Doris stopped there, knowing how Bird felt about her name. Ordinarily Bird sidestepped that question, but with Mikhail looking at her, she felt compelled to explain. “My parents named me Bertie. My last name is Worcester. Spelled with the ‘rc’ instead of the double ‘o’ but otherwise pronounced the same.”
“The same as . . .” Mikhail looked blank.
“Surely you’ve heard of Bertie Wooster, gentleman of leisure, and his brilliant valet Jeeves?” Godiva put in.
He obviously hadn’t.
“The Inimitable Jeeves?” Godiva went on. “Right Ho, Jeeves? Aunts Aren’t Gentlemen?”
Godiva was obviously ready to recite the entire list of novels to the bewildered Mikhail, so Bird forced a laugh. “They’re books by an English writer, P. G. Wodehouse. And nobody I knew in school had heard of them either. ‘Bertie Worcester’ wasn’t a clever literary reference to them, it was just a very dorky name that stuck out during the time everyone else was Cathy or Debbie or Judy.” She cut her babble short and took a reluctant step back. “Anyway, I go by Bird.”
Mikhail took a small step toward her, smiling. “I have to confess I am ignorant of much Western classical literature.”
Bird knew they should leave, but she found it so difficult to turn away from that smile. It was so . . . so warm. “There’s nothing to feel bad about. Not everybody can read everything. Especially if books aren’t your interest.”
“Ah, but they are, as well as art. As it happens, I just published one—though I promise not to bore you talking about it.”
Godiva hooted. “Believe me, there isn’t anything about writers going on about their own work until the cows come home that we haven’t experienced.” She swept a hand to take them all in, and added, “Bird, here, is also an artist, I might have mentioned.”
Bird had thought she was already as red-faced and hot, but at that it felt like her ears were on fire. Godiva was being so talky! Bird then wondered if she’d been too talky, and hadn’t realized it. It was this feeling she was getting every time she looked at that man, as if she’d entered a cold cabin and discovered a bright fire whose warmth reached into her bones.
Mikhail’s smile had dimmed. He stepped back. “I should not keep you any longer.”
Bird had the distinct feeling he was talking to her—asking her if she wanted him to go.
She found herself wishing he would stay, but she didn’t know how to say so. She kept her gaze on her sticky red fingers as she fumbled with the zipper of her jacket.
To Bird’s surprise, Godiva announced, “We meet every Friday in the back room of the bakery, and hey, look! Today is Friday! Writers of any type are always welcome. We’ll all be there at seven, if you’re interested.”
Once again Mikhail made that slight, quaint bow, full of quiet dignity. Bird found it intensely attractive.
“Thank you.” His gaze flicked toward Bird. “I shall attend.”
He couldn’t possibly have agreed just so he could see her. But as he turned away and began to walk toward the cliffs, she thought, What harm could there be if I pretended he did?
She hadn’t felt this giddy for so long that she was. . . go ahead and admit it, she told herself. You’re not hurting anyone, and no one has to know.
She was enjoying it. . .
. . . as long as he didn’t look at her.
He was turned away, so she let herself memorize his chiseled profile, the grace of his walk. The silver ponytail hanging between his straight shoulders.
I’m going to draw him, she decided. Oh, she’d disguise him. He’d be a prince or an elf or something else handsome and mysterious. No one but her would know who it really was.
Godiva dug her cane into the ground at the base of the path. “All right, campers, sing out when you want a halt. You know I’ll be ready for one.”
They made their slow way up the winding path, stopping frequently. Nobody spoke until at last they reached the top, then leaned in a row against the fence to catch their breath.
Final
ly Doris said, “Not criticizing, just commenting, but you invited a total stranger to our writers’ group?”
Godiva shrugged, giving Bird a meaningful look. “I thought he was interesting. And hoo boy, he’s easy on the eyes. Plus, props to a geezer our age humping himself down here with nothing more than that cheap-ass cane. He’s got to have some grit to him, I figure, and maybe another guy with some grit will help corral Bill Mansplain.”
Bird would never have called that dragon-head cane cheap. It looked like it belonged in a museum. But then, she reminded herself, Bartholomew had told her many times that she had low class taste. Anyway, the cane was definitely going into the drawing . . .
Jen murmured in her quiet, mellow voice, “I thought he was interesting, too.” She spoke so rarely the other three faces swung her way. “And I liked the way he smiled at Bird.”