BLACK WIDOW (Book #1 of The Black Widow Series) Page 3

  He pointed at my book as if that alone proved his point. “May I?”

  I somewhat reluctantly handed it over. He studied the front with focused intent and then quickly ruffled through the dog-eared pages before looking back up. “Mmmhmm,” he said, as if it were a foregone conclusion.

  “Well?” I wanted to know what this man thought he knew about me based on a book I didn’t even like.

  “Clearly, you’re an old soul who likes the classics, but you aren’t afraid to venture off the beaten path either.”

  Before I could tell him that was an easy generalization, he continued. “You like nice things and look at things with a critical eye. You prefer red wine to beer but occasionally like to slum it with a burger and fries.” He paused, his gaze steady and intense as he handed the book back to me. “You’re a realist who understands that not everyone gets a happy ending, but you still want one for yourself, and you’re thinking very hard about slumming it with me tonight.”

  He smiled that quirky half-smile I already recognized as only his own. “Am I right or am I right?”

  Except for the last part, which was one-hundred-percent off base, he’d hit more nails on the head than I was willing to admit. I pretended to be miffed. “That’s pretty presumptuous of you, don’t you think?”

  “So you’re saying I got close,” he said matter-of-factly.

  I paused for several long seconds before conceding. “What’s your secret? Mind reading? Do you have a crystal ball in your pocket?” I was a little bit mystified he'd read me so easily.

  The grin I earned was nearly enough to knock me out of my chair. Two matching dimples appeared on his cheeks. “No magic here, I promise. It was just observation. It’s an art, really.”

  “People-watching is an art now?” I asked.

  “Anything can be an art if it’s done well enough.” He raised his eyebrows at me. My cheeks flamed, and I resisted the urge to run my hands over them to cool them. My palms had turned sweaty anyway.

  “I’m a master observer,” he continued. “An expert, if you will. And a master of distraction, it turns out, because we’re moving again, and you didn’t even notice.” Proud of himself, he puffed up his chest.

  “Thank God.” I settled back into my seat and watched the lights of the city begin to whiz by again. "So this art of observation, can it be taught?”

  “You bet it can.” He turned in his seat so abruptly his knees hit mine. The temperature in the train skyrocketed. “Let’s start with the book. Casablanca, the movie, is a classic. But let’s be real—it’s an unusual choice for someone your age. I’d go so far as to say it’s more popular with the blue-hairs eating from the senior menu at IHOP than pretty young women who wear fancy shoes. So you’re obviously—”

  “An old soul who likes the classics,” I interjected.

  “And nice things,” he said, nodding toward my shoes.

  “The fact that you’re reading the screenplay instead of the actual book has me a bit stumped, but I’m just assuming you’re a road less traveled kind of gal.”

  I wanted to think so, but I’d spent a good portion of my life doing what was expected of me and trying to be the Smythe my father wanted me to be. Each time I had taken a stand and made my own decision it had ended miserably. I pushed those thoughts out of my head.

  “Maybe, but there is no actual book for Casablanca, only the movie and the screenplay, so your assumptions are a little mistaken.”

  “Oh, no. The lady’s faith in my ability wavers,” he said, nudging me gently with his elbow.

  “What about the wine and burgers?” I asked.

  “It’s written all over your face.” He pointed at my chin.

  The realization of what he was saying hit me. “Oh, my God, are you serious?” I frantically dug through my bag for a tissue and a mirror. “I had a hot dog at the stadium.”

  “Really?” he asked with a chuckle. “Now, you’ve surprised me. I wouldn’t have pegged you for a baseball fan. Not dressed like you are anyway.”

  “I hadn’t planned to go tonight, but I am very much a baseball fan.”

  “You left early. Because they’re losing?”

  “Something like that,” I mumbled as I pulled out a crumpled tissue from my bag. The tissue was still damp from the tears I’d shed at the baseball stadium.

