The maître d' of Jeremy's welcomed Isla with a smile. "Right this way," he said and showed her to a table in the main dining room.
Marlowe hadn't arrived yet and so she sat sipping her water, trying not to look too conspicuous — not that anyone was paying attention to her. A handsome young waiter took her drink order and while she waited for her glass of merlot to arrive, she took out her phone and selected a novel from her list of books. It was about a woman trying desperately to resist the advances of an old flame.
"It's good to see a smile on your face." Marlowe stood by the table, looking positively dapper in a charcoal grey suit. He was holding a large white box with an arrangement of tightly bunched, multicoloured roses on its lid. They served as a bow and were edged with dark green leaves and delicate white ribbon. As he leaned down to give her a kiss, she felt the faint scratch of a five o'clock shadow. "A few weeks ago, you seemed to have the weight of the world on your shoulders."
She dropped her phone into her purse and sighed. "Still do."
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, taking a seat across from her.
"God, no. Tonight I want to escape from it entirely. That's why I was reading when you came in. I wanted to take my mind off it."
The waiter returned with her wine. "Can I get you something to drink, sir?" he asked.
"I'll have one of those," he replied, pointing to her glass.
With a nod, the waiter was gone.
Marlowe sat across from her and placed the box on the table. "I got something for you. I don't know how these things work, you know, in this kind of situation . . ." He fingered a piece of ribbon while he searched for the right words. "Anyway, I wanted you to have this. I hope that's ok."
"It's wrapped so beautifully I almost don't want to open it."
Marlowe flushed. "I had the florist design the bouquet."
Her eyebrows shot up in surprise and to her chagrin, Joe flashed into her mind. Joe with his requisite gift of a dozen long-stemmed red roses each Valentine's Day. Never with a card or a sentiment attached. He'd done the bare minimum, nothing more. And yet, here was this man . . . She smiled. Perhaps all men were not the same after all.
The flowers were a stunning design, unorthodox in the combination of colours, but no less elegant. Even more beautiful, she thought, because of its eccentricity.
Marlowe shifted in his seat. "The lavender roses represent enchantment." He looked into her eyes before continuing, sincere yet tentative. "From the moment I saw you, even with your face partially hidden, I was enchanted. I wanted more than anything to talk to you and get to know you."
Isla touched her hand to her heart and hung on his every word.
"The coral represents passion and desire. I never knew it was possible to want, or be wanted, like this. It's incredible that each time I speak with you, or think about you, that desire grows." A small line appeared between his eyebrows. "But it's more than that," he said. "Because of you, I'm rediscovering my other passions — music and writing. That has been an unexpected gift and I want to thank you.
"The pink roses mean gratitude. I know that in seven months from now this will end. You'll go back to your life and will disappear from mine. I want you to know that I will be forever grateful for having met you."
A mix of joy and amazement welled inside her and she had to bite her lip to keep it from quivering. Seeing her reaction, he smiled and relaxed a little.
"The yellow is friendship," he said. "Whatever else this is, Grace, I hope it is, at its core, a friendship.
"Finally, white so that you know I am genuine in everything I say and do."
Isla breathed in the delicate fragrance of the flowers and took a moment to gather herself. "'By all the token-flowers that tell, / What words can never speak so well . . .'"
He sat back in his chair and grinned. "This is going better than I hoped," he said. "If you're quoting Byron at the wrapping, I wonder what you'll do when you see the gift."
With a giggle, she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and lifted off the cover with care. Pink tissue paper filled the inside of the box and from them came the unmistakable aroma of coffee. With a little digging she uncovered a pound of whole bean coffee, the same brand and roast they'd had in Aspen. "Where did you find it? I've been looking all over New York for this."
"Online from a boutique in Boston," he replied, shifting to the edge of his chair. "Keep looking — there's more." Further down she found a book of black and white Ansel Adams photos. On the inside cover he'd written to inspire your passion. She ran a finger over the words, marvelling at his beautiful handwriting. People just didn't write like that anymore . . . just one more thing that set Marlowe apart from the crowd.
"There's another thing in there somewhere." He was leaning over the table now, peering into the box. Once again she rummaged through the paper, this time discovering a small fabric bag cinched together with ribbon. Inside was a tube of mascara. "The girl at the make-up counter assures me it's waterproof," he said.
