Page 18 of The Devil Wears Orange
If there’s one thing Jack’s learned from his previous forays into the world of stolen works, it’s that there’s an art to going undercover. Don’t stray too far from the truth, it makes lying easier. Humor and a casual approach give criminals a false sense of security and build on the camaraderie that otherwise wouldn’t exist between the two. Put your subject at ease, master them, and gain their trust.
The waiter arrives with two freshly brewed coffees; the strength of the smell alone can wake the dead.
“Merci,” Jack tells him before he stomps off.
Charlotte tosses her sunglasses on the table, then scoops three spoonfuls of sugar into her steaming cup. Later, the waiter returns with food – an assortment of cheese and bread, no blue, bouillabaisse soup, mushrooms cooked in truffle oil, and poached pears in a wine sauce – plates clinking as he lays them down.
Charlotte rips apart her bread and generously butters it. “Mmmm, this is delicious. I like to get a bit of everything. Are you sure you don’t want anything?”
“Positive.” Jack smiles and sips his black coffee. He watches her tug at a mushroom at the end of her fork. She smears cheese onto buttered bread and pops it into her mouth, then devours the poached pear with such gusto that he’s rather entertained. He’s used to awkward first dates where women nibble at their food like mice and pass on dessert, which sucks, because he always wants dessert. Not that tonight is anywhere close to a date.
His eyes drift to his jacket she wears flung over her shoulders and then down to the sleeve that now rests on the tabletop, the cuff unraveled. He’s neat and orderly and not normally like this, but she has no way of knowing this. Charlotte’s gaze creeps up to his hands that caress a coffee cup, bore a hole into his fingers and, if he were to guess, he’d say his wedding finger, in particular. Surely, the marking left behind from the wedding ring he once wore has faded by now. The thought makes him giddy, and his body releases norepinephrine and dopamine, and serotonin. He feels betrayed.
Between bites, Charlotte says, “Sorry for being cruel earlier. There’s no excuse.”
“You’ve had a bad day.”
“We’ve all had bad days,” she says and pauses to sip her coffee. “Oprah’s big on forgiveness. She says without it, we hold ourselves back in our lives.”
“Well, who am I to quarrel with Oprah? I forgive you. Shall I do a sign of the cross to finalize it?”
Charlotte smiles and says, “It’s partly your fault anyway.”
“Absolutely, it is, but would you mind explaining how so?”
“It’s disconcerting how similar you are to my eighth-grade science teacher, Mr. Pepperman. He failed me on an assignment for refusing to cut up a dead frog in biology. I’m still harboring negative feelings towards him.”
“Careful there. It could lead to some serious PTSD.”
“Teachers can do that. They’re cruel sometimes,” she says, slurping soup.
Jack raises his eyebrows at her. “Really? I like to think I’m cruelallthe time.”
She looks up at him. “Shit. There I go again. Being mean.”
“You should consider teaching as a profession,” he says with a smile.
“Charlotte.”
They both turn to the voice. An enormously tall woman stands by the door with suitcases in hand. Charlotte wipes her hands with the cotton napkin, flings Jack’s jacket from her shoulders, and runs to hug the woman. She doesn’t hug Charlotte back. Charlotte’s eyes light up at the sight of a valise that sits on top of the larger suitcase. “Oh, my shoes, how I missed you so. I’ve been stuck with these water-damaged Jimmy Choos all day.” She lifts a foot to show the woman, who merely sneers. “Sit down,” Charlotte says warmly, slides into her chair and indicates the seat next to her. The woman, upon seeing Jack, changes her demeanor and sits next to him instead.
“Harriet Higginbottom,” she says with a smile, extends her hand to him, and leans in rather close.
“Professor Jack Carey. Always a pleasure to meet a fellow Brit.”
“Yes, it is.” Harriet’s smile widens. “Where do you teach?”
“Oxford.” This seems to impress Harriet to no end.
“Oh, really!” Harriet squeals. “Charlotte, you never told me you’re friends with an academic.”
“We just met,” says Charlotte, but Harriet seems too engrossed with him to have heard Charlotte.
Harriet says, “And what do you teach?”
“Art History.”
“How wonderful. You must be very popular among your students.”
