?” she asks.

“Small talk, I can do that too.” Peter smiles down at her, and she up at him.

“No, I’m honestly interested. There’s a sense of fascination bookstores hold for me.”

“Alright, it was a good day, actually. I sold somewhere in the vicinity of thirty books, two special editions, and one rare find,” he winks, indicating that was the book he bought.

“Is it hard to sustain a bookstore like that in this day and age?” Clare roots around in her handbag.

“It’s coming back - the brick and mortar. Today was a light day, to be honest. People are social animals. Like the big malls never died out, bookstores are experiencing a kind of renaissance.”

“I love hearing that. I honestly feared they would all disappear!” She stops and hits the button on her key fob. “This is me.”

Her car is a Tesla. It’s beautiful. She opens the passenger side door for Peter. “Well, this is nice. Thank you!” They laugh, and Clare shakes her head.

As they drive away, Clare notes, “This place isn’t far, but it’s kind of pricey.”

“If you’re opening doors for me, I’ll assume you’re picking up the tab, win-win.” Clare chuckles at that. Peter likes the way the conversation is flowing. He likes himself in her presence, feeling his confidence rise with each witty exchange.

The conversation never lags between them and remains like this all evening through dinner at the trendy ‘Quoth the Raven’, where Peter learns books can act as impressive decoration just as well as entertainment. They sit at a high table just beyond the lounge where aristocratic-looking people enjoy the gothic architecture concurrent with Poe’s writings, sipping their pink ladies, whiskeys, and ales. There is a theme to the place that resonates with him, as Clare knew it would. It’s an expansive restaurant segmented into story-specific spaces. They are seated in the coveted The Raven section, where there are several more named after Poe’s works like A Telltale Heart, The House of Usher, The Murders in the Rue Morgue, and more. Each section is decorated according to the author’s imagination and remains cohesive throughout. The thought behind the place is impressive, Peter thinks. Dinner offers a similar experience; the menu items are cleverly described using a play on words that reminds one of Poe’s literary stylings – unique and dark. Peter orders the Chicken schnitzel platter, pounded flat with punishing impunity.

Between them, Peter and Clare manage to discuss the finer points of Poe’s ability to shift his readers to a demented point of view and his use of language and symbolic play on the meanings of words. Clare is the perfect woman for Peter, he thinks as he carves into his crispy chicken schnitzel.

They enjoy a Cognac each to end the experience as it’s considered Poe’s favorite drink, which leads into a discussion about the author’s notorious drinking habit, which contributed to his early death at 40.

“Imagine Poe reincarnated,” Clare says, trailing a finger up her cognac glass where a trickle has escaped. She places the finger in her mouth, and Peter watches her lips part to receive the fugitive drop. “He could be here, amongst us!” Clare says animatedly. Peter finds the idea of it exhilarating as well, having never given any thought to such a claim before. He finds himself smitten with Clare’s enthusiasm.

“It could keep you up nights,” Peter suggests, “considering the lives lived in a room like this.”

“That guy,” Clare points out a man two tables over as tactfully as she can. “The one with the magnificent beard. I wonder who he was in a past life.”

“Rasputin,” Peter jokes, lips pinched together in thought. “Lover of the Russian queen!”

Clare nearly spits out her cognac; a hand pressing against her lips conceals the outburst. “Oh, my god, that’s so Rasputin!” She says through her fingers.

Peter loves that he can make Clare laugh. She always lifts one delicate hand to her mouth as she does. “How about the woman at the bar. The one standing there waiting for a drink,” Peter offers up their next target with a subtle nod.

“Hmm,” Clare deliberates a moment, “The Russian queen?” She nods her nod and smiles impishly at Peter.

He raises his hands, and they fall to the table comically. “They don’t even know each other in this life!”

“It’s cruel, really,” Clare adds, “Not ten feet apart, and they’ve no idea.” She shakes her head joylessly, and then Peter watches her eyes sparkle to life as an idea corrupts her senses. “We should introduce them!”

“Oh, I’m not that forward,” Peter admits, hands raised again, but defensively this time. He hates approaching strangers unless he’s on his turf. “Besides, we can’t affect their fates.”

“Fate is fate,” Clare returns. “Maybe we’re supposed to interject. We could be part of their larger plan.”

Clare’s suggestion isn’t lost on Peter, but his hands begin to sweat at the thought all the same. He spreads his palms over his jeans and feels anxious energy envelop him. He was never like this before Afghanistan, and it’s becoming a real problem.

Clare reaches across the table and asks for Peter’s hand. He offers it, and she places it between both of hers. Her hands are cool but soft. His are boiling now and wet.

“I’m just kidding, Peter,” she admits. “I’m not going to force you.” She looks at him with mock empathy from those big, hazel eyes hidden behind her stylish glasses. “But I think it would be a good team-building exercise for us.”

“Team-building, eh?” Peter laughs it off but considers the story value if they were to attempt such a feat. Then what if they did look into each other’s eyes and sense a connection? Could he rob them of that?

