Counterpointe (6 page)

“So are we there yet?”

“We are.”

As he led the way into the wooded area, it seemed improbable that they could be in the middle of a large city, for here traffic sounds were replaced with birdsong and the cool air carried a delicious scent.

Clare stopped walking and closed her eyes to breathe it in. “This has got to be what heaven smells like.”

She opened her eyes to find Rob grinning at her. “Do you know what it is?”

“Of course. It’s lilac.” She concentrated, taking in small puffs of air, then one deep breath. “It’s amazing. Where is it coming from?”

“There, see.” He pointed toward a grouping of large bushes.

Drawing near, she saw each had clusters of blossoms—pale lavender, pink, white, purple.

Her internal music offered a bright
glissando
as accompaniment.

“You had a bowl of lilacs on your table,” Rob said. “It made me think of this.” He stood with his hands in his pockets, looking pleased as she went from bush to bush, sticking her nose into blossoms, trying to detect that particular flower’s contribution to the overall bouquet.

“It’s wonderful. Where are we?”

“Arnold Arboretum. It belongs to Harvard University, and lucky for us they’re willing to share. Next we’ll go where I originally planned to take you.”

“I bet it can’t top this.”

“You’re probably right, but you still need to get your historical ticket punched.”

Back in the car, Rob retraced their route, heading back toward downtown Boston. “Are you a fan of ‘The Landlord’s Tale,’ by any chance?” he asked.

“I don’t think I know it.”

‘“One if by land, two if by sea?’”

“Of course. But it’s called, ‘The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere,’ isn’t it?”

“That’s what everybody thinks.” Rob maneuvered his elderly Buick into the last bit of open curb adjacent to a No Parking sign. “I hope you don’t mind if we walk from here?”

“Absolutely not. Snagging this spot was practically miraculous. I do know that much about Boston.”

When he helped her out of the car, she stood for a moment with her eyes closed, sampling the rich mix of odors—baking bread, garlic, and something green, with a faint, sour undertone of garbage. The bread and garlic scents made her mouth water.

“I think you could blindfold me and bring me back here or to the Arboretum and I’d know exactly where I was each time.” She opened her eyes to find he was studying her. She spoke quickly to cover a frisson of nerves at the look on his face. “So where to first?”

“I thought we’d start with Paul Revere’s house.” He pointed toward a dark gray structure then looked at her as if gauging her interest. “That’s only its conjectured appearance, of course.”

“Conjectured?”

“Would you prefer purported?”

“I rather like conjectured. I’m just not sure what you mean by it.” What an interesting, unusual companion he was turning out to be.

“Well, Revere owned it from 1770 to 1800. After that it was used for shops and apartments and who knows what. A hundred years later, when someone finally had the idea to save it for posterity, there was nobody left who knew what it looked like originally.”

“So you’re saying all it is, is someone’s best guess.”

“That’s right. You want to take the tour?”

“You know, it’s really too pretty a day to spend it inside examining purports and conjectures.”

Smiling, he nodded in acknowledgement. “Done. Do you prefer the sunny or the shady side of the street?”

“Oh, most definitely the sunny.”

He offered his arm as they crossed the uneven cobbles. “Do you happen to know what Paul Revere yelled as he banged on all those doors?”

“I take it from your manner it was definitely not, ‘The British are coming.’“

“That would have simply confused everyone, since they were, after all, still British themselves. They might have decided the local pub had just closed and gone back to sleep, and then where would we be? More than likely he said, ‘The Regulars are on the move.’’’

“It simply doesn’t have the same panache.”

“Panache. I like that. No doubt why Longfellow invoked artistic license.”

At the least, the man had an interesting vocabulary and it seemed to be catching.

“See that shop?” he said. “They make the best macaroons in the city. Light, chewy, delectable.”

Delectable? “You’re making my mouth water.”

“All part of the plan.”

Definitely harmless. Probably.

