The Other Side of Midnight
“It was half empty, and we took a seat at a booth by the front windows, looking out onto the street, the cracked leather of the seat threatening to snag the backs of my stockings as I adjusted my skirt.
“Be honest,” I said to him as the waiter brought tea. “Do you know where Ramona is?”
“No,” said James. He took off his hat and dropped it onto the seat next to him, briefly running a hand through his hair. It was dark blond, just as I remembered, and he’d kept the length shorter than most men did. It sat soft and sleek against his head, the temples pressed from his hat, and if he wore any hair cream, I couldn’t detect it. “Though I’ll have an answer of some kind tomorrow night at nine o’clock.”
“What happens tomorrow at nine o’clock?”
He pulled a piece of paper from the breast pocket of his jacket and unfolded it. As he smoothed it over the table between us, he replied, “She either appears, or she doesn’t, for this.”
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