He wasn't certain, but he thought it possible that Low Down was strangling. "Are you all right?" he inquired, leaning toward the candles in the center of the table.
"I'll have a whiskey," she gasped.
The maître d' arched an eyebrow as if her request for whiskey explained the awful dress and her crimson face.
"The lady will have sherry, and I'll have a whiskey," Max said in a firm voice.
"Oh Lordy," she gasped when they were alone. "I couldn't believe it when he put the napkin across my lap! Did you ever hear of such a thing? And then he draped one across your lap, too!" She fanned her fingers in front of her face. "I swear I didn't know whether to laugh or belt him one for being so familiar.
Oh, Max. Did you ever see anything like this room? There's fresh flowers on every single table, did you notice?" Dropping her hand, she fingered the edge of the cloth, then informed him, "This is real damask.
When I worked for the Chinaman, we washed a lot of tablecloths like this. If you think my new duds are expensive, you should check what a damask tablecloth costs. It's enough to make your eyeballs bulge."
"I didn't think your new clothing was particularly expensive." He knew for a fact that Philadelphia had spent more on one hat than Low Down had spent for her entire new wardrobe.
Now she noticed the array of silver gleaming against the damask and her hands dropped to the beaded bag in her lap. "I guess I didn't need to bring my spoon."
Her comment revealed more than she could guess about her background. Only the cheapest boardinghouses required a lodger to furnish his own eating utensils.
"Remember? I showed you my spoon. It's real silver, just like these." Pride and defensiveness firmed her tone and her chin lifted as if she were challenging him to say something.
"I recall your spoon was very pretty," he said, feeling at a loss.
But she seemed mollified. "Yes, it is. It's one of my prized possessions." Frowning, she touched a gloved finger to the row of forks. "Why do we need so many extra forks and spoons?"
He started to explain, then gave up and advised her to watch and follow his lead when it came to choosing her utensils.
Once their drinks arrived, and he'd smiled at Low Down's contempt for sherry, he relaxed and enjoyed the excitement dancing in her hazel eyes. Earlier today, he had dreaded everything about the idea of spending a night in a hotel with her. But, oddly, there was something interesting, maybe touching—he couldn't pin down the precise reaction—about sharing another person's firsts. The first glimpse of an elegant hotel lobby and a suite. Her first foray into the world wearing a dress, at least in recent years. Her first awed impression of the maître d'. Her first taste of sherry; her bafflement and then pleasure at the sight of a full setting of silver.
To extend her day of firsts, Max ordered fried artichokes, duchess potatoes, and lobster salad. For dessert, he chose peach canapés, prepared in a chafing dish beside their table, enjoying her amazement and wide shining eyes.
After the canapés, she politely covered a satisfied burp with her fingertips, then leaned forward to confide, "I loved everything except the coffee. This is the weakest coffee I ever tasted. They must have a new pot that ain't—isn't—broken in yet." An anxious look appeared in her eyes. "I want to remember all of this, every little detail. What was the name of the pastry meat again?"
"Beef Wellington."
"And lobster! I could eat a barrel of that. I'll bet that lobster cost the earth." When he told her the price of the lobster salads, she fell back in her chair and stared at him in shock.
"Max, seriously. Are you rich?"
The question made him laugh. "My family is comfortable, I suppose you could say. Land rich and cash poor. Staying here is a treat for me, too, and I'm paying for it with some of the color I panned out of Piney Creek."
A frown puckered her brow. "Don't you need that money to buy cows or something?"
"This time of year ranchers sell cattle. We buy in the spring."
"Since you're sort of rich, I should have bought a feather or a cloth flower to stick in my hair," she mentioned, sliding a peek toward the other tables. "The shop lady said so, said I needed earrings, too, but I didn't want to add to the cost."
"You look nice just as you are."
She would never be a beauty, would never be a woman who attracted attention for her appearance or style. But if she had looked like this four days ago, she wouldn't have lacked for volunteers to father her baby.
"You don't mean that," she said with a look of naked pleading that begged him to assure her.
"I do," he said stiffly, uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken. He decided she was easier to deal with when she had the chip on her shoulder and her chin thrust out. Uncertainty and vulnerability were not qualities he associated with the woman who had cursed, kicked, shouted, and willed him to survive the pox. A deeper glimpse into her character wasn't something he welcomed.
After placing his napkin beside his plate, he glanced toward the door. "Would you like to take a walk?
It's warmer at this altitude, and it's a pleasant night. If you like, we could walk up to Broadway and view the electric lamps." When she didn't appear enthusiastic, he offered another suggestion. "Or perhaps you'd care for another cup of coffee. We can stay here and enjoy the music. Or take our coffee into the lobby."