They walked into the shop and five minutes later walked out carrying a bag containing a half dozen warm macaroons. Rob handed her one and Clare took a bite to find that, indeed, the crisp outside gave way to a moist, chewy, and—there was no other word for it—delectable center. “Oh my, is that ever good.”

He took a bite of his own cookie, his expression one of such pure enjoyment, any remaining hesitation about having agreed to go out with him evaporated.

As they continued to stroll, he pointed with his cookie at a pocket garden she would have walked by without noticing. “See those flowers?”

“The tulips, you mean?”

“Umm. That color would suit you. Rose. Like the color in your cheeks.” His gaze held hers for a questioning instant.

Her heart skipped in surprised response.

“You ready for another cookie?”

“Maybe later.”

“Maybe?”

“Definitely later.”

“I share only with people I like.”

“So you’re saying I’d better take one now, before I fall out of your good graces?” As she concentrated on matching his banter, something else was beginning to happen. A shimmer of...awareness.

“Or before I eat them all. There we are. The Old North Church.”

Halfway down the narrow street, a steeple rose above the jumble of buildings.

“Is that also conjectured?”

“You know, it may be, more or less, since the weather vane is the only original part left.
 
The steeple’s been destroyed by storms not once, but twice.”

“Ah, the wrath of God.”

“Now that’s an interesting interpretation.”

“What about the inside?” she asked.

“I believe it’s authentic, and it’s nice.”

“Perhaps I’d better see it, then.”

He bought tickets and they were ushered into the church. As the guide started her spiel, Clare gazed at the plain interior—the white of the walls and pews contrasting with the scarlet seat cushions. Clearly, a space to bring a troubled spirit to, or even an untroubled spirit.

She appreciated Rob not distracting her from her contemplations. Slowly the sense was growing that he was worth knowing.

“That was nice,” she said when they were back outside. “Very peaceful.”

He pursed his lips, nodding. “It’s my favorite historical building. Although, there’s another one near here I think you’ll find interesting.” He led the way, finally stopping and pointing toward a narrow house.

“Anorexia House?”

“Good one. Your house reminded me of this one.”

“Oh, mine’s bigger.” But perhaps not by much.

“You’re right. This is officially the skinniest house in Boston. It’s ten point four feet wide.”

Clare stared at the house trying to decide how to frame the question she’d been wanting to ask him ever since they stopped by the garden. But why shilly-shally around? She’d shared macaroons with this man, after all.

“History buff, cookie lover, flower connoisseur, ballet fan. So what else are you, Rob Chapin?”

He gave her a rueful look. “Nothing very exciting, I’m afraid. I’m a professor of medicinal chemistry at Northeastern University.”

With his glasses and mostly serious demeanor, he certainly fit the part.

“Medicinal chemistry?”

“Design, structure elucidation, and synthesis of drugs. Therapeutic ones, of course.”

“Of course. Structure elucidation?”

“Sorry. I spend so much time in the lab, I sometimes forget to translate.”

“I doubt a translation would help since the only chemistry I’m acquainted with is personal chemistry.”

“Personal chemistry?”

“You know, between two people.”

“Of course. Pheromones, vasopressin, and oxytocin.”

Clare rolled her eyes. “Do I even want that translation?”

“Probably not.”

“You know, you carry that off pretty well.”

“What’s that?”

“Sounding scholarly without being too stuffy about it.”

“Are you saying I’m stuffy?”

“Just a bit.”

“Hey, we guys can take only so much honesty.”

She looked at him, liking what she was seeing. Enjoying the banter.

Then his expression sobered. “As long as we’re doing the honesty bit, I have a confession. I’m not a ballet fan. I was just filling in as Lynne’s escort. She dragged me there.” His mouth quirked. “Although, I have to admit, I’m glad she did.”

Uh-oh
. “Do you think you could like it?” Might as well get that out of the way, although she was unsure how the clarification would affect her growing pleasure in his company.

His expression once again turned solemn. “Definitely. If you’re the one dancing.”

She could work with that. Probably. At least his honesty was a nice change from the lines most men tried on her. Or it might simply be a different kind of line.