Coming Up Roses (13 page)

He watched Rose as she surveyed her plate.
“So, what do you think?” He was anxious that she like her meal. She
must be hungry. The sides of his own stomach were rubbing against
each other, he was so empty.

She didn’t lift her gaze from the foreign
concoction residing before her. Looking vaguely dubious, she leaned
forward, and sniffed delicately. “It smells good.” She seemed more
cheerful after this pronouncement.

“
Sam and I ate this same thing
yesterday. It’s delicious.” H.L. spoke with decision, slid a piece
of meat off its skewer and speared it.

“
Who’s Sam?

“
Another reporter with the
Globe
.”

“
Ah.” Rose continued to gaze at her
food for another moment. Then she pulled off her gloves, picked up
the end of a skewer, maneuvered a piece of meat from it, and
stabbed it with her fork. She cut it in half before she popped one
of the halves into her mouth.

It pleased H.L. more than he could express
when her eyes opened wide again. He recognized the delight dawning
in them, and felt as if he’d done something wonderful. That was
probably ridiculous, but he couldn’t help himself.

After she swallowed, Rose said, “Oh, my, this
is delicious!”

“
Told you so.” H.L. couldn’t recall
when he’d felt so self-satisfied.

She then forked up a small bite of the
parsley salad, chewed it, and swallowed. “I
really
like this! Do you know what it’s
called?”

“
Uh-uh, but we can find out.” H.L.
hadn’t thought much about the oddly concocted salad, not being the
vegetable-loving sort, but he waved at a handsome, dark-visaged,
white-clad, turbaned waiter, who came over to stand before them. He
looked more dignified than any other waiter H.L. had ever seen, but
he still asked, “Does this salad have a name?”

“
Taboule, sir,” the waiter
replied.

“
Taboule?” Rose blinked up at the man,
whose mein relented slightly as he gazed at her.

Well, and why wouldn’t it? H.L. thought
smugly. Rose Gilhooley would be an ornament to any setting.

The waiter bowed at her. “Yes, ma’am.”

“
It’s delicious,” Rose said, her cheeks
pinkening slightly. She looked as if she wasn’t sure it was
permissible to compliment waiters on meals.

H.L. was proud of her. He knew he hadn’t any
right to be; after all, she was nothing to him but a news story.
But she was so precious. So polite and charming. So . . . He’d have
to think about it. He seldom had trouble coming up with the best
words to use in describing anything, but Rose had him buffaloed.
Every time he contemplated her, he fell short of achieving the
perfect word to assign to her.

The waiter said, “Thank you, madam.” He even
smiled.

Rose’s blush deepened.

Yanking his brain away from words, H.L.
decided this encounter had lasted long enough. He didn’t want any
Middle-Eastern swami—whatever a swami was—to get any ideas about
ravishing the delectable Rose. If there were any ravishing to be
done in that quarter, H.L. May would be the ravisher.

He didn’t mean that.

Or did he?

Damn. As he wondered if he were losing his
mind entirely, H.L. spoke rather sharply to the waiter. “Thanks a
lot. That answers our question. We’ll call if we need anything
else.”

The waiter’s expression turned blank once
more, he bowed formally, and moved away from their table. H.L. felt
a little silly.

“
There was no need to be rude to the
poor man, Mr. May.”

Damn it all, there she went again. H.L.
glanced from the waiter’s back to Rose’s face, ready to do battle,
when her expression stopped him. She was clearly embarrassed about
something. What the hell was going on?

Rose went on, “If it was improper of me to
speak to the waiter, I’m sorry, but it’s certainly not his
fault.”

Since H.L. didn’t understand her point here,
he didn’t have a clue what to say.

She took a deep breath and blurted out,
“If you
must
know, I’m not
used to dining in restaurants.” She bowed her head and frowned at
her plate. “I grew up on the frontier, for heaven’s sake. It may
seem countrified to you, but in Kansas, we’re generally polite to
people, whatever their station in life, even those who serve us
meals.”

Still confused, H.L. said, “I beg your
pardon? I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Miss
Gilhooley.”

