He pointed to a small tin. “What’s that?”
“Loose-leaf tea,” she said, lying. The tin contained Teddy’s ashes. She couldn’t bear to bury them yet. She was afraid if she left them behind in Vermont, her father would dump them in the compost pile. He’d liked Teddy, but he wasn’t sentimental about a dog’s ashes.
“I thought it might be jewelry,” Juan said. “Girls your age love sparkly things, don’t they?”
“Some do.”
“That’s a pretty necklace you’re wearing.”
Wendy self-consciously fingered her small polished rose quartz and silver chain. “I made it myself. It’s not worth anything. I don’t like fancy gems.”
Juan grinned at her. “No diamonds and emeralds for you, Miss Wendy?”
“Not for me, no.”
“Your aunt doesn’t seem the type, either, but you never know. She could have a soft side that likes a little luxury, huh?” His dark eyes twinkled at his own teasing as he set her tote back next to her backpack. “You have ID? I have to ask.”
“Oh—um—yes.” As she unbuttoned the small quilted bag she’d made last year from scraps of vintage fabric, she noticed her hands were shaking. She wasn’t used to people searching her bags and asking her for ID. She found her driver’s license and handed it to the doorman, whose thick hands, she noticed, were very steady. “It’s a terrible picture, I know.”
“Nobody takes a good picture for their license.” He glanced at it, then handed it back. “I’m sorry. It’s because I don’t know you and you leave your bags here—”
“I understand.”
Actually, she didn’t. But Juan was being so nice, and obviously the extra security was something he was required to do, so Wendy decided not to make a big deal of her objections.
He jumped forward, opening the door for someone else coming into the building. “I’ll take good care of your bags,” he called back to Wendy, then told her in Spanish to have fun in New York.
She scooted past him and another tenant, a middle-aged man this time, then trotted back down the steps. Her legs felt jittery from all the exertion that morning, but she wasn’t hurting anymore. Feeling dismissed, she stood in the middle of the sidewalk and squinted up at the blue October sky. No clouds. In Vermont—
You’re not in Vermont.
It was only one-thirty. At least four hours before Juliet would get back from work.
The Museum of Natural History was within walking distance of her aunt’s building. But Wendy was starving. She wondered if there were any vegetarian restaurants nearby. She could probably find something vegan at any of New York’s numerous diners, but her stomach churned at the prospect of eating next to someone gobbling a rare hamburger.
She debated going back to her aunt’s building for her iPod. She could listen to music and walk around in Central Park—it was a gorgeous day. But she didn’t want to get lost in the park. That sounded dangerous. She decided to get something to eat and check out the museum.
After a couple of blocks, Wendy was so hungry that she ducked into a diner without even thinking about meat-eaters. She sat on a red vinyl stool at the counter. She was sure she could smell raw meat but tried not to think about it and ordered a salad, asking the waitress if she could substitute chickpeas for the cheese. The waitress didn’t even bat an eye. It was as if Wendy’s request wasn’t unusual at all.
New York was so great.
A man sat down on the stool next to hers, his elbow brushing her arm as he reached for a plastic menu. He ordered a turkey club.
Gross.
He was very good-looking. He reminded her of Johnny Depp. Not Johnny Depp when he was playing the pirate in Pirates of the Caribbean, but the character he played in Chocolat, which was her mother’s favorite movie. Sexy, earthy. He had dark curly hair and pale gray eyes. Then she noticed a jagged white scar on his jaw and quickly glanced away, wondering if he’d think she’d been staring.
The waitress plopped down a plastic bowl of salad in front of her. It was mostly iceberg lettuce, with a few dry carrot scrapings, half a radish, a green pepper ring, two cucumber slices, a cherry tomato, and chickpeas that were straight out of a can.
A chickpea fell onto the counter and rolled toward the Johnny Depp-looking man. He picked it up as if it was an errant golf ball and grinned at Wendy. “One got away.”
“That’s okay.” She felt awkward but didn’t know what else to say.
He popped the chickpea into his mouth. “Chickpeas are an acquired taste, don’t you think?”
“Especially plain. They’re great in falafel or hummus.”
“Ah.”
She didn’t know if he was teasing her.
“Is that a hawk on your sweatshirt?”
“A peregrine falcon.”
He seemed to sense her hesitation. “You’re not from New York, are you?”
“Vermont,” she mumbled.
“The Green Mountain State. Leaves changing up there?”
She nodded. “Especially in the mountains.”