Page 56 of Eternal Surrender

A knock signaled room service had arrived.

Within minutes, dinner for one was set on the walnut table and the hotel waiter was tilting the 1976 vintage Brevier de Jane for my approval. With a steady hand, he uncorked the wine and poured a sample into a crystal glass. I picked up the wallet and signed the bill, adding a generous tip. The waiter made a discreet exit.

Although Sebastian and I were alone again, my inner ghosts left me feeling crowded and my thoughts divided as I struggled with my decision to loan St. Catherine to the National, tortured by the way it reminded me of my own Catherine, remembering how she loved to sit and admire it when we were children.

In a daze, I froze, still holding the bottle mid-tip and ready to pour.

“You alright?” Sebastian was dressed in jeans and a blue shirt, and where he’d shaved, he was left with a fresh-faced boyish appearance.

“Miles away.” I poured the Bordeaux into the tall, stemmed glass. “I’ve already eaten.” I answered his question before he asked it.

He reached for the glass.

“Let it breathe,” I whispered.

Sebastian lifted the silver lid. “Pasta!” He let out a laugh. “For breakfast!”

“I can order something else.”

His face lit up. “No, I haven’t eaten like this in. . .”

I pulled out the high-backed dining chair for him, and he sat in it, scooting forward, reaching for the silver cutlery placed on either side of the fettuccini-laden porcelain plate. He ate elegant mouthfuls of the yellow creamy dish, pausing briefly to dab his mouth with the napkin. He tried to say, “Thank you so much,” with his mouth full.

I strolled back over to my chair, briefly catching the flicker of emotion in his eyes, reflecting the comfort a good meal provides.

A familiar turmoil raged within, reminding me that time was of the essence, though Sebastian didn’t catch it. He was far too engrossed in the taste of the Bordeaux. He studied the wine label and caught the age of the vintage. He became fixated on the waiting pot of crème brûlée.

“How’s the wine?” I asked.

He took a sip. “Delicious.”

“Do you trust me?” I asked.

“You saved my life.” He smiled and yet it seemed out of place.

“Stay here tonight. You’re quite safe.”

“Where are you going to stay?” he sounded suspicious.

“I’m going home.”

“This place is costly.” He dabbed his mouth with the napkin. “I shouldn’t stay.”

“I insist.”

“Where’s home?”

“Cornwall.”

“Nice. Bit of a drive.”

“I live on an island.” I rose and reached for the bottle and topped up his drink. “Very private.”

He raised his glass. “You’re not having one?”

“I don’t drink.”

“Huh,” he said, surprised. “And yet you choose the finest wine. It’s my father’s favorite vintage.” He scratched his chin and said, “You don’t know him, do you?”