Rozsa’s weekly book excerpt
From Lyric (2007) by Rozsa Gaston
She swung the double doors open and walked in. The place was hopping already.
Sure enough, Dawes was at the bar. He spotted her instantly and came over, his face animated.
As he leaned down to take her jacket from her shoulders, the scent of pine trees and saddle soap wafted around her. It smelled similar to an aftershave her father had used in her childhood, warm and embracing, with a hint of the woods. She’d ask him what it was the next time they spoke.
“Glad you could make it,” he said, smiling broadly, a hint of surprise in his voice. His warm brown eyes twinkled in the dim light.
“Hi. I decided to come.” She knew that sounded inane, but it was the truth.
“I’m glad you did,” he repeated, sounding as inane as she had.
For some crazy reason, she couldn’t take her eyes off of him. For once, he wasn’t wearing a plaid shirt. He had on a deep burgundy, crisply ironed, button-down oxford with jeans. He looked like a big, juicy, medium rare steak.
She followed Dawes back to the bar. It was crowded so he led the way, protecting her with his body as they threaded through the throngs.
When they got there, there was one seat left. He grabbed it and offered it to her. She hopped up on it, hoping her cleavage hadn’t flashed as she bent down to drop her handbag on the shelf along the bottom of the bar.
* * *
Dawes felt a moment of awe as he watched Lyric seat herself at the bar. It was beyond belief she’d taken him up on his invitation. He was interested in her for her – well – everything, but it was nice that she had such beauteous assets. He’d never seen such delicate, pale skin on a woman. Trying not to think too much about what he’d just seen when she’d put down her handbag, he turned away to catch the bartender’s eye.
“What’ll it be, buddy?” the Irishman asked, his eyes flickering back and forth between Lyric and Dawes. He was probably sizing up the scenario for the first date it was.
“Pitcher of sangria, red.”
“You got it.”
Dawes took in the extra long swig of rum the bartender tossed in the pitcher. He’d tip him well.
Lyric snagged a tortilla chip and dipped it in the bowl of salsa. She stuffed it in her mouth, a look of pure delight on her face. He liked a woman who wasn’t afraid to eat.
The sangria pitcher arrived and he poured out two glasses. He then turned to Lyric, raising his glass.
“Here’s getting to know you, kid.”
“Here’s to finding out where ‘away’ is,” she responded, reminding him that he’d promised to finally tell her where he hailed from.
Dawes sighed. “Away is someplace not that far from here by miles but very far away in mindset.”
“Do you mean you’re from the Bronx?” there was a teasing twinkle in her eyes.
“Good try. No, I’m not. Any other guesses?”
“Are you from New England?”
“Yup. Want to try to zero in on an area?”
“I’m going to zero in on a specific type of place.”
“As in…”
“An island. Are you from an island?”
“Yes.” Dawes was truly astounded. How had she guessed that? Not too many people had ever guessed that he hailed from a small island. ”How did you know?”
“Let’s just say I’m psychic,” she replied.
“Where’s my island located?” he continued.
“That I don’t know. Tell me.”
“I will. Right after you tell me where you come from. Not Bronxville, right?”
“Right.” She took a long sip of her sangria.
“Then where?”
“I’ll tell you on one condition.”
“Which is?”
“That we order some guacamole.”
“Nice idea, Lyric Tree.” He turned to the bartender and put in the order.
* * *
Lyric’s insides felt warmed all the way down to the pit of her stomach. She liked the snappiness of Dawes’ conversation. He was sassy, but still showed good manners.
The guacamole arrived.
“I come from a place where avocados grow.” She stuck her finger in the green mound, then held it out to him.
“You do, huh? I guess that rules out my first guess which was that you’re a New Englander too.”
“My family came from Boston, but left there before I was born.”
“And moved somewhere south.”
“Very far south. Africa.”
“Africa? You’re kidding. Were your parents missionaries?”
“Nope. My father worked for non-profit groups, but mainly as a translator. He’s fluent in Arabic.”
“So you’re talking about North Africa, right?”
“Yes. Morocco. I grew up in a suburb of Tangier.”
“That sure beats my island.”
“Where’s your island located?”
“Far north.”
“North of Boston?”
“Ayuh,” Dawes said in an obvious Maine accent.
“No. You’re from Maine?”
“Ayuh. That would be it.”
Now all those plaid shirts made sense. He was a Downeaster.
“You didn’t go to school on your island, did you?” Lyric knew enough about Maine islanders to know they usually didn’t produce someone like Dawes.
“I did for a spell. Then I went away to school.”
“And that was where?”
“Hotchkiss.”
Lyric nodded, looking thoughtful. Now she knew where the fine manners came from. She liked them. He’d gone to a school that had played team sports against her father’s school, Kent. She wouldn’t let him know that just yet.
From Lyric (2007) by Rozsa Gaston
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