As he pulled into the parking lot and found a spot near the front entrance, I pushed all thoughts of David and marriage aside, and gave him a beaming smile.
* * *
The interior of Sambuca Ristorante was exactly as I remembered it: aggressively upscale but in a way that suggested old money and older traditions. The walls were exposed brick and dark wood paneling, hung with black-and-white photographs of Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and other Rat Pack luminaries. The Hollywood equivalent of the 1950s kitsch at the PI office, and probably for the same reason. Jacquie would have been appalled. Sinatra’s voice crooned from hidden speakers, platitudes about summer wind and autumn leaves. The lighting was low and golden, casting everything in a warm, romantic glow.
The maître d’ greeted Greg by name—of course he did—and led us to a table in the corner that was probably the best in the house. White tablecloth, real silver, a small arrangement of white roses in the center. Our waiter appeared almost immediately, a distinguished-looking man in his sixties with a thick Italian accent that might or might not have been genuine.
“Signore Newsome, so good to see you again. And signorina, welcome.”
I managed not to roll my eyes at the ‘signorina.’ At forty and a widow, I’m well past that particular label, although if the waiter knew Greg, he probably also knew that we weren’t married, and in that case, the ‘signorina’ was at least accurate.
Greg ordered wine—in fluent Italian; a Barolo that probably cost more than my electric bill—and the waiter disappeared with promises to return shortly.
“You must come here often,” I said, “if everyone knows you by name.”
“Often enough.” He smiled. “It’s my mother’s favorite for special occasions. The food is excellent, and Luigi takes good care of me when I’m in town.”
Of course.
He added, “I hope you don’t mind that I ordered the wine without asking. If you’d prefer something else?—”
“Not at all.” I love wine, and I’m familiar enough with most of it that I know what’s good and what isn’t. Not that anything they served here wouldn’t be expensive enough to have lost that edge of battery acid, anyway.
Now that I was here again, I remembered more clearly the previous time I’d had the pleasure, if you want to call it that. We’d been wining and dining some prospective client David had been trying to woo away from another financial advisor, along with the client’s wife. I couldn’t remember their names anymore, but I could recall that the evening had been interminable.
We’d sat in a booth on the other side of the restaurant, one that was currently occupied by two gentlemen in suits, one older and one younger, and their dates. There was enough of a resemblance between the two women that I pegged them for mother and daughter, so probably a family occasion of some sort. A birthday, maybe, or an engagement celebration. Whatever it was, it seemed happy. Everyone looked like they were getting along far better than I had with the rest of the party in my scenario.
I’d been a decade and a half younger than anyone else at the table, and I’d had very little in common with any of them, even my own husband. David and the prospective client had bonded over golf—handicaps and club memberships and some tournament at Pebble Beach—while I’d been stuck making conversation with the wife, who’d been old enough to be my mother, and who must have known that David had left his first wife for me, because she had given me the beady eye all through dinner and refused to talk about anything other than her children and grandchildren, almost as if she were afraid I’d be going for her husband next and she had to make sure I knew what a strong marriage they had.
David had been furious with me on the drive home. I hadn’t been charming enough, hadn’t connected with the wife in the way I was supposed to, hadn’t helped him seal the deal. It didn’t matter that the wife and I had absolutely nothing in common, or that David flaunting me in her face was a reminder of her own vulnerable position rather than the opposite. I was supposed to be an asset, not a liability.
The bastard.
I pushed the memory away and focused on Greg, who was looking at me with concern.
“Everything all right?”
“Fine,” I said. “Just remembering the last time I was here. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant evening.”
“With your ex?”
I nodded. “Trying to woo some old guy with a lot of money, and his wife. It didn’t go well.”
“That’s a shame,” Greg said, reaching across the table to cover my hand with his, “but hopefully tonight will be better.”
It could hardly be worse. But his hand was warm and solid, and his eyes bright and admiring, and I let myself enjoy it for a while before gently extracting my hand to pick up the menu.
Luigi returned with the wine, and went through the whole production number of showing Greg the label, uncorking the bottle and letting him sniff the cork, before pouring a small amount for him to taste test. Greg went through the ritual with the kind of practiced ease that suggested he’d done this many times before. When he nodded his approval, Luigi poured for both of us, then took our dinner orders—Osso Buco for Greg, Branzino al Cartoccio for me—and disappeared again.
“So,” Greg said, raising his glass. “To pleasant evenings.”
“Pleasant evenings,” I echoed, and we clinked glasses.
The wine was excellent, smooth and rich with notes of cherry and something earthy I couldn’t quite identify. I took another sip and set the glass down. It was tempting to guzzle—the wine was tasty enough for that—but I should save some for later.
“How’s your mother? Is she well?”
Greg’s face lit up in a way that made him look several years younger. “She’s wonderful, thanks for asking. Still beating everyone at bridge and organizing fundraisers for the community center. I swear she has more energy than I do.”