She lifted her head and glared at him,
unquestionably exasperated, and H.L.’s confusion grew. He began to
feel as though he and Rose were performing parts in two different
plays that had somehow ended up on the same stage at the same time
by accident. The sensation was uncomfortable.

Rose snapped, “Fiddlesticks! Just answer me
this, please: Was it wrong of me to have told the waiter I found my
meal tasty?”

“
Good God, no!” H.L. couldn’t account
for the expression of relief on her face.

“
Good. I’m glad of that, anyhow.” She
seemed to relax as she speared the other half of the meat cube
she’d cut up earlier. “That settles that, then.”

“
I guess so.” Befuddled and without the
least understanding of what mental machinations had just occurred
in his lovely dining companion’s head, H.L. decided to solve that
riddle later, along with all the other Rose riddles he was storing
up. The food was too good, and he was too hungry, to worry about it
now.

He was stuffed to the gills by the time
they’d polished off their lunch and crowned it with one of the
melt-in-your mouth baklavas he loved so well for dessert. Rose had
told him she was too full for dessert, but he’d insisted. When,
with her first bite, she looked as if she were experiencing
heavenly ecstasy, he was satisfied.

Patting his stomach as they left the
restaurant, he said, “I feel better now. I seem to have lost my
appetite, in fact.”

Rose smiled up at him. H.L. nearly fell over
backwards. He couldn’t recall her smiling at him in unalloyed
pleasure before. A mad urge to keep the expression on her face
assailed him.

“
That was one of the very best meals
I’ve ever eaten, Mr. May. Thank you for giving me the
experience.”

“
You’re welcome.” His tongue felt bulky
and didn’t seem to want to work with its normal glib suavity. Rose
Gilhooley did something to him; he wasn’t sure what it was, but it
had never happened before. He didn’t altogether trust
it.

After he cleared his throat in a vain attempt
to get his tongue and brain coordinated, he gave it up and decided
he might as well start with the basics. “Say, Miss Gilhooley, I
don’t know about you, but I need to visit the comfort station. I
expect you might need to powder your nose, too.”

“
Powder my nose?” She gazed up at him
blankly.

He grinned down at her. “Yeah. Euphemisms.
You know. Powder your nose?”

Her blank look remained as she answered him.
“Er, yes. Yes, of course.”

So H.L. led them to the end of the Midway,
where the comfort stations, fabulous in their own right, had been
built. “I’ll meet you here in a few minutes,” he said as he
sauntered off to the men’s side of the building.

“
Right. In a few minutes.”

Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw Rose
gazing after him, looking puzzled. As soon as she saw him, she
blushed, turned, and hurried to the women’s side of the
building.

Chapter Seven

Rose couldn’t decide if she’d made a total
fool of herself or only a partial one, but she had her fears. But
how was she supposed to know that a “comfort station” was where one
could relieve oneself? Fancy words that folks used for things like
privies had never been a part of her experience. And what was a
euphemism?

She felt really stupid. It was true that
she’d been to Europe. She’d even met queens and emperors and
Kaisers—and why the Germans didn’t just call him a king like the
rest of the countries did was a mystery to her—but she’d never
encountered a “comfort station” before this Exposition.

Now that she knew what it was, she wondered
what H.L. had meant with his comment about powdering her nose. Did
he think her nose needed powder? Did he think it was too shiny?
After she relieved herself, which was the first and most vital
order of business, she peered into the elaborate mirror set up for
female fair-goers to view themselves, presumably with an eye toward
improvement.

Her nose did appear to be a trifle pink. She
probably ought to have powdered it before walking so far in the
sun, actually, but Rose didn’t use powder. The truth was that she
didn’t use any paint at all, even during her performances, because
she’d never thought about it. She did now. She held no moral qualms
about using face powder if it would make her look better as she
performed. Lord. Here was one more thing to discuss with Annie, she
supposed.

Because the weather was warm, and the
world-famous Chicago winds had blown up a lot of dust, Rose
splashed cool water on her face and wiped it dry with a towel
handed to her by an attendant. An attendant! She’d never heard of
such a thing. She smiled politely, said, “Thank you,” and her mind
slid back to the waiter.

