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scruffily dressed blues guitarist who sounded very much like Robert Cray, a hip-hop dance trio from South Central who spun on a flattened cardboard box placed on the concrete, and then—irony of ironies—a quintet of South American musicians playing native songs on the same locally made instruments that Sam had seen on her visit to Peru with Eduardo right after graduation.
    It gave her a lump in her throat as she stopped to listen. Why had she come, anyway? Just to torture herself?
    Because you plan to grovel and beg him not to dump you and—
    No. She might
want
to beg, but she wouldn’t.
    She reached the fountain and glanced at her gold Hermès tank watch. Eduardo, who was always on time, was ten minutes late. Oh God. What if he was the one who didn’t show up? Maybe he’d hired one of those musicians to sing her a breakup song. Or maybe he’d sent her a text message but her Razr was off. She pulled it out of her bag. It was on. No text.
    “Hi.”
    There he was. He looked serious. More serious than she could recall. This was going to be so humiliating. She finished the thought this time. Then she echoed his greeting as the musicians started another song. This one was slow and mournful. Fuck. It was almost like he’d planned it.
    “Been waiting long?”
    “Not really.”
    “It’s a nice day to be out.”
    “Yeah,” she agreed, then swallowed hard. What the hell was going on? What were they, fucking strangers who’d just met at an industry cocktail party? Next he’d be asking her if he could give her a script to slip to her father.
    Eduardo was, Sam noted, dressed for business, in a black custom-made Savile Row suit, crisp white shirt, and red tie, which meant he’d just come from his summer job at the Peruvian consulate. He hadn’t even kissed her hello. One quick humpty-dump and he’d be back at the office. He probably already had Gisella on speed dial.
    To hell with this. She wasn’t about to wait around for the axe to fall.
    “Eduardo?”
    “Yes?”
    “Whatever you want to say, can you please just get it over with? So then I can say whatever I’m going to say, and then the two of us can get on with our respective afternoons? I’m supposed to meet Cammie at the Ole Henriksen spa for hot stone massages. I’m hoping for a good story to tell while Olga buffs me into submission.”
    “You know, I think you’re right,” Eduardo agreed, in a voice so low that Sam could barely hear it. The fact that the crowd was applauding the band’s last song didn’t make it any easier to hear. “I’ll be right back.”
    What? She watched in astonishment as he pushed through the crowd and made his way over to the lead musician, a portly, mustachioed man in a magnificent Peruvian poncho who held a lute-like
charango
in his hands. The guy smiled as Eduardo approached, and the two of them engaged in a rapid-fire Spanish conversation. Then the bandleader turned to his group and gave them some quick instructions, and they started to play.
    The tune was low and melodic, almost hypnotic. As Sam watched, Eduardo listened for a few moments, then nodded his head in approval.
    What the hell was he doing?
    “Ladies and gentlemen!” His voice boomed out louder than the pentatonic folk melody. “
Mujeres y caballeros!
In some villages in my country, in Peru, when a man has a special thing to tell a young woman, everyone assembles on the town square. Then the man takes the woman to a quiet place and says what needs to be said. Finally they return, either to the cheers or the consolation of the people of the village.”
    Okay. This was how guys dumped girls in Peru? This was twisted. This was sick. Sam was not going to be a part of some ridiculous tribal ritual brought to life on the Third Street Promenade in front of an audience of strangers.
    “I’m out of here, Eduardo!” She turned on the heels of her Jimmy Choos and started back down the promenade toward her Hummer. At least the valet would be able to get it