Her father’s worst dread had been realized when it appeared she had been stillborn. Then she had taken her first breath and let out a lusty cry. At that moment, her Da had always told her, the dawn had been breaking over the city, the sunlight flooding his heart as well. She would be called Rose after the grandmother she would never know, left resting beneath the peaceful hills of Kilarney, but as for her first name, it could be nothing else but Aurora.
Rory picked up her soup spoon, feeling embarrassed by the time she had concluded this sentimental tale. She was surprised to detect a softening in Zeke’s flint-hard features.
“Aurora Rose,” he repeated. “Yes, your father was right. It suits you.”
Rory blushed under the steadiness of his regard. She started to reach for her champagne glass and checked the movement. She must go easy. She had drunk enough of the bubbly liquid at Gia’s wedding to know that champagne did odd things to her, made her quite light-headed. Why, she’d almost let Jim Petry, the butcher’s boy, kiss her, and him with a face that could stop an ice-wagon mule in its tracks.
The next she knew she would be ready to embrace Zeke Morrison. Her eyes drifted over the lean contours of Zeke’s face, the sensual outline of his month. Yes, it was much easier to think of kissing Zeke than Jim.
Appalled by her own thoughts, Rory pushed the champagne glass farther away and concentrated on her soup. “What about your name, Mr. Morrison? I mean, Zeke? Were you named after your father?”
It seemed the most harmless question, but one look at Zeke and she knew she had asked the wrong thing. A stillness came over his features.
“No,” he said. His reply was curt, yet somehow bleak. Rory didn’t know why, but she had the feeling that Zeke had never been regaled with joyous tales of his own birth. She had a sudden urge to reach across the table and press his hand. She checked the impulse just in time, squeezing her fingers into a fist and tucking it against her lap.
It would seem she had already had too much champagne. To presume that a wealthy, powerful man like Zeke Morrison needed her sympathy was ridiculous. By the time the waiter had removed the soup dishes, Zeke had already recovered himself.
“It’s a dead bore talking about me,” he said as though trying to excuse his previous abrupt response. “Let’s hear more about you.”
Rory felt she had said far too much about herself already. Instead, she steered the conversation back to her balloon company. All through the course of salad and hors d’oeuvres, she discoursed earnestly upon the potential of hot air balloons. Not only could they provide a pleasurable pastime, but they also could be used for voyages of scientific discovery into the atmosphere, or employed for military purposes, spying missions.
“During the siege of Paris,” she said, “they actually used balloons to airlift important people in the government over the lines of the Prussian army to freedom.”
“Really?” Zeke said, although his attention seemed more fixed upon the sizzling beefsteak set before him. Rory was obliged to suspend her enthusiastic lecture long enough to do justice to her own tenderloin. She was relieved to see the champagne being removed from the table, only to sigh when it was replaced with a sparkling red wine.
She knew she oughtn’t to touch the stuff especially not on top of the champagne, but she didn’t want Zeke to find her totally unsophisticated. Just a few sips, she assured herself, then took a large swallow to clear her throat.
“Of course,” she said, “in our own country, balloons have been used extensively to?—”
Zeke interrupted her with a laugh. “Do you ever think of anything else, Aurora Rose? What do you do with yourself when you are not risking your neck in a balloon?”
“Why, I—that is—” The question took Rory so much aback, she had to take another drink of wine to gather her thoughts. What did she do when she wasn’t working down at the warehouse? No one had ever asked her such a thing before. It took her a moment to realize she had no answer. When she wasn’t flying, she was planning flights, designing new balloons,thinking of ways to raise money. Except for her company, there wasn’t much else in her life. Especially since her father had died.
The realization both startled and saddened her. She took a sip of the wine in a rather melancholy fashion. When she didn’t reply, Zeke continued to prod. “A pretty young lady like you must have some other interests. Perhaps you walk out on occasion with one particular fellow?”
Aha, Rory thought. So that’s what he was getting at. She peered at Zeke owlishly over the rim of her glass. “I’m not promised or anything if that is what you mean.”
“Good.”
Rory blinked. The man was nothing if not direct, but she rather liked that about him. Still she had a feeling she was drifting into dangerous waters and that she needed to steer back to the safer ground of her balloons. Yet she could not resist asking, “And what about you? Are you courting that Mrs. Van Hallsburg?”
“Good lord, no. Not her or anyone else. I’m not the marrying kind.”
“Neither am I,” Rory replied.
He smiled and held up his glass. “Then let’s drink to that.”
Rory clinked her glass against his although she was not exactly sure what they were toasting. He had a glint in his eyes that made her feel more tingly than the champagne bubbles. She drained her wineglass and warmth coursed through her to the very tip of her toes. It was a most delicious sensation.
I’m getting a little drunk, she thought. She had enough sense to realize that, but not quite enough to resist. Zeke began to question her again, about her home, her family. She found herself telling him the most absurd things about life on McCreedy Street, how she slept on the fire escape when the weather got too hot, about spearing fresh pickles from the bigbarrel in front of Hoffmeier’s Deli, how she liked to ride her bicycle on Riverside Drive of a Sunday.
She knew she was talking too much, but he seemed so interested, drinking in every word. Interested and something more. That odd sad stillness had crept into his eyes again, a look almost of longing.
When her dessert was placed before her, Rory left it untouched. She had drunk too much and eaten too little, but she didn’t care. She was feeling exceedingly mellow and strangely tender toward Zeke Morrison. When he urged her to tell him more about ice skating in Central Park with her father, she shook her head.
“You can’t really want to know about all the simple things I do. It must be completely different from life on Fifth Avenue.”
“Yes, it is,” he said. “It all seems so far away.”
