Dreaming of Water: A Novel by A. J. Banner

Author:A. J. Banner [Banner, A. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lake Union Publishing
Published: 2023-10-09T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINETEEN

In the guest room, Astrid realizes she didn’t bring any fancy dinner clothes, at least nothing suitable for a date. Only this is not a date—it’s a temporary escape from the shock of what she has just discovered. While Conor waits in the foyer, she quickly changes into a black low-neck blouse and a floral cardigan, then pulls on a pair of gray slacks and black flats. She brushes her hair, applies a touch of lipstick and eyeliner, puts on a pair of gold hoop earrings. Now she’s presentable.

“You look nice,” Conor says when she joins him in the hall. He holds the front door open for her.

She steps outside. “You don’t need to compliment me. I had to change . . . I looked like I just tumbled out of bed.”

“I’m sure that wouldn’t be so bad,” he says, leading her to his truck.

She feels a strange flutter in her chest, a quick image coming to her of waking next to Conor. Don’t go there—now is not the time. Maybe never.

Again, he opens the car door for her, and she remembers he was always like this, chivalrous but not patronizing. He offered his help, stood up for her. She feels a little awkward, but it’s nice to sit back in the passenger seat and relax. The truck smells faintly of aftershave, and he’s casual about leaving his life lying around—a pair of sunglasses and a battered box of tissues on the console. “How about Thai food?” he says.

“Perfect,” she says, although in truth, she can’t imagine eating much of anything. After reading the letters, she has lost her appetite. He drives through town, down along Oceanfront Street, and he doesn’t try to make conversation. The restaurant, Green Curry, is on the second floor of an old building on the waterfront side, at the top of a narrow staircase. The small dining room, painted in green and gold, seats maybe twenty people. The place feels familiar, from its tall windows to the narrow outdoor deck. Only a few other patrons are here this early—it’s almost five o’clock. The waiter shows them to an outdoor table.

“Are you cold?” Conor says, pulling out her chair.

“No, it’s good, private,” she says, wrapping her cardigan around her as she sits. Out on the water, cormorants ride the waves, and in the distance, the ferry glides in from the islands.

The waiter brings the menus, and she hides behind hers and tries to focus on the starters—garlic green beans, spring rolls, tofu edamame.

Conor’s phone buzzes in his pocket, but he doesn’t answer. The waiter comes to light a flame in a glass candleholder on the table. The angle of light brings out the contours of Conor’s face—he has grown into a man of character. But I’m not on a date, she reminds herself, focusing instead on the ferryboat.

“What are you going to tell your mom?” he asks, sipping his water.

She can feel him looking at her, but she focuses on the menu. Tom Kha—coconut soup, house green salad, pad thai.

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