Dagnabbit, she wished Annie had taught her
how polite ladies acted when they went out to restaurants and dined
with gentlemen. Annie knew, because she’d had more experience than
Rose at these things. Rose had never thought about asking her how
one was supposed to behave in a restaurant. Until H.L. May barged
into her life, Rose hadn’t even considered that she might be made
to feel foolish because she didn’t know if it was proper to talk to
a waiter or not. When she’d eaten in restaurants before, she’d done
so as part of her Wild West duties and the colonel had done all the
talking.

“
Bother.” It would do her no good to
stand here staring at herself and brooding. Since she’d learned a
little bit about tipping in Europe, she handed the attendant a
one-cent piece, thanked her again, and bracing herself for further
humiliation, walked outside to find H.L. May.

He was waiting for her. When he spotted her,
he gave her one of his unfairly spectacular smiles and strode over
to greet her. He had a long stride. And a confident one. Rose
allowed herself a single moment to feel small, insignificant, and
stupid before she braced herself and smiled back at him.

“
You look beautiful today, Miss
Gilhooley. Did I already say that?”

Rose felt herself flush. “I can’t
remember.”

“
Well, if I forgot to tell you so
before, please allow me to do so now. You do look
beautiful.”

“
Thank you.” Was it proper to say more
than thank you when a man told a woman he thought she was
beautiful? Rose had no idea, so she kept quiet.

H.L., evidently not expecting an elaboration
from her, inhaled deeply and glanced around as if he were glorying
in the day. “All right, how about we go to the Japanese Pavilion
next? Have you been there yet?”

Thank God she’d managed to squeak past the
beauty comment. “No. I haven’t really seen much of the fair yet.
We’ve been quite busy at the Wild West.” Excuses, excuses. Rose,
inferior being that she was, hadn’t wanted to explore the
Exposition with anyone but Annie, since Annie understood her and
never made her feel backward or dim-witted. Now she felt sort of
silly about her lack of adventurousness.

“
Great.”

She shot him a glance, wondering what was so
great about being a coward, but she didn’t perceive anything on
H.L.’s face that might signify he knew why she hadn’t seen the
fair. Thank goodness. Maybe pretending not to be a hick was
working. Of course, pretense wouldn’t save her indefinitely, since
she didn’t honestly know what could be considered hick-like and
what couldn’t. Talking to waiters sprang to mind.

Taking her courage in both hands, she decided
to ask. Why not? She’d already admitted to having had no experience
in dining out. “Um, is it considered ill-mannered to talk to
waiters, Mr. May?” Because she thought that sounded too stupid to
stand alone, she hurried to add, “I mean, in Kansas, we just talk
to everybody.”

He shot her a glance filled with surprise.
“Ill-mannered? Of course, not. Why’d you think that?”

Because she was a bumpkin? No. She couldn’t
say that. Rose licked her lips as she scrambled through the sludge
in her brain for a less damaging response. “Um, I only wondered. I
mean, I wasn’t sure if I should have told that man that I enjoyed
my meal back there in the Egyptian restaurant.”

She wished she hadn’t said anything at all
when H.L.’s expression of disbelief intensified.

“
Why not? I mean, why should you think
it was wrong to tell the man you liked his cuisine? After all, he’s
probably happy to know it.”

“
Oh. Good.” What was cuisine? For only
an instant, Rose wanted to cry. Firming her resolve to behave like
a lady, she suppressed the urge at once. She’d ask Annie tonight.
Let’s see. That was
euphemism
,
cuisine
, and what else? Oh, Lord, she’d
forgotten already. She wished she dared write these words down. Oh,
yes, she remembered now.
Metaphor
. She’d forgotten to ask Annie that one.
Bother.

“
Anyhow, I think you’ll enjoy the
Japanese Pavilion. Did you know they eat raw fish in
Japan?”

“
Raw fish? Good heavens.” Rose really
didn’t want to hear about eating raw fish on a full stomach,
although she didn’t say so.