What? I take off at a run to my desk. Leo is gone, and there’s a black cardboard box sitting on top of my desk. Carefully, I open it and find my usual order from Porters a porterhouse, which I’m sure is medium, red roasted potatoes, and garlic parmesan roasted asparagus. Why do I feel weepy at the sight of it?
***
Leo
I open my own box from Porters, it is nearly identical to Alexa’s except my vegetable is asparagus wrapped in prosciutto. She had not closed the door before I put in the order at Porters. Victoria had emailed me today telling me she didn’t want Tesoros, she wanted Porters like she had with Alexa and another serving of their excellent soufflé. With the email still in my mind, I hadn’t thought twice.
I have been to Porters often enough they were quick to please and did not even pause to check if they could deliver to me. When I asked them if they knew Alexa Clark’s usual order there was only a brief consultation before confirming they did. Before I think, my hand shoots out, I hit the intercom. “Bring your food in here.”
Fuck, what did I just do? She doesn’t respond for a solid ten seconds.
“Okay.” After her fiery response in my office, not thirty minutes before coupled with the obnoxious way she answered her phone only minutes ago the word sounds small and full of hesitation.
When she enters, she is halting as if she expects me to bark at her at any moment. I motion to the chair across from my desk. Lifting the glass I poured for myself before security sent up the delivery man, I ask. “Drink? Mine is scotch. I have vodka for Dmitri and gin and sherry that has not been touched in years.”
Her eyebrows go up. “I’d love scotch, please. Thank you.”
As I pour, her eyes dart around. “I drink mine neat.”
“I’d like a cube or two of ice, but my water is still cold.” She holds up a water bottle. “Just a splash.”
Setting her glass down I observe the careful addition of the water then a practiced twist of her wrist to combine the scotch and water. Her first sip is a careful one. She holds the liquor in her mouth for a moment before letting it slide down. “Macallan 21-year-old, thank you for sharing. This is delicious and perfect with steak.” She laughs at my surprise. “My dad got me into scotch, Macallan was his favorite.
“I managed to get him a bottle of 21-year-old the year before he died. He said it was the best way to go.” Her blue eyes cloud as she forces a smile. “I can only afford the 12-year-old which I drink very rarely. An excellent steak cooked perfectly and the best scotch. Is this my last supper?”
She says it teasingly; her courage astounds me. I smile against my will. “We shall see what you do or do not find. I read your first book. I liked it. Where did it come from? What made you write it?”
Shrugging, she keeps her eyes down, cutting into her steak. A small happy sigh escapes between her soft lips. “I don’t know. It was one of those kind of weird, just came to me things when I was in Florence.”
Normally, I prefer the beautiful women sitting across from me at dinner to be seen and not heard. Not so with Alexa. I am driven by an urge I cannot identify to know more about her. “For an excellent writer, you just told what could have been an interesting story very poorly.”
Blue eyes sparkle at my teasing. “I don’t know.” She shrugs as if embarrassed. “It was a compulsion. For five days I roamed Florence, it was like out of a dream, everything was better than I ever hoped for.
“On the next to the last day, I’m on a tour through the city. We stop at a small plaque devoted parents put up for a young girl who attempted to help the Medici and was killed. The guide talked about how she did it because she was in love with one of the Medici and hoped to marry him, but she was being used because she was too low born to ever be considered for a wife.
“I couldn’t stop thinking of the girl. I saw the dates of her death and birth, and I realized she was only fifteen. The idea of her loving someone so much she would willingly put her life on the line to help him while her lover was using her really ticked me off. This young girl’s story deserved to be told. I tried to shake it off, though.”
A frown appears on her forehead, I clench my fist at the desire to wipe it away.
“While I loved to read and read most everything, I didn’t read much historical fiction. If I didn’t read it, how the heck would I write it? Only I found myself asking the guide for more information about the girl. He didn’t know much about the girl but was able to tell me more about the Medici man she was helping.
“At the time I was thinking about it, I was of the mindset this guy was a horrible person, and I didn’t want to know more about him. Then I go talk to a librarian in Florence before I leave, and she makes him human. There was all this stuff I didn’t know, didn’t get about the time they lived in that made him just as much a victim of circumstance as the girl. That’s when it hit me about the appeal of historical fiction. It isn’t just the main characters, it’s the history, the time and place is a part of the story too.”
I nod. “For the writers who do it well, the history is as much a third character within the story. You started out hating him, I am surprised, I would have never known. It is a testimony to your skills I was unable to discern your acrimony.”
She blushes. “Like I said, it’s easy to look back and say that person did a bad thing or that person did the wrong thing only without truly knowing the time and all the factors that went into a decision, it’s not fair to say if it was right or wrong you don’t really know if you don’t understand the context in which the decision was made. Not all good people do good things, not all bad people do bad things. It’s not always about the things we do, the why is just as important. Or so I’ve grown to believe.” She smiles. “I’m sorry. Sometimes you speak like any other person than other times your speech is so formal it throws me completely.”
“I have been told that. I believe it is a carryover from learning English through a very rigid, premier private school. Then staying with that world until I went to college.”
“English wasn’t your first language?”
“No,” I sip the last of my scotch. “I spoke Greek because Agatha spoke Greek. My brother tried to teach me English. However, we did not spend enough time together for me to acquire even a basic understanding. When I was five, I went into school where I learned quickly. Although at home I was still made to speak Greek.”
“When you have children will you want them to speak Greek?”
I shrug, “I will not have children.”
Shadows appear in her blue eyes. “Do you not like children?”