Ark by Charles McCarry Read Free Book Online Page A

sweet,” I said. “So tell me, Adam, which is your favorite book?”
     
    “All of them.”
     
    That’s what they all said.
     
    “Give me a straight answer or I won’t let you sit down,” I said.
     
    Adam rattled off the titles of five of my six novels and then quoted the opening paragraph of my first book, which was set in Perugia, where I had spent my junior year abroad. The passage contained a phrase in Italian that referred to the huge white truffles of Umbria. He pronounced the Italian perfectly, and then translated it to show that he knew what it meant.
     
    I said, “OK, Adam, you can sit down.”
     
    My date said, “After all that, you should maybe sit on his lap.”
     
    Not such a bad idea. The waiter delivered a large platter of antipasto.
     
    Adam said, “I’ll be mother.”
     
    “Why you?” asked the husband, who also seemed to know him.
     
    “Because I was late,” Adam said.
     
    “Late? Is that what you call it? You practically stood us up.”
     
    Without looking at me, Adam said, “Yeah. Well, I was recovering from a terrible disappointment.”
     
    I said, “Did Adam play lacrosse for Colgate, too?”
     
    “No,” my date said. “He played for Syracuse. They kicked the crap out of us three years in a row. Adam did most of the damage.”
     
    Handling serving spoon and fork with one hand, Adam filled our plates and handed them around. Suddenly I had an appetite. I gobbled the antipasto and ordered gnocchi. It was after midnight when the party ended with half a dozen empty wine bottles on the table. Adam picked up the tab. The other two insisted on taking care of the tip. After they stood up and turned their backs, Adam counted the bills they had left on the table and added another twenty.
     
    Hmmm, said the wine.
     
    On the sidewalk, the old boyfriend wondered if I’d mind finding my own way home. He was staying with the newlyweds, and they lived in New Jersey. He’d find a cab for me.
     
    Adam said, “I’ll see her home, if that’s OK.”
     
    “Same old Adam,” said the husband.
     
    My date just smiled nicely and waggled his fingers at me. Apparently Adam had won me in a long-ago lacrosse game.
     
    Adam and I walked to his car, one of those convertibles with a metal roof that folds into the trunk. Despite the weather he put the top down. It wasn’t snowing, but it was cold, and as the car moved, the windchill factor took effect. He asked where I lived. I told him. The air smelled washed. Adam smelled like coffee, having drunk two double espressos in the restaurant, and the aroma reminded me of Italy. I felt safe with him. I felt other things besides. I had drunk a lot of wine.
     
    I asked him what he did for a living. He pretended not to hear me. We arrived at my building.
     
    Adam said, “Shall I park the car or say goodnight?”
     
    I didn’t answer the question, but I didn’t open the door, either.
     
    He put the car in gear and found a parking space about half a block away. He backed into it expertly and turned to me. I must have looked like I was going to ask another question, because he put a gloved finger to my half-frozen lips and said, “I’m a lawyer.”
     
    “You don’t smell like a lawyer.”
     
    “Neither do you,” Adam said. “Let’s go upstairs.”
     
    The next morning, while Adam slept, I wrote a scene that described in exquisite detail what had happened between the two of us the night before. Unbeknownst to me, Adam stood behind me as I typed and read over my shoulder.
     
    He said, “I really hope you’re going to do this every time we have sex.”
     
    I was naked. He put his fingertips on my shoulders and pressed lightly.
     
    Later, while I regretfully took a shower—all those olfactory delights swirling down the drain to be replaced by the aroma of Olay soap—Adam prepared breakfast. It was nothing like one of Henry’s gourmet repasts, but it was fine. This guy knew how to poach eggs in the microwave, make toast, pour