Desire & Blood - The Thorne Siblings

28. Terrence Park

Terrence park was a parkland and an adjoining wilderness area at the southern edge of the city. A good place to get lost in, especially with the police looking for you.

But instead of getting lost in it, we got soaked. It started with individual, fat drops, doing their best to smite us on the spot. When we weren't smitten, the drops got smaller, but more numerous, giving up on the smiting and concentrating on relentless drenching.

We ran towards a more civilized section of the park and found a restaurant. A large, wooden building with a slate roof. It stood stolid and unmovable in the pelting downpour and the waning light of the day.

The entrance hall was wood-paneled, wood-floored, and wood-raftered. Devices our forebears had used for working the land were arranged along the walls in aesthetically pleasing, yet nonsensical combinations. All of it was polished to shine.

"Looks expensive," I whispered.

"Looks liked they've pillaged an old farmhouse," Theresa answered.

I giggled. The abundance of adrenaline that had flooded my body earlier had ebbed away, leaving me in a dreamy, cottony aftermath of exhaustion.

We continued down a hallway and arrived at the actual restaurant. The tables were set with white linen, sparkling glasses, gleaming silverware, and burgundy-red napkins. There was no more than a handful of guests.

The waiter manning the please-wait-to-be-seated station wore a leather jacket over a white shirt and a leather tie, and once he saw the two waterlogged creatures we were, he wore a frown, on top of that.

"Do you have a reservation?"

I shook my head. "No, but we have a meteorological emergency."

"She means," Theresa added, "we're totally soaked, and you just can't turn us away. We've nowhere else to go." She smiled up at him.

Nowhere else to go—that rang true.

"Very well... let's see." He consulted the bible-sized volume in front of him, frowned and tutting in the power his station gave him, and finally nodded. "Yes, I've got a table for you."

He guided us to our table. The man wore jeans. The restaurant looked like one of those high-strung, fake-rural places where the waiters acted like cowboys but charged like attorneys.

The table was at one of the windows. Outside, darkness had gained a firmer hold on the wet landscape. The waiter brought us the menu and lit a candle between us.

The prices of the fare were as expected—this place wasn't cheap.

Theresa studied the menu, twirling a wet, dark strand of her hair around a finger. She looked up, the blue of eyes catching a gleam of gold in the candle light, and she smiled. "I'll pay."

Once again. This was getting repetitive, but I lacked the money to invite her back. I gave in. "Thanks."

We ordered food, and Theresa chose a wine for us.

The waiter returned with our bottle and filled our glasses. We toasted. The fragrance of the dark liquid was ripe and earthy, and it was smooth as it passed my throat, leaving a warmth on my tongue—the warmth of a summer that had nutured these grapes years ago.

When our food arrived, the scent of garlic and thyme reminded me of how hungry I was. She must have been starving, too, as we both sat for some minutes in voracious silence.

Then she raised her glass once more. "Anne Anderson, thanks for all your help." Her face was solemn, and the moisture on her hair gleamed in the light of the candle.