Page 5 of One Year Ago in Spain
Windsor & BlackLLP was spread over twenty floors in a skyscraper in Midtown. Floor 1 was security; floor 2, a reception hall as elegant as a Four Seasons hotel; floor 3 was the copy center and gym; and floor 4 was the free employee cafeteria. Floors 5 through 7 were glass-walled conference rooms, and then the rest of the levels were attorneys’ offices. Every lawyer at Windsor & Black LLP had their own office with a heavy oakdoor, and their secretaries and paralegals sat outside their respective attorneys’ offices in pods in the center.
Just after nine, Matías arrived, and Claire brought him upstairs. The usually bustling floors were empty now, other than a handful of attorneys still in offices here and there, their doors shut to avoid all distractions so they could finish their work and hopefully get home before midnight. Her own desk was so covered in binders and stacks of paper that there was nowhere to eat, so she led him to the law library.
It was a beautiful space, all soaring ceilings and marble columns, that sadly no one used anymore because research was all done digitally now. When Claire had first started working at Windsor & Black, she’d sworn to herself that she would visit the library every day to remind herself that law and justice were revered, noble concepts, not just a glowing computer screen and endless conference calls. But that promise had fallen by the wayside, long ago consumed by demanding partners and even more demanding clients.
She let out a contented sigh, though, as they stepped into the library now.
“Intimidating,” Matías said as his gaze brushed across the towering shelves of leather-bound tomes.
Claire smiled. “Nah. It’s all a facade. Attorneys are just nerds who like big words, and lots of them.”
“You sell yourself short,” Matías said. “But thereisone thing I have in common with lawyers—we keep late hours.” He held up the cooler and canvas bag he’d brought. “Spaniards eat dinner at nine or ten at night, too.”
Claire laughed and led him deeper into the library, to a table in the back corner.
Matías pulled out a tablecloth. It was brightly colored, like blue and yellow ceramic tiles, and he lifted it into the air like the parachute game children play, tablecloth hovering for a long moment, before letting it settle gently onto the otherwise ordinary table.
He unpacked real plates—not paper—and weighty silverware and cloth napkins, too.
“Three courses in thirty minutes,” Matías declared, and Claire laughed.
“Where did you order from?”
He furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”
“The food? Where did you get it?”
“Oh! Well, let’s see. The Manchego, I purchased from Murray’s Cheese. The olives and almonds, I bought from Despaña in SoHo. The fruit and vegetables are from the farmer’s market near my apartment, and the vinegar and olive oil I bought the first day I was in New York, from Mercado Little Spain.”
Claire stared at him with her mouth open. “Wait. You mean you made me dinner from scratch?”
Matías made a face. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
She didn’t want him to figure out that many New Yorkers never cooked. They just ordered delivery through apps, with the food arriving slightly soggy but still pretty warm at their door.
To begin, he artfully arranged a shaved-apple salad with arugula, Manchego cheese, Marcona almonds, and a tart cider vinaigrette. Claire gasped at the crisp sweetness of fruit contrasted with peppery greens and the richness of nuts and cheese.
“This puts my cafeteria salad to shame,” she said.
“I hope so.”
But it wasn’t just that it was leagues more delicious than regular salads. It was that he’d made itfor her.
Next, Matías presented her with empanadillas de atún—half-moon pastries filled with tuna and green olives—then spooned a sauce made of tomato, onions, garlic, and bell peppers, cooked until deeply caramelized.
“Should I use a knife and fork?” Claire asked, not wanting to commit a cultural faux pas on their first date.
“You can,” Matías said. “Or you can just pick it up like this—”
He bit into an empanadilla andoh god,his mouth. The pastry crumbled in a shower of buttery decadence, and Claire wanted to crawl across the table and lick the stray smudge of sofrito sauce at the corner of his lips. But she restrained herself because (a) she was Claire Walker, who didn’t do things like that, and (b) they were in a library, for goodness’ sake. Even if it was a deserted one after office hours.
But then Matías brought out a small glass jar filled with what looked like speckled caramel.
“This is bienmesabe canario,” he said. “An almond dessert from the Canary Islands, where my great-grandparents were from. This is an old family recipe and my favorite from childhood.”
He dipped a spoon into the jar.
Leaned toward her. “Try it…”
