Gabriel's Horn

Garin handed her the flowers, then offered his arm.

Annja took it and let him lead her out of the lobby. She knew everyone in the hotel watched them go, and she didn’t know if she’d ever have a moment as perfect as that one again.

As soon as they stepped out of the hotel, a silver limousine glided to a halt at the curb. The hotel doorman got the door, smiled and tipped his hat.

“There is one thing, if I may,” Garin said. He took a small case from his jacket pocket and opened it.

What Annja saw inside took her breath away. A string of black pearls as shiny as drops of oil gleamed on the white fabric lining the case.

“I thought they would set the dress off,” Garin said.

Annja thought so, too, but she wasn’t ready to give in to temptation. “I usually don’t wear a lot of jewelry.”

“These will look beautiful on you.” Garin plucked the string of pearls from the case and held them up in his fingers. They looked ready to spill loose at any second. “Unless, of course, you’d rather not wear them.” He started to put them away.

“Wait,” Annja said.

Garin looked at her and smiled. “I didn’t think so. May I?”

Annja turned her back to him. Gently he strung the pearls around her neck. For just a moment Annja thought that maybe the pearls were actually a disguised garrote. If you’re thinking he might kill you, what are you doing here?

The necklace fastened and she felt the cool weight of the pearls against her skin. She turned to face Garin.

“I was wrong,” he said. “The pearls don’t make the dress. You make the pearls.”

“Thank you.” And you’re just too smooth at knowing the right things to say, Annja thought.

Garin helped Annja into the car and she slid across the seat. She felt uncomfortable and out of control. She didn’t like either feeling.

“Would you care for anything to drink?” Garin opened the well-stocked built-in bar as the limousine slid into motion and pulled out into the busy street.

“Water, please.”

He frowned in displeasure. “I’ve got a good selection of wines.”

“No. Thank you.”

Garin poured her a glass of sparkling water and poured wine for himself. “Well,” he said.

“Thank you,” Annja said. “For the dress. For Gesauldi.” She held her glass in both hands so she wouldn’t spill it.

Garin grinned a little. “Nervous?”

“No.” Annja paused. “Yes.”

After a brief hesitation, he said, “Me, too.”

“You?” Annja raised an eyebrow.

Garin shrugged. “A little, perhaps. I have to admit, the feeling is quite unexpected.”

“Just because I’m a little overwhelmed doesn’t mean I can’t take care of myself,” Annja warned him.

“Of course not.” Garin waved the thought away.

“In case you get any ideas.”

“If getting ideas was going to get me in trouble, that dress would make me a dead man.”

Annja didn’t know how to respond. For a time, neither one of them spoke.

THE RESTAURANT WAS NESTLED between business offices downtown. After Garin helped her from the limousine, Annja gazed at the hand-lettered sign above the door. It read Keshet. A homemade sign tacked above an entrance that looked as if it let out onto an alley wasn’t exactly awe-inspiring.

“Is something wrong?” Garin asked.

“After the buildup of the dress and the limo, this isn’t quite what I’d expected,” Annja admitted.

Garin grinned. “You were expecting me to take you to one of those flashy restaurants.”

“Maybe.”

“Are you disappointed?”

Annja gazed at him warily and wondered if this was some kind of trick. “Should I be?”

“If you are, I’ll buy you dinner in any restaurant of your choice. In the world.” Garin offered his arm again. When Annja took it, he led her toward the burly doorman.

“Good evening, Mr. Braden,” the man said in English.

“Good evening,” Garin responded.

The doorman opened the door. Annja turned and found Garin almost filling the tiny hallway that led from the door. Muted lights illuminated the way over a plain concrete floor. She joined him.

Another doorman opened the next door. When she saw inside, Annja was even more surprised.

The restaurant was even smaller than she’d imagined. A quick estimate of the tables in the room meant that fewer than fifty people could sit in the room at one time.

Instead of a wall separating the cooking area from the diners, the kitchen was exposed for all to see. A squat woman in her late sixties ran the kitchen staff with the ironhanded control of a Marine Corps drill instructor. Her gray hair was cut short. She wore black pants and a green blouse with the sleeves pushed up past her elbows. The kitchen staff responded to her orders like a well-oiled unit.

“Mr. Braden.” A young hostess with olive-colored skin and a perfect smile joined them. “It’s been too long since you’ve visited us.”

“Merely growing my appetite for Mama’s cooking,” Garin said.

“She was excited to learn that you would be coming.” The hostess led the way to the only table in the room that wasn’t occupied.

Located at center stage, the table had a perfect view of the activity in the kitchen as cooks worked the stovetop and kept bread rotating through the ovens. Garin took Annja’s chair and seated her.

“Thank you,” Annja said.