City Of Spies. Nina Berry
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Why wouldn’t he know that?” Pagan’s heart was made of lead. “Maybe that’s really why he said no monkey business.”
“You think Devin’s the same kind of guy as Tango Tony?”
A small laugh escaped Pagan in spite of herself. “Yeah, no. They’re nothing alike.”
“Your past is nobody’s business but yours,” Mercedes said.
“What about your past?” Pagan glanced over at her friend. “Is that none of my business?”
Mercedes wrinkled her nose, suddenly a little shy. “What do you want to know?”
“Have you ever...?” Pagan didn’t know how to say it. She and Mercedes had shared their worst deeds and fears during their months as roommates in reform school. But M had never talked about a boyfriend, or dating, or any kind of romantic interest. “Did you ever get really serious with a boy?”
Mercedes took her time, the way she did, pondering the question, as Pagan’s heart beat hard and fast, hoping she hadn’t offended her. “I thought about it,” Mercedes said, her eyes screwed up tight, like she was wincing. “I had a few chances. Cute boys, too.”
“But you had more self-control than I did.” Pagan tried not to feel disappointed that she was the only one with a stained reputation. “Figures. You weren’t a drunk.”
“No, I just didn’t want to.” She looked over at Pagan as if she’d said something dirty or wrong.
Pagan bumped her shoulder into her friend’s. “Very funny.”
“No, it’s true. So...” She swallowed hard and seemed to force herself to keep talking. “I went to a bar where women go to meet women. To see if that’s what I wanted.”
Pagan stopped in her tracks. Mercedes glanced back, but she kept walking. Her cheeks were pink. Was she actually blushing? Pagan hustled to catch up. “Was it?”
Mercedes shook her head, staring down at her feet as she walked. “Nope. Girls are nice and pretty and all, but I didn’t feel a thing.”
“But then...” Pagan didn’t know where to go from here. “You probably haven’t found the right person.”
“Maybe.” Mercedes frowned. She actually looked worried. “So far no one’s tempted me. All I want to do is read the next issue of Fantastic Four and study astrophysics.”
“So—you don’t want to get married? Have children?” Pagan was trying to wrap her head around this.
“It just never occurred to me. Do you?” Mercedes asked.
“Of course!” Pagan said automatically, then thought more. “But I’m not sure why.”
“Everybody says that’s what makes women happy,” Mercedes said. Her voice was unusually uncertain for her. “So if I don’t want it, what does that make me?”
Pagan frowned. “You’re still a girl! You’re still a woman. What else would you be?”
Mercedes said nothing, staring fixedly off into the distance. A couple of young men lounging in a doorway pursed their lips and made kissing noises at them as they walked past. Pagan resisted the urge to throw them a rude gesture.
“Well, nobody’s going to want to marry me, so we can be spinster old ladies together,” she said.
Mercedes thought that over as they passed a shop filled with colorful glass bottles, and another selling shiny leather goods.
Mercedes glanced over her shoulder, then back at Pagan, her expression softening. “As long as I do the cooking.”
Pagan laughed. “Deal.”
Mercedes squinted at her thoughtfully. “Except, you like kids.”
Kids. Ava. Her little sister, dead for more than a year now.
How Pagan missed pressing her cheek against that soft head of blond hair, missed making crazy faces to turn that that serious, frowning expression into a laugh. Pagan’s and Ava’s fingers had warred over the piano keys in furious duets. Their voices had meshed and clashed as they read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe out loud in tandem. They were so different yet so close.
What would Ava be like now if she had survived the accident Pagan had caused? What would Ava say about Pagan’s quest to find the mysterious Dr. Someone who had visited them so many years ago?
“I wouldn’t mind having kids if they were like Ava,” Pagan said. It was getting easier to say her sister’s name, but still it made her throat close, her fists clench.
“You’d be a fun mom,” Mercedes said.
“I’m still figuring out how to go a day without drinking,” Pagan said. “One thing at a time, please. Mostly I wish I didn’t have to go back to the movie shoot tomorrow. I used to think the tango was wonderful, but now...”
“Maybe you haven’t found the right partner,” Mercedes said tartly. She glanced over her shoulder again and a frown had creased the smooth skin between her eyebrows. Her almond eyes flicked briefly over her shoulder again. But she kept walking.
“What?” Pagan said.
“Don’t look. But the same man that’s behind us now was behind us before, in front of the Casa Rosada.”
It took all of Pagan’s self-control not to look over her shoulder. Her stomach tightened, but inwardly she told herself to remain calm. “He’s probably a tourist, like us. You said this is a popular street.”
Mercedes shook her head. “He’s not acting like a tourist. The café’s a block up on the other side. Let’s cross here.”
Pagan didn’t want to question M’s instincts. In reform school, she could look at someone once and know if they were an actual threat or bluffing. But the real world was more complicated, and Mercedes wasn’t running with a gang now.
They crossed to the southern side of the street, and Pagan took a casual glance back the way they’d come. Two men talked and smoked as they walked together, a young woman pushed a stroller and a bent old woman all in black crossed the street behind them.
Mercedes scanned the same people as they reached the other side. “He’s not there now. He was wearing a gray suit and hat. He must’ve seen that I noticed him.”
They reached the dark-wood-and-glass doors of the Café Tortoni with its flamboyant art nouveau sign above in red.
Pagan opened the door as Mercedes said sharply, “There he is again.”
“The man in gray?” Pagan stepped back out and looked down the street, but saw no man in gray.
“Gone again,” Mercedes said. “I took my eyes off him for one second, and poof!”
“Maybe he thinks you’re cute,” Pagan said, and hauled open the heavy door again.
M gave her the side eye and walked in. Past the curtained-covered glass door, the Café Tortoni became a glorious high-ceilinged fin de siècle restaurant, its glittering chandeliers shrouded in cigarette smoke. Greek columns with curlicues on top held up a ceiling with a stained-glass skylight in the center. The murmuring voices of the patrons bounced off the glowing wood walls covered with Cubist paintings and autographed photos of patrons. Pagan recognized the shock of white hair belonging to Albert Einstein in one of them. The warm smell of steak make her stomach grumble.
“My guidebook called it one of the ten most beautiful café’s in the world,” Mercedes said.
It was indeed trés elegant. They could have been in the chicest café in Paris. A waiter in a white shirt and black pants ushered them over to a table under the gold-and-black stained-glass skylight. The chairs were red leather and dark wood, the table plain but polished. They ordered iced tea and a cheese plate to share to start, followed by steaks and French fries, please and