The meal at the Café de la Paix is superb, the service impeccable, the conversation, once Sam gets her fill of bread and butter, scintillating, to say the least. At long last, the riches of the board happily exhausted, Harry crumples his napkin across his empty plate and places his hands palm up on the table before him like a supplicant. ‘My name,’ he says, determinedly, ‘is Harry. Harry Chenier. I run the Simultaneous Translation Division at the Department of State. My personal specialty is a rare and, frankly, not-often-called-for offshoot of sub-Balkan, pre-ethic Russian. With every fiber of my being, I would like you to know that this was the finest lunch in the history of my life.’
A flicker of a smile crosses Sam’s face. Into one open palm, as if it were a jewel, she drops a Jordon almond. ‘My name is Sam,’ she says, meeting his eyes for the second time in two days. ‘Samantha Isaacs. I investigate civil rights violations for the Office of the US Attorney General. I eat like this every day.’
The only phrase Harry can call to mind is an arcane oath in ur-Carpathian Greek, which hasn’t been used since well before the First Crusade nor is it particularly appropriate to the occasion. But it doesn’t matter. Harry doesn’t need it. Harry is in love.
Up next … Episode 7: Dinner for Two.