Erik laughed easily and reached for the dial of the radio. “What type am I?” he asked, amused. He found a congenial radio station, and his arm extended across the backs of the seats until his fingers brushed her bare shoulder, making her tremble on the inside.
“Oh, you know,” she said smoothly. “The Miata type. Or maybe a Corvette.”
He laughed again, deeper this time. His laugh was so natural, so easy, so masculine. It literally rumbled from his chest. “How about a Dodge van?”
“You’re kidding!”
“No. This car belongs to the television station. Actually, when I’m at home, I drive a Dodge van. Nothing fancy. No fur-covered mattresses, no quadraphonic CD systems, no murals on the outside. But very functional for hauling all my equipment.”
“I can’t believe it,” Kathleen said honestly. Then, raising her knee to the seat and turning toward him slightly, she asked, “You live in St. Louis, don’t you?” The Harrisons had told her that much about him.
“Yes. Have you ever heard the term ‘O and O’?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head.
“Well, actually you wouldn’t unless you worked in the television industry. ‘O and O’ stands for owned and operated. And that applies to television stations that are actually owned by the networks. According to FCC regulations, each network can own five VHF television stations. UBC has one in St. Louis. Really it’s only an address for me. They send me anywhere they need me.”
“That’s intriguing. I’m afraid I don’t know very much about the television industry.”
“I’m afraid I don’t either,” he said, smiling. “All I know about is my camera and how to use it. I aspire to doing much more creative things than network news stories. I really consider my affiliation with them as an apprenticeship. One day, I’d like to have my own production company and produce commercials, industrial films, things like that. Unfortunately, a setup like that costs a lot of money.”
“Surely the network pays a valuable employee like you well.”
“Well, but not extravagantly. The glory guys are the ones in front of the cameras, not the ones behind them.” His index finger tapped the end of her nose. “Now it’s your turn. I know nothing about the ‘rag trade.’ ”
Kathleen laughed and launched into a brief outline of her work, but to her surprise, he was genuinely interested and asked intelligent questions until she found herself talking animatedly. “I attend several fashion markets a year, not only in Atlanta, but in Chicago and Dallas as well. I go to New York every few months.”
“That sounds glamorous,” he said, obviously impressed.
“Not so much so.” She laughed. “I must often placate the alterations seamstress when a garment proves unalterable. And there’s always a wealthy customer who must have a dress by the night of the country club dance. She places me at the mercy of a shipping clerk in a warehouse who has a heart of stone. Salesladies are constantly running out of goods that manufacturers swear are no longer available.” She paused and drew a deep breath. “Had enough?”
He laughed. “But you’ll be eager to return in the fall.”
Suddenly reminded that she had nothing to return to, she looked away quickly. “Yes,” she answered vaguely. She didn’t want to discuss her resignation from Mason’s or the reason for it.
Sensing her withdrawal, Erik shifted his attention away from the road and peered closely at her through slitted eyes.
Kathleen adroitly avoided pursuing this line of conversation by saying, “Slow down a little. You need to make a left-hand turn up here at the crossroads.”
* * *
The Crescent Hotel stood sentinel over the township of Eureka Springs. Looking very European with its gray brick walls, blue roof and red chimneys, it depicted the period in which it was built. Broad verandas on each floor ran the length of the building where guests could sit in rocking chairs and enjoy the mountainous panorama. The corners of the building were square and topped with pyramid-shaped roofs.
Erik parked the car and helped Kathleen out with a hand under her elbow. He was impressed with the old hotel, but Kathleen was slightly embarrassed that Edna had made so much of it to a man who had been all over the world. Nevertheless, his comments were appreciative.
The lobby had white Grecian columns connecting the Persian rug-scattered hardwood floor to the high molded ceiling above. An open white marble fireplace was free-standing in the room, and one could enjoy the fire from four sides. Of course, on this hot summer night, the logs were stacked, but no fire was burning. Instead, patrons sat on the Victorian furniture in air-conditioned comfort.
The dining room looked like a room out of The Unsinkable Molly Brown. The walls were covered with red and gold flocked paper. The oaken floors gleamed with the patina that only age and careful maintenance can produce. The tablecloths were also red, showing off the china, crystal and silver. One corner of the room was dominated by a grand piano, where a man in a black tuxedo was playing softly.
On their behalf, Edna had made the reservation. They were shown to their table by the maître d’, who held Kathleen’s chair for her with an old-world flourish. He took their drink orders and then discreetly withdrew.
“What in the hell is a spritzer?” Erik asked.
“It’s white wine and club soda on the rocks with a twist of lemon.”
“Whatever happened to healthy, substantial drinks like scotch and water?” He leaned his elbows on the table and propped his chin on his fists as he teased her.
“I don’t like anything that tastes alcoholic. I like things that taste like punch or are very tart or made with ice cream.”