Died with a Bow Read Online Free Page B

these other professional, well-heeled men and women in my age bracket? Would I find the love of my life at the bar? Would we look across the packed room and make an instant connection? Or would I stand there by myself, surrounded by throngs of the beautiful people, alone in a crowd, while all around me the young and the restless flirted and fawned. The worst kind of alone possible.
    So I hurried on by, until I saw what I was looking for, only I didn’t know I was looking for it until I saw it: Ye Olde Bonne Creperie Bretonne, where in the window a guy was flipping paper-thin crepes in the air. The menu was written on a blackboard in chalk and it made my mouth water. One side listed the savory crepes—Mediterranean, New Orleans,Miami Heat and so many more I just stood there and stared at the dizzying number of choices. Finally I decided to get an eggplant crepe with jack cheese, tomatoes, onion, roasted red pepper and, of course, eggplant, and one called The Sopranos, with Italian sausage, mozzarella, black olives, mushrooms, spinach and pesto sauce. Then, after a quick perusal of the dessert options on the other side of the board, I ordered a bananas Foster crepe, with bananas, brown sugar, walnuts and cinnamon.
    According to his aunt, Nick would enjoy the food and my company, and I’d leave with a good feeling that I’d brightened an invalid’s day. I suspected that after sitting alone day after day with only his vampire aunt for company, he would be desperate for someone like me to talk to.
    I found number 1742 and was impressed by the well-cared-for Victorian house painted blue, its flower boxes filled with daffodils, tulips and trailing verbena. I saw “Petrescu” listed next to the mailbox and was about to ring the bell next to his name when someone came out the front door, so I hurried in. Why announce myself over the intercom when I could surprise Nick with a friendly knock on his apartment door?
    I climbed the three flights of narrow stairs and finally reached his apartment. I knew it was his because there was a sign on the door saying
Bun Venit
, “Welcome.” Also, I heard his voice. I pressed my ear to the door and heard him speaking to someone in his language. Although I had minored in Romanian, I had a hard time understanding it when spoken rapidly by two native speakers, especially when those speakers were on the other side of a closed door.
    What I did understand was that he wasn’t alone. The other voice I heard belonged to a woman. I didn’t know whoshe was, but I did know it wasn’t his aunt. Unlike the vampiric Meera, this woman made a light tinkling sound when she laughed. So much for poor Nick being sick, sad and alone. Not only was he not alone, he also wasn’t hungry, because I smelled food. Romanian food. I could tell by the scent of cabbage, onions and paprika in the air. I looked at the box of crepes I’d brought and I felt foolish. The least I could have done was to cook up something myself, as he’d done for me. But no, I’d bought some trendy French food. I stood there for another few minutes, one hand poised to knock on the door. After all, maybe it was not his girlfriend. Maybe it was his cousin who had flown in from Bucharest to take care of him while he was laid up. But why hadn’t Meera told me instead of asking me to drop in?
    Finally, after standing there for several minutes listening to the lighthearted laughter and what sounded like flirtatious conversation, I turned around and walked back down the three flights of stairs. I went back the way I’d come to the bus stop, still carrying the boxes of crepes while my stomach grumbled and my head ached. My aunt Grace was right: Don’t drop in on men without an invitation. Don’t call them unless they’ve called you first.
    Back in my own tiny flat, I finally opened the boxes, heated the Mediterranean crepe and ate it by myself. It was delicious. The other crepes I saved for another day.
    The days dragged by until Saturday.