“Also, I’m feeling a bit adventurous tonight,” her well-maintained brows raise once, twice, three times, exaggerating her interest.

“You’re relentless,” Peter replies with a smile he feels raising the right side of his face. He shakes his head imperceptibly, but Clare notices. “How do we do it?”

“Oh! We order a drink for her and say it’s from Rasputin!” She’s leaning into the center of the table on her forearms, and now he’s doing the same. Their faces are inches apart.

“Okay, but we don’t say Rasputin, right?”

“Right, right, that’s probably not his name in this life.” Her brows sinch in together, mocking the serious nature of their game.

“Right, so can you get his name, and I’ll watch where she ends up?”

Clare stands abruptly, winks at Peter, and carries her cognac with her to Rasputin’s table. Peter watches as she introduces herself. Oh, it looks like a case of mistaken identity. She’s good, he thinks. She returns to their table and sits.

“Max. His name is Max,” she says proudly with a nod confirming her information.

“That was brilliant,” Peter says, feeling a little flush from the second-hand embarrassment over her brashness. “Okay, I’ll order at the bar and have them send the drink.”

At the bar, Peter asks the bartender, whose majestic mustache is perfectly twisted up at the ends, what the tall woman at that table – he points her out – just bought. The man tells him two whiskey sours, and Peter orders another to be delivered.

“Who shall I say is buying?”

“Max, but that’s not me; it’s the gentleman with the long beard right there,” He points out Rasputin, a lie taking shape. “We’re all old friends, and I don’t think they’ve noticed one another yet. I want it to be a surprise.” Peter winks at the bartender and leaves a 20 for the drink and tip. It’s generous, but the barkeep needs to sell it if this is to work. “Trust me; you’ll be doing them a real service. Keep me out of it, though.”

Peter walks back to his seat, delighted with his role in seeing the diabolical plan take shape, wondering how this woman had convinced him to participate so easily.

“It’s done,” he tells her, picking up his cognac and sipping excitedly, watching the bartender walk to the queen’s table, present the drink and point out Rasputin.

“Oh, my god,” Clare has both hands over her mouth. “It’s working!” They giggle and watch the Russian queen look past her girlfriend and wave subtly at Rasputin. He notices her wave and looks about him, curious whether the tall woman is waving at him.

As Rasputin waves back with a raised eyebrow and a sinister smile, Peter and Clare can barely contain their glee.

“Holy shit,” Clare can’t stop smiling. “Peter, Peter,” she grabs his arm, slapping it lightly, and Peter turns to see what she’s seeing.

Rasputin rises from his chair, excuses himself from his table of two men who don’t share his penchant for beards and walks confidently to the queen’s table.

“It’s happening,” Peter says, gobsmacked.

Rasputin introduces himself to both women and then focuses on the queen. They share a smile and some words which seem pleasant enough.

“Oh, shit,” Peter exclaims. “He’s pulling out his phone. I think they’re exchanging numbers!”

“This is fate,” Clare announces matter-of-factly, her hands slamming down upon the table. “We just affected fate!”

Peter finds it utterly fascinating that their actions may have reconnected a distant relationship from over a hundred years ago. But whatever comes of this experiment, they’ve put the two together.

Clare lets out an audible sigh, clearly captivated by the results. “You know, they say there’s no proof that Rasputin and Queen Alexandra had a romantic relationship,” she says, her expression a unique combination of mischief and delight.

“We should write a paper on it,” Peter suggests. “Follow them and track their experience. Then send them to Theresa for confirmation!”

“I love it!” Clare leans in again, and Peter feels a nervous flutter in his stomach. He finishes his cognac, and the bill arrives. True to her word, Clare snaps it up and pays with the mobile Tap.

The plan to stalk the Queen and Rasputin is abandoned, and they walk to the car, Peter thanking her for such a fun night.

The drive home is equally beguiling, and Peter considers his next move.

At the bookstore, they manage street parking right out front. Peter prays Sanderson hasn’t taken it upon himself to use the shop as his hideaway again. The coast is clear.

“Any interest in a glass of red while you get your fantasy fix?” Peter teases. She agrees and asks to have her gift back. Peter retrieves the book and the wine. Two comfortable vintage high-back chairs face the one section of wall not cluttered with books. An electric fireplace is turned on. It completes the mood. Clare sighs as if she’s found her happy place at last. Peter is thrilled. It’s the most romantic thing he can imagine. Clare is stunning in the low light of the fireplace. Her high cheekbones are amplified as the shadows pull up her youthful face. She’s a beautiful woman. He feels the urge to take her hand again. He wants her hands to caress him as they had the book he’d given her. The rush of the evening’s shenanigans is fresh in his mind and grips his heart. He imagines many scenarios. While his imagination runs away, her soft lips connect with his.

After a long, deep kiss, they pull away from each other, Peter’s lips feeling bruised from inexperience. “So, not just friends then?” Peter says with a playful smile rivaling hers. He’s experiencing all the feels. She tells him to shut up and pulls him into her for another kiss.