  A committee meeting for the benefit I was helping to host in a week had brought me to town today. Nostalgia had kept me there. I was on the train, heading home, when I realized I was surrounded by men who’d thrown on baseball caps with their suits. Wrigley Field had been the next stop. Accident? Maybe not. My heart certainly knew the way to the Cubs’ stadium. That’s probably where it last felt whole.

  When the train had stopped, I followed the crowd as they got off. It hadn’t been a cognitive decision. One minute, I was headed home, and the next, I was presenting my gold card at the will call window for the first time. The attendant, an elderly gentleman who'd worked there for years, immediately recognized me. He’d called me by the wrong last name, but I hadn’t corrected him. That had been a conscious decision.

  Inside the stadium, I’d meandered through the vendors selling T-shirts and stuffed blue bears, knowing I looked wildly out of place in my dress and heels. Even the wives who considered themselves too sophisticated to wear their husband’s names on their backs were wearing blue. But I wasn’t one of them anymore, and as usual, I was dressed in drab black as a testament to the fact.

  I’d made it through the top of the seventh, two plastic cups of wine, and the now offensive hot dog before my façade began to slip, and I’d taken my first dip into the anxiety pills that were the antidote to everything wrong in my life. I couldn’t pull my eyes away from the unfamiliar back squatting behind home plate. His stance was different, his mannerisms sharp. When he turned, the print on his back, partially covered by the straps of his pads, might as well have been a marquee, blinking the wrong name at me. I’d left with tears in my eyes, my stomach churning—the hot dog, the guilt, and the memories too dangerous of a mix.

  “It’s right here,” the Statistics Man said, pointing at his chin as I aimlessly dabbed at my own, lost in my thoughts. He scrunched his face up, probably mimicking my expression. “A little lower. No, down a little …” he instructed before finally snatching the tissue away.

  “Oh, just let me do it.” He placed two fingers under my chin. His touch was gentle as he tipped my chin up.

  Light as a feather, he brushed the tissue against my face as if I were fragile enough to break. The act felt surprisingly intimate.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “You look … sad all of a sudden.”

  I forced a smile. “Yes. I’m fine. I love hot dogs.”

  What?

  The man had turned me into a bumbling idiot.

  He chuckled. “Who doesn’t? This ketchup is pretty dry. I don’t think I can do much without water.” He handed the tissue back to me with a discouraged look.

  The exchange between us felt too heavy for two strangers on a train. I wanted to go back to the lighthearted banter from a few minutes before and not think about dangerous subjects like baseball.

  “If you lick my face, this conversation is over,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He paused and his dark eyes gleamed with mischievousness. “Then again, maybe I will. Dream of it, that is.”

  A slow burn crawled up my neck. My cheeks were probably the same shade as the ketchup. I dropped the dirty tissue back in my purse. I needed to shut this down before he got the wrong idea of where it could lead.

  Which was nowhere.

  “There’s something you should know about me, Statistics Man.”

  His eyebrows rose in question. “I can’t wait to hear it, Bookworm.”

  “I don’t even like Casablanca. Hate it, actually.”

  He looked surprised. “Why? You wanted her to run away with Humphrey Bogart?”

  Now, I was the one surprised. “You’ve seen it?” It was safe
to assume he hadn’t read it. No one read the screenplay for fun.

  He shrugged. “My grandmother loved to watch old black and white movies.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at the image I had of this big, burly man watching old black and white movies with his grandmother. “Did she have blue hair?”

  “No. White as a ghost. Loved IHOP, though.” He leaned in, his blue eyes bright. “You would’ve fit right in with her.”

  I laughed. “And how did she feel about Casablanca?” I asked, genuinely curious.

  “Loved that, too. She was a true romantic. Married to my grandfather for fifty-two years. There was nothing my grandmother valued more than marriage.”

  His use of the past tense and his obvious affection for her tugged at my heart. I leaned in closer to him as if the touch of a stranger could give him comfort. But then I realized it was probably more for my benefit than for his. He seemed to be able to remember her without it hurting. I wanted that someday.

  “That’s very sweet,” I said.

