Rose studies the menu carefully.
"I'll order for you," Cal tells her from across the table.
They're tucked into an intimate corner on the second floor of the restaurant, the sort of swanky, elaborate place Rose has only been to a few times in her life. The walls are carved cherry wood and glass, the tables decorated with white lilies and silver candles, and the prices too extravagant to even mention.
"I can read French, Sir."
"I didn't ask if you could. I'll order," he tells her, taking the menu out of her hands and folding it. "Camille says you're picky. That needs to stop. I expect you to put anything in your mouth that I ask you too."
"Yes, Sir." She sips her water, after refusing to order anything off the drinks menu.
"You know, you could have ordered a Coke or something," he tells her.
"Yes, Sir, I know."
"Rose, why won't you let me feed you properly?"
Rose sets her glass down and looks at him, startled. "I'm sorry, what, Sir?"
"You don't like the food at the house, you don't want to order anything here—how can I make you happy?"
"Happy, Sir?"
"Yes."
"I don't know, Sir. It's not that I don't like the food. It's just that I don't really care." She shakes her head. "I have no idea how you can make me happy. I'm never happy with anything."
"Have you always felt this way?"
"No, I guess not. It's difficult . . . you know . . . I miss my dad."
Cal nods. "I understand. You've had so little time to grieve."
Rose shakes her head. "No one's ever loved me as much as he did. And I don't think anyone ever will again."
Cal reaches across the table to take her hand. "I'm so sorry, Rose."
She licks her lips. "It's okay. I don't need anymore sympathy. No one can bring him back. You've already offered me your home. What more could you possibly do?"
"I want to try to make you happy. There must be something you like. What do you want to do with your life?"
"I'm not sure. Dance?"
"For which dance company?"
"For myself. Only myself. Because I love it. Because it's the one thing I only do for its own sake."
"Ballet?"
"That's my favorite, yes. It's precise, calculated, very controlled. But modern, jazz, tap, ballroom, everything. I'm in love with all of it."
"What about marriage? Kids?"
Rose shrugs, "Sir, I'm only sixteen. I don't think about it that much."
The waiter arrives to take their food order, and Cal proceeds to get what sounds like everything on the entire menu—a cheese sample tray and figs to start, then eggplant tapas, warm bread salad, duck breast, and, after a quick encouraging glance from Rose, also places their dessert order along with the rest of the food—bread pudding, madeira ice-cream, and a tray of fruit jellies and chocolate truffles.
Rose warms up as she starts eating and the night progresses. The food is some of the best stuff she's ever put in her mouth, and she freely eats from every plate on the now crowded table.
"I'm sorry . . . did you eat all the truffles, then proceed to so much as try all the other food?"
Rose laughs. "Yes, Sir, I have an insatiable sweet tooth."
"What do you like, out of the normal food?"
"Umm, whatever this is, Sir," she says, tapping her fork on something brown and crispy, drizzled in oil and absolutely delicious.
"That, my lovely dear, is the bread. It comes free."
Once they have their fill, and Rose even agrees to sip and taste the red wine from Cal's glass, Cal glances down once more at her dress and asks, "Is that Camille's?"
"Yes, Sir, do you recognize it? She said she hasn't worn it in years."
"I thought it looked familiar. She was wearing that the first night we met," he answers.
"What are you thinking?" he asks when Rose remains silent.
"That it was very kind of her to let me wear something that must have so much sentimental value for her. I'm thinking that Camille's kindness is almost unnerving, Sir."
Cal laughs, "Someone being nice to you is unnerving?"
"People don't usually give . . . so freely."
"You did," he reminds her, taking a large sip from his wine glass. "You gave me just about everything I asked for, last night."
She nods, her expression unchanging, "Yes, Sir, I did."
"Should I be unnerved?"
"No, Sir."
"Why not, if kindness is such a rarity for you?"
"My body isn't a great sacrifice, Sir. Not like a dress with great sentimental value."
"You're a dancer. Your body is everything to you."
Rose looks away, then back at him. "Dancing wrecks your body. It makes you strong, sure, but it splits you open and makes you bleed. I always liked it for the sacrifices it requires."
Before Cal can respond, they hear a man's voice shout, "Cal!" and they both turn to see a young man waving and coming toward them. "Cal! He repeats, grinning. "What bring you here?" he asks, coming up to their table. He's tall and blond, wearing a dark gray suit and slim black tie. His hair is just a bit too long and hangs in his eyes. It's only when he flicks it back in irritation that Rose sees he has the most beautiful blue eyes she's ever seen.
He notices Rose and catches her eye, distracted while Cal answers him.
"What was that?" he has to ask.
"I said, I'm simply waiting for the waiter to return with my card."
"Oh, you're leaving?" the man casts another glance at Rose.
"Who's your friend?" he asks Cal. Before Cal can answer, however, the man extends a hand, smiles a warm, reassuring grin, and tells Rose, "I'm Jack, a business associate of Cal's."
"This is Rose," Cal answers for her. "Rose, meet Mr. Dawson. He works the Boston cases. He's the only one who understands their accents."
"Pleasure to meet you," Rose tells him, smiling back. He's younger than Cal—closer to her age, actually—and she's surprised that he's an associate with "Boston cases." He seems too friendly and genuine to be a business person, and she can't imagine him holed up in an office like Cal often spends his evenings.
"What are you doing?" Cal asks him.
"I . . . my date got lost."
"Pardon?"
"My date . . . went to the bathroom, and I haven't seen her in a while. The waiter told me he saw her up here. She got lost, and now I've gotten myself lost."
"Who's your date?"
Jack waits a beat without responding.
Cal shakes his head in a small gesture of disapproval. "Is it who I think it is?"
"Yes, Cal."
"The cheater?" he asks, glancing at Rose, as if he's spelling it out for her benefit.
"Ummm. Yes."
"Jack, you've got to dump her at the curb. The girl apparently can't even find her way back from a restroom."
Jack shrugs. "I can't do it, Cal. We're here working on it. You know, our relationship and all that. She cried."
"She—" Cal starts, but stops when he sees the waiter approach with his bill. Cal removes his card from the leather case and slips it back in his wallet. He lets the matter drop.
"See you in the office, then?" he asks Jack.
"Sure, unless I'm still lost here."
"Just use your charm and good looks to get people to help you in your time of need."
"Yes. Rose," he extends his hand toward her again, "it was wonderful to meet you. I hope I get to see much more of you soon."
Rose smiles, a genuine smile, feeling that someone, finally, has reached out as a no-strings-attached friend.
