She got back to her apartment around one thirty. As always, she was exhausted, but she summoned up the energy to open her laptop. Of course she had seen the name on the credit card, and a memorable name it was: Makary Szweda. She googled him and discovered he owned a real estate agency that seemed to handle upscale houses in the poshest Boston suburbs. The Szweda Real Estate Company had twelve agents. One of them was Boyzdar Szweda, the son. The older sister, Irena, was also an agent. Lena was a sophomore at Wellesley. Darcy found several photos of them on the Internet. The mother, always opulent at a charity function with her silver-blond hair and gleaming jewelry, was named Dita. The entire family was often captured together, lifting champagne glasses, toasting the success of a fundraising event.
She wondered how Boyzdar was pronounced.
That single event cast her into the most unsettled mood. The son, the handsome son, had smiled at her, really smiled. She had thought he was trying to connect, although that was a ridiculous idea: She was a waitress, he was almost a prince. But she couldn’t get him off her mind the next day during her classes at Simmons. She felt unsettled and grouchy when it was time to leave for work.
That evening, her shift started at six o’clock. She took the T up to the Beacon Hill area where Bijoux was located, and slogged through dirty piles of slush. It was February, a gloomy month, a month Darcy had always relished, because it was so perfect for curling up inside beneath an afghan and reading. But today the weather held no delight. It was achingly cold, and the sky was as bleached as an old gray towel, the Christmas decorations that had brightened the winter were gone, and even Valentine’s Day had passed, so shop windows were boring. It was a dreary time of year, depressing and colorless—
And there in front of the restaurant stood Boyz with an enormous bouquet of spring flowers! He had husky-dog pale blue eyes and he was smiling at her.
“These are for you,” he said when she drew close. “To apologize for my father’s comment.” He wore a camel’s hair overcoat with the collar turned up and a Russian-looking fur hat.
She was too stunned to speak.
“I hope you won’t think I’m as discourteous as he was. I confess, however, he wasn’t wrong, because I was staring at you all evening. So I brought you flowers for many reasons.”
Darcy thought: Oh, golly. Her next thought was she wished she’d worn her good wool coat instead of her puffy down parka. She knew this was the beginning of something, so she made herself slow down and act like a grown-up instead of like the shrieking teenager doing cheers in her head.
“Oh, you didn’t need to do that.” She was so composed, the very picture of poise.
“Well,” he said teasingly, “in that case, I guess I shouldn’t give you the flowers.”
“You absolutely should give me the flowers,” Darcy said boldly. “And you must give me your address so I can write you a thank-you note.” Was she saying these words? Was this who she was? It was!
“Ah, I see. Then I’ll know your full name and address, so I’ll be able to write you to ask you out to dinner.”
The wind was howling down the street, crackling the cellophane around the poor flowers, and she was warm, heading toward sizzling.
“Or I could give you my cell number.”
He smiled. “Or I could invite you to dinner right now.”
“What a good idea!”
“Darcy, would you care to go out to dinner with me tomorrow night?”
“How do you know my name?”
“You introduced yourself to us last night. ‘Hello. My name is Darcy, and I’ll be your server tonight.’?”
Darcy laughed, probably more than she should have, because behind the man with the flowers, on the other side of the window, the bartenders and two waiters were making lovey-dovey kissy faces at her.
“You have a very good memory,” she said. “But I’m afraid I don’t know your name.” Of course, she did know his name but had no idea how to pronounce it.
“My name is Boyzdar Szweda,” he said and he made a slight bow. “But everyone calls me Boyz. My family is Polish, with a little Swedish thrown in.”
“Boyz.” Darcy tried the name. It was like saying boys but with a little zip at the end. “I’m delighted to meet you, and I look forward to dinner tomorrow night, but, I’m sorry, the idiots I work with are being ridiculous on the other side of the window.” She was aware she didn’t speak this way usually, so formally, and it was as if she were caught in a spell.
Boyz turned. The bartender and waiters stopped posing and waved. Boyz waved back.
“Your colleagues like to keep an eye on you,” he said. “Shall we give them something to talk about?”
Before she could even imagine what he meant, Boyz put his arms around her, pulled her to him, tilted her back toward the pavement, and kissed her long and hard, managing to hold the flowers behind her back so they weren’t crushed. Then, she’d swooned at such a romantic act. Later, she’d realized it was the first of many signs that Boyz was an actor and all the world his audience.
He drew her upright and steadied her as he pulled away from their kiss. With one gloved finger he stroked the side of her face. “My cell number is on the card tucked in the flowers. Call me when you can so we can lock in tomorrow night.” He handed her the bouquet.
“Thank you,” she said. “For the flowers. And for the kiss—I’ll be the envy of all the staff.”
Boyz walked away. Darcy floated into the restaurant with flowers in her arms. Immediately she was surrounded by catcalls and whistles and applause. Completely not her usual shy self, she performed an impromptu curtsy. Then she hurried back to the staff lounge to put the flowers in water and organize herself for the evening. Black shirt and pants, discreet black apron around her waist for her order pad, and energy sparkling all around her. She got enormous tips that evening.
She wore a red cashmere sweater to dinner the next night. Red always set off her dark hair and eyes, and besides, she felt red. Vibrant. Bold. She purposely did not wear anything too tight or cleavage exposing. Boyz picked her up at her apartment—she told him she’d come down, she didn’t want to intrude on her roommate’s evening, trying to make that sound mysteriously sophisticated. In fact, her roommate, Rachael, was slopping around in her stained pajamas, eating ice cream, and watching Bridget Jones’s Diary—she’d just had a bad breakup. So Darcy waited just outside her apartment door.
Boyz drove a silver BMW convertible—Of course he did, she thought, as he stepped out to kiss her cheek and escort her around to the passenger side.
He took her to an Indian restaurant on Newbury Street. They were shown to a booth near the back, where it was quiet and dark except for the lights beaming from the exquisitely detailed copper and glass hanging lamps.
“This place reminds me of my favorite restaurant in London,” Boyz told her. “I’m a huge fan of Indian food. I’ve never been to India. Have you?”