| Subject: À la Vie! – Chapter 23 |
Author:
Diane
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Date Posted: Saturday, October 30, 09:05:05pm
In reply to:
Diane
's message, "À la Vie!" on Tuesday, October 19, 01:16:54am
Detective O’Brien was not acclimating well to France. The fact that he didn’t speak the language was a major factor, but he missed American food, American baseball—hell. He just missed America. Michael promised him that he would fly him home for the week of July Fourth and let him fill up on American patriotism. In fact, Michael would join him. He hadn’t seen Nikita in over six weeks, and he missed her.
Nikita had emailed Michael her itinerary, so he knew where to find her once they landed in San Francisco. He had the limo driver wait while he went inside the studio to surprise her with an armload of daisies, her favorite flowers. As it happened, Nikita was finished for the day, and was ready to leave with Michael after they first embraced each other in a crushing bear hug. The other models looked each other in wonder. Who was this gorgeous guy? Her brother? It couldn’t be her boyfriend—they never even kissed. Picking up her daisies in one hand and slipping her other hand through Michael’s larger one, Nikita left the studio with a spring in her step and a song in her heart.
“I know it’s only five o’clock, but do you feel like eating yet?” Michael asked. “We could go to our café and sit outside. There’s going to be a beautiful sunset.”
“No,” said Nikita. “Not tonight.” She had thought this over very carefully, weighed all the pros and cons, given herself a stern talking to, and come to a decision. “I’m an excellent cook, and you must be exhausted. Let’s go to my house.”
Michael looked at her in surprise, and tried to ignore the rising pink in her cheeks. “I am tired,” he agreed. “Maybe a quiet dinner in is a good idea. I’ll have my driver take us there.”
Neither of them spoke much on the ride to Nikita’s house. Nikita thanked Michael again for the daisies, and Michael told her again that she was welcome.
The limousine stopped at 412 Plaza Drive. The driver let Nikita out, and Michael exited from the other side of the vehicle. “Shall I wait, sir?” the driver asked Michael. Michael looked at Nikita, who was looking at her mailbox as through she’d never seen it before. “I’ll call you,” Michael replied.
He took Nikita by the hand, and together they walked up the front walk and up two steps to her door. When Nikita took out her keys, her hands were shaking. “Let me, said Michael.” He held her trembling hand reassuringly and with the other, opened the door to number 412. They stood at the front door for what seemed like five minutes, but Michael was not going to enter Nikita’s house without permission. Finally, she stepped inside and made a sweeping gesture with her hand. “Won’t you come in?” she said hesitantly. Michael did. He looked around. From the foyer he could see into the kitchen, which led to a living room/dining room area. To his right was a small office. He couldn’t see what lay beyond that, but the whole house was open and airy, with one room leading into the next.
“Your house is beautiful, Nikita,” Michael said sincerely. The décor he could see was strictly Nikita—old world traditional mixed with modern funk. Everything blended perfectly. Nikita moved left into the kitchen, so Michael followed. He saw a fireplace at the other end of the living room, and glass French doors that led from the dining area to a private patio. There were steps leading out of the living room next to the fireplace—Michael assumed these led to the bedroom.
“Please, have a seat,” Nikita said, gesturing to the couch. She found a vase, filled it with water, and carefully placed the daisies inside. “What can I get you to drink?” Michael thought a glass of wine would relax them both, when suddenly he had a flashback to a little blonde girl on a beach yelling ‘No booze! No booze!’ “Whatever you’re having will be fine,” he answered. Nikita was grinning when she served him his soda. “Do you remember that day on the beach? You turned me into a Pepsiholic!” Michael laughed. He remembered.
“Are you in the mood for chicken or fish?” asked Nikita, padding back to the kitchen. Michael noticed that her shoes had come off, and took this as a good sign—she was comfortable around him. “Surprise me,” he called to her. “If I fix fish, there won’t be much of a surprise,” she stated, smiling. Michael smiled back, unsuccessfully stifling a yawn.
“Take your shoes and jacket off and lie down on the couch,” Nikita instructed. “Dinner won’t be ready for at least 45 minutes, and you look ready to drop.” Michael wanted to argue, except that she was right. He put a comfortable pillow under his head and closed his eyes just for a minute.
* * *
Michael awoke to sunlight streaming in from the wrong direction. It took a few minutes for him to get his bearings, and then he remembered he was in Nikita’s house. He must have slept all night! He was covered with a colorful afghan—he wondered who had made it. He also wondered if Nikita was awake yet, but did not want to go into her bedroom to find out. He sat up and saw a folded note on the coffee table. “Michael—Went for a run. Help yourself to breakfast. N” Michael noticed that Nikita had loosened his tie, and he removed it and placed it on the chair beside his suit jacket. He opened the refrigerator door and looked longingly at the chicken casserole Nikita had prepared. He bet it was wonderful.
Only one way to find out. He got out the casserole and cracked four eggs in a bowl, stirring them with a whisk. He was going to make the omelet of all omelets.
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