If That's What It Takes by Sylvia Dancy

Author:Sylvia Dancy [Dancy, Sylvia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-03-15T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter 5

We didn’t talk for the rest of the way. It felt like a disservice to the beauty of the track to speak amongst ourselves. There were lampposts after every eighth step, and between them hung golden fairy lights. Under any other circumstances, I’d have disregarded the whole thing as incredibly campy, but I don’t know what it was about tonight that made me see the softly lit track steps as romantic as a pathway leading somewhere tempting, like Narnia.

“Where are we going?” I asked after we’d been ascending for what felt like half an hour. I checked the time on my phone. It was only ten minutes since we’d gotten out of the car. “You aren’t going to kill me in the woods, are you?”

Brent laughed. “No. It’s not that. Just bear with me for another minute. It’ll be worth it, I promise.”

This was the second promise he had made, and he had yet to deliver on the first one. I was still skeptical, of course, but a good part of the intrigue was being preserved by the trees blocking the view of the hill station. From where I stood, I had no idea what lay in wait for me. I did, however, spot some lights from between the leaves, but that was about it.

And then, when I climbed to the top, I gasped, my jaw nearly hitting the floor. There, in the clearing of the hill-terrace, was a restaurant, looking like it had been dropped there by some alien spaceship. There was no way up to this terrace except the track which we’d just climbed. How had someone managed to build something this beautiful all the way up here? And had it always been here?

“Cat got your tongue?” Brent was standing beside me, enjoying the looks of disbelief and shock on my face. “It’s something, ain’t it?”

“It’s…oh my God!” I gasped.

It was like one of those restaurants you saw in movies about Paris, with those little striped awnings, tiny tables on the walkway, and the sound of the accordion and French harmonicas filing the air. And yet, the place wasn’t a French restaurant. Inside, I could see a décor that resembled those of the restaurants from the ‘50s. The kind that served shakes and burgers while you sat on the bar and ogled at the waitresses and smoked your cigarettes. And yet, if I were to place it in a category, this place wasn’t a themed diner either. What was it?

“Delcroix Magnon.”

“What?”

“This place. It’s Delcroix Magnon.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Okay,” Brent held my arm and walked with me to the restaurant door. The maître d was standing by the door, holding it open. He was wearing a black vest over a white shirt, and the niftiest bowtie to go on top. He also had a thin pencil moustache and the kindest eyes I’d seen on a person.

“Table for two, sir?” He asked, doing a slight bow.

“Yes, please,” Brent said.

“Please follow me.”

There were tiny espresso cups hanging off

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.