I hesitated. Part of me wanted to say no, because going out and having frivolous fun with a nice man while my client was mourning the boyfriend I’d been tasked with keeping an eye on felt disrespectful somehow.
On the other hand, the part that was tired of being alone with my thoughts wouldn’t mind the distraction.
“That sounds great, actually.”
“Perfect. Six o’clock work for you?”
I told him it did, and he hung up with an, “I’ll see you then.”
I put the phone on the counter. Edwina had finished snarfing down her food and was now sitting at my feet, looking up at me with those big bug eyes.
“What?” I asked her.
She tilted her head.
“I know. I should have said no. But I didn’t want to sit here all day thinking about Nick and the bullet hole in his forehead.” I bent down and scