“You don’t believe me?” He looked wounded. “Look, then, look what I have brought for you.” He pulled a brown paper bag from his back pocket, removed a small picture frame, spread the bag flat, and placed the picture on it, turning it so Leah could see it.
She leaned over to look and blinked with surprise. It was a picture of her. She recognized the setting—she was wearing camouflage, and it was the day they had been fitted. She was standing with someone else, who had been cropped from the picture, and she was laughing. Her eyes were crinkled, her mouth open as she laughed. She had to admit; it was an appealing picture.
“Adolfo!” She picked up the picture. “How in the world did you manage this?”
“How!” he scoffed, throwing his arms wide. “I am in the lighting, mi amor. My friends, they are the photographers, of course.”
“You mean the camera guys?” she asked. “I haven’t seen any of the crew yet.”
“They come one day for the pictures that will appear in the papers and television.”
“And you had them take a picture of me?” she asked, looking at him skeptically.
Adolfo smiled. “No. I will be liar if I tell you this. I choose this from many pictures they take.”
She still looked at him skeptically, but his smile just deepened, and he lifted his shoulders, palms up. “You do not trust me?”
“No,” she said with a laugh, but looked at the picture again. “This is really great, Adolfo. A little memento of the movie. It was really very sweet of you.”
“For you, sweetheart, I do it. You must have this wonderful picture of you.”
“Thank you.”
“So now you will come to dinner with me, no?”
Leah laughed at his tenacity. “Maybe someday.”
“Someday. When is this someday?” Adolfo whined, looking exceedingly charming nonetheless. “Is it this man again?”
“What man?” she asked coyly.
“The man, the man,” he blustered, gesturing impatiently. “The bastard who does not deserve you. The bastard who makes your heart sad. This man.”
“Oh. That man.”
“Si, si, that man.”
“Well . . .” she picked up the picture again and admired it. “It seems he gets around a lot.” She peeked up at him. “He dates a lot of women.” Adolfo lifted a dark brow. “A lot,” Leah added emphatically.
“Ah,” Adolfo said, and nodded. “I know this man. Let me tell you something. This man will promise you many things, but he will never give himself completely to you. Do you understand?”
“Better than you know.”
“There, you see? I am the man for you. When will you have the dinner with me?”
“Maybe when we get back from Washington.”
“As long as that!” he exclaimed, but then softened, took her hand in his once more and kissed her knuckles. “I shall wait, mi amor, I shall wait as long as you will torture me with this hope,” he said, and let go of her hand, smiled very sexily.
For some reason, the way he said it, the way his brown eyes seemed to sparkle through when he smiled, made her toes curl a little. She laughed a little, slipped the picture into the bag, and picked up her backpack. “Thanks again. And now, I have to go. See you, Adolfo,” she said. She stood up, gave him a little wave with her free hand, and walked out of the commissary tent, almost colliding with a pole because she was too giddy to see it.
WHEN Michael showed up to work that morning, he looked at the package on the passenger seat and debated. This was stupid—he should have just left well enough alone instead of rifling through the little box that contained mementos from the few highlights of his life—a mathlete badge from the eighth grade, a Valentine’s Day card a teacher had once given him. A cork from a rare bottle of wine he had shared with a European prince. A pair of panties he couldn’t remember the specifics about anymore, but he figured it had to be good because he had kept them.
And a couple of other things, like Leah’s phone number scrawled on a cocktail napkin, a playbill from one of the first plays he ever saw her in, before she even knew he existed. It was that stupid playbill he’d taken and had engraved and framed. The original playbill was yellowed with age and stained by a glass of wine he’d had with his date the night he’d seen Leah’s play, a woman whose name he could no longer remember.
But that had been Leah’s first Broadway play, and she’d been spectacular. He’d heard about it from the guy who had introduced him to Leah at a party, and he’d been so intrigued he’d taken his date to see Leah’s play. His date never knew he was looking at Leah, that he was admiring her every move on stage. Even then he’d known there was something different about her. To think he’d contributed to ending such a bright and promising career filled him with grief.
And now—in light of what had happened between them in the last week, it seemed like a stupid extravagance. The day he had taken the playbill to the engraver, he thought they had a chance. Now, he wasn’t so sure.