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If he were a little too pale, she had never noticed. Missy looked above his eyes at his headful of short, straight, and yet unruly red hair - she'd always considered redheads to be the most marriageable - and, as lovers do, envisioned a particular glow in his cheeks that betrayed his warm milk complexion. Stuart was not quite thirty-two, and therefore was not quite a grown-up. Grown-ups had done things like taken their wives to Greece and sampled olives beside white seaside villages whose walls sucked up the sunlight and radiated an other-worldly glow over coves of water thirsty for light. He would take Missy to Greece someday; he'd sweep her off her feet and carry her all the way to the Mediterranean, or at least to Europe. Paris was too cliche, but perhaps Dublin or Barcelona or Vienna. They were both afraid of heights and bored quickly of fine art - the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre wouldn't lure them to or hold them in France, and besides, good coffee, crisp and sugary pastries, dark chocolate tinged with orange or hazelnut, strong auburn-colored beers, deep and fruity wines: these things were not specific to France. These things were Europe.