A laugh started deep inside her belly, bubbling up until she tossed her head back and surrendered to it. She was making far more noise than was fitting for the romantic and intimate setting of the dining room, but she didn't care. Let them stare. Let them have their red roses and heart-shaped jewellery. This extraordinary gift was hers alone and there wasn't a thing she would change about it.
A few minutes later, the waiter arrived with Marlowe's wine; reluctantly, Isla put everything back into the box.
"Tonight," said the waiter, "we have planned a romantic seven course meal complete with complimentary wine and champagne, as well as tea and coffee with dessert. So, if you are ready to begin, I'll bring out the appetizer: a selection of homemade, artisan breads with an assortment of flavoured butters."
"Sounds delicious," said Marlowe and with a nod, the waiter left.
Isla took a sip of her wine and watched the candlelight flicker at the centre of the table. Soft music played in the background beneath the hum of conversation and the clinking of china. The air was filled with the smell of food and flowers. The dining room must have held 150 people, and yet this table in the middle of it all was an oasis — a little pocket of time and space where the world couldn't find her. The tension in her shoulders eased and as she looked at the handsome and extraordinary man across from her, reality melted away.
"I have to know," said Marlowe, his eyes twinkling in the candlelight, "what were you reading when I came in?"
"Just a book."
"Damn good book by the look you had on your face. What's it called?"
The waiter arrived with the appetizer and she refrained from answering until they were alone again.
"Willful Desire," she said, gently pulling apart a warm multigrain bun.
"Sounds like a romance. I didn't know you liked that kind of thing." He poked his knife into the curry butter and spread it evenly over a slice of rye bread. "You only ever talked about thrillers and crime fiction."
"I told you I liked Pride and Prejudice."
"Doesn't count," he said, setting his knife on his side plate. "Every woman I've ever met likes Pride and Prejudice. Personally, I don't see the appeal."
"Are you kidding me? What's not to like?"
"Well, first of all, there's no sex."
She rolled her eyes. "Typical male."
"Yup. Red-blooded and all that." He gave her a little wink. "You've got to admit, it would be a better book with sex."
"I will not admit that," she said, feigning disgust. "There's more to romance novels than sex, you know."
"Sadly, that's true."
"Marlowe!"
This time it was his turn to laugh a little louder than acceptable.
Through the entire soup course he continued to argue his point. Isla couldn't tell if he was serious, or just playing devil's advocate.
"What about the relationship between the characters?" she asked as their salad arrived. "That's where the really meaningful things happen."
"Oh, I don't know about that. Sex can be pretty meaningful."
She raised an eyebrow. "This from the man who custom ordered a flower arrangement to decorate a gift box."
He took a sip of his wine. "Mmmhmm. Flowers for the woman who thoroughly enjoyed an erotic ski weekend."
Isla felt herself blush and took a quick glance at the tables nearby to see if anyone had overheard.
"So tell me, if it's not the sex you're interested in, why do you read romances?"
"For starters, they're an escape."
"Yeah, but lots of books are an escape."
"Very few of them allow me to believe in things like unconditional love."
Marlowe pushed his plate aside. "That's a tricky one in real life, isn't it? There always seem to be conditions in relationships."
"Conditions and consequences."
"Except with us."
"Yeah." Isla drained her wine glass. "Except with us."
The waiter appeared and placed two small servings of lime sorbet on the table. She scraped her spoon lightly over the top, playing with her food rather than eating it.
"Don't you like the intermezzo?" asked Marlowe. "It's supposed to cleanse the palette, but honestly, I just like the idea of ice cream in the middle of a meal."
"It's fine," she said. Her smile was faint and unconvincing. "I'm just in the mood for something more, that's all."
He reached across the table and placed his hand over hers. "Is there anything else in particular you like about romances?"
The alcohol had begun to dull her senses and loosen her tongue. His touch made her feel as though they were the only ones in the room and that somehow, she could tell him anything. "They give me hope that 'happily ever after' might really exist."
"Is that what you want?"
"Doesn't everyone?"
He ran his thumb over the inside of her wrist and down her palm. After a long silence, he looked into her eyes. "It isn't real, Grace. Happy endings don't exist."