  “You look skeptical. You don't believe in marriage?” he asked.

  “I do,” I said slowly. If anything, I’d had too much faith in marriage. It just hadn’t worked out for me.

  “But you think Ingrid Bergman should have thrown her marriage away for Humphrey Bogart’s pretty face?” he asked. Just a trace of bitter accusation was evident in his voice. He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees, his shoulders more tense than they had been before.

  I looked out the window at the dark city still racing by. “No, I don’t. I agree with your grandma. Ilsa,” I said, using the heroine’s movie name, “ended up with the right man.”

  His forehead furrowed. “So then why don’t you like the movie?”

  “The whole premise is ridiculous. The idea that she might throw away everything over a whirlwind affair.”

  “Love can make you stupid,” he said with a shrug.

  “Has it made you stupid?”

  “Of course.”

  I waited for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, I filled the empty air between us. “My theory is they were never actually in love. They had a quickie affair in Paris, but all we get are the flashback scenes. They run around the city, visiting the Eiffel tower and doing some other touristy things, looking at each other with doe eyes the entire time. And then we’re supposed to believe that after a couple of dates, they are so entirely taken with each other they wanted to run away together. After what? A week? It couldn't have been too long because, at the end of it, they know virtually nothing about each other.”

  I was rambling, but I couldn’t seem to stop. “Then they meet up again in Casablanca years later, and he learns for the first time she was married.” I held up the book as if to prove my point. “In fact, in what has to be the most ridiculous line in the whole thing, he says all he knew about her was she had straight teeth. Seriously? He fell in love with her because she had straight teeth?”

  His eyes were wide with surprise. “I’m getting the sense you feel very passionately about this.”

  “Well, I’ve been studying the story, so yeah. But you did ask.”

  “Did I?”

  “Didn’t you?” My cheeks were on fire again. He certainly had that effect on me. “I’m sorry. I went on a bit of a tirade, didn’t I?”

  He placed his hand on my leg and then removed it quickly as if he hadn’t really meant to touch me.

  But it was too late. My body reacted immediately to the slight touch I seemed to feel everywhere. My stomach did a cartwheel. My already inflamed cheeks threatened to burn up completely. My tongue suddenly felt tied.

  “Don’t apologize,” he said. "I’m completely enthralled with your analysis of a movie you clearly despise. But have you considered maybe we’re supposed to use our imaginations and assume there was more between them than what we saw?”

  “A great story makes you believe in the message based only on what’s presented to you,” I said. “They didn’t make me believe.”

  Like the wheels of the train, his laugh rumbled through the car. “Okay, let’s assume it was just a week. Or two. Whatever. Is it that you don’t believe they were in love or you don’t believe it’s possible to fall in love in such a short time?”

  I thought hard about it. I’d loved Chase for so much of my life that I couldn’t even remember how or when it had happened. But we’d been young and impetuous when we’d met, so I probably believed I loved him from the very start. When had it become real? I couldn’t even remember.

  Even so, I knew for a fact it was very different when you got older. Unmet expectations and life’s curveballs made the heart wary. “It’s not possible,” I decided out loud. “Real love takes time. Ilsa was ready to impulsively throw her marriage away—and probably would’ve if Rick hadn't forced her hand in the end. What she and Rick had wasn’t real. It was a mirage.”

  He rubbed his chin and considered what I’d said. “So you're a skeptic.”

  “You’re not?” I asked.

  “Absolutely, I am. But I'd like to believe it’s possible.”

  I smiled. It was very sweet. “How very romantic of you.”

  He leaned closer. I could feel his warm breath on my temple. “I’ve been told I’m a romantic guy,” he said softly. “I bet I could make you fall in love in a week.”

  The intoxicating scent of whiskey permeated the air between us. Clearly, he was drunk. Then again, I might be too.

  “No, you couldn’t.”

  His eyes twinkled. “Challenge accepted.”

  I rolled my eyes but couldn’t stop my smile. “It wasn’t a challenge.”

