The Nile River flowed by as it had done for thousands of years for millions of couples, but for Jose, there was only this woman. Only Stella sitting across the table from him.
Parked on the restaurant terrace, he leaned on an elbow and watched her savor the Egyptian stew served in a clay pot. The road below was clogged with cars and bicyclists, horns and shouts drifting up. From inside, Nubian folk music echoed with people clapping along to the drum and lyre.
Stella swayed ever so slightly. A lock of her thick red hair slid out from under the silk scarf she’d draped over her head in keeping with local dress. He didn’t have to reach across to remember the feel of her hair gliding across his fingers when he kissed her.
Which he intended to do again. Soon.
For now, though, he indulged himself by simply listening to her talk between bites. He periodically dipped his bread into his soup, the spices exploding through his senses already on hyperaware around Stella.
She reached for the pewter goblet of juice from local fruits. “My mother would have loved this place, the paintings.”
“Your mom was an artist?” he asked, wanting to know everything about her.
“More of a stylist.” She set down her drink, her nose flaring as a whiff of incense carried on the night breeze. “She created works of art from pieces of earth, mud smears, berry juices. Every art project was a science project too. She was the ultimate recycler even before it was in vogue.”
“Sounds like my buddy Wade’s wife.” He reached across the tablecloth and stroked the top of her hand.
A smile flickered across her face when he touched her. “I enjoyed the time she and I spent together on projects. I sent her pictures when she traveled here—”
She paused as the waitress refilled their goblets and placed a pot of mint tea to go with a dessert of cookies and candied figs. His mouth watered and it had nothing to do with the food and everything to do with a certain lady agent.
Once the server turned away, he tapped Stella’s hand. “Tell me about one of the paintings.”
“The summer before she died, we vacationed at the Outer Banks in North Carolina.” She looked down and away, picking up a fig with fidgety fingers. “I think my parents were trying to work on their marriage. Her absences strained their relationship.”
“Like in military marriages.” He’d seen more than his fair share crumble, relationships that had appeared rock solid.
Couples who didn’t have the added stress of alcoholism lurking every damn day.
“My dad didn’t see it quite that way at all. He couldn’t find anything noble in what she did. He just wanted his wife back, an everyday normal life where he came home from driving his UPS route and had dinner with his whole family.” She blinked back a hint of tears. “But he loved her, so he tried. She tried.”
She shook her head.
He squeezed her hand. “You were telling me about a piece of art you made together.”
A couple at the next table looked at their clasped hands with a disapproving eye. The last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to them by dissing local customs. So he let her go and poured them both a cup of tea.
She tucked the loose strand of hair back under the scarf, her composure sliding just as neatly into place again. “My mother and I were on the beach collecting seashells, sand dollars, and bits of seaweed. I used a piece of driftwood as my canvas. I made a portrait of her, my seashell mama. I still have it, actually.”
“She sounds fascinating.” Like her daughter.
“I wanted to go with her. I begged her to take me with her since I was in high school. She said no.”
“It probably wasn’t safe for you.” If he had a wife and kids… But he didn’t. He wouldn’t. Any thoughts of being with a woman forever ended when Stella walked away from him.
Stella spooned sugar into her tea—three spoonfuls. “She said the same thing, but I reminded her that sometimes entire families went on mission trips. I had looked it up in the library. I showed her all my research and suggested we should all go with her, or if the others didn’t want to go, I would. I had it all worked out how I could take care of myself…” She stirred, clinking the spoon against the cup in time with the music. “And she still said no.”
“That had to hurt.” Hell, it hurt just hearing her talk about the memory.
“Tough day all the way around.” She lifted her steaming tea. “Then I had to face my dad, who I’d just begged to leave.”
Their moms had let them both down. He totally got the pain that went with that, for the kids and the father. He stirred a quick teaspoon of sugar into his tea to keep from reaching for her again. “What did he say?”
“Wanna go to the movies?” She laughed softly, if a bit darkly. “He let me buy all the popcorn and candy I wanted. He and I are alike. Talking about feelings and stuff—we’re awkward.”
Their waitress approached the table again and Stella looked more than grateful for the distraction this time. “Sir, we are one of the few local establishments that offer alcohol beverages. May I—?”
He held up a hand. “No thank you. We’re fine.” As the server walked away, he looked at Stella, realizing he shouldn’t have spoken for both of them. “Should I call her back? Just because I don’t drink doesn’t mean you can’t.”