  “It was, and I accept.” He looked over at an older couple I didn’t even realize had boarded. Somehow, during my dissertation on the implausibility of insta-love, the train had stopped, and I hadn’t even noticed two people had sat down across from us. “We’re debating the romance between Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca,” he said to them.

  The elderly lady nodded. “Fantastic movie.”

  “Well, this beautiful lady doesn't believe you can fall in love in a week. I’ve just accepted her challenge.”

  I gaped at him. “It wasn’t a challenge,” I repeated. “You don’t even know my name.”

  “Adds legitimacy to the experiment,” he said with a single nod of the head. “Sixty-eight percent of experiments are botched from the start.”

  I pointed at him. “Now, I know you made that up.”

  He grinned. “I did.”

  I watched in disbelief as he turned back to the elderly lady and extended his hand to her. “Scott Russell.”

  "It’s nice to meet you, Scott Russell.” The woman shot me a wistful smile as she repeated his name. With emphasis. And for my benefit, I thought.

  They were both very sneaky. While the introductions continued, I turned his name over in my head, repeating it to myself. Scott Russell. An ordinary name for a man who was obviously anything but, which was exactly why he would not be learning mine.

  “You know,” she said, reaching over to pat her husband's leg, “I told my momma I was going to marry Hugh after our first date.” He nodded at her, and a sweet smile spread across her well-seasoned face. “You can see how that turned out.”

  “Gladys and I have three kids and eight grandkids. We’ve lived in the same house since we got married forty-eight years ago,” Hugh boasted.

  I nodded and smiled. “That’s wonderful.”

  Unbelievable was what it was. Scott couldn’t have picked a better couple to join us on the train at a better time. I felt as if I’d been interjected into a romantic comedy, and the man next to me had scripted the scene himself. Somehow, he’d unwittingly pulled together the perfect supporting cast.

  He turned his disarming eyes back to me. “Someone recently told me I needed to take a chance. I think I’d like to take a chance with you. Seven dates in seven days. What’s the worst that could happen?” He was serious. His eyebrows arched, daring me to say
yes.

  It was a ridiculous idea. Preposterous. Yet I found myself actually considering it.

  No. That would be a huge mistake. You have rules. My more levelheaded and always very vocal common sense put her foot down. It's time to get out of here.

  I looked out the darkened window while I tried to gain my bearings again and realized I had no idea where we were. I’d been so caught up in our conversation I hadn’t been paying attention. “Ummmmm,” I began.

  “We’re about to pull into Foster,” Scott said, answering the question I hadn’t gotten out.

  “Oh, my God. Are you serious? That’s twice in one night.” I opened my purse and tossed my book inside, so I’d be ready to hop up when we stopped. “I needed to catch the green at Davis.”

  Scott was grinning. “I thought you said you could take care of yourself. Take me up on my offer and you won’t need to. Let’s go get a drink, and we’ll make this day one. I’ll make sure you get home.” Almost before the words were even out of his mouth, his face fell. He scrubbed his jaw. “Except I don’t have any wheels.” He seemed to have just remembered something I would’ve found hard to forget.

  I shook my head. “I’ll just get off and take the next train back.”

  By the time I got off at the next stop, waited for another train, looped back, and walked over to catch the commuter, it was likely I would miss the 10:58 train and would have to wait another hour. It would be late when I got home. Oddly enough, I wasn’t upset about it.

  There was no way I could continue this absurd conversation but talking to Scott had been nice. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a normal conversation with someone who didn’t know my story or have some preconceived notion about me. Somehow, he'd made me forget about my meeting with my father and my disastrous stop at Wrigley Field. He’d talked me down from a panic attack, and I hadn’t even had to take any more pills.

  My father. Chase. Panic attacks. Pills.

  They were all grim reminders of my reality. “You don’t want to date me anyway. Not even for a week.”

  “I think I do. You’re enchanting.” He gave me that smile again, the one with the two dimples, and it was almost enough to make me rethink my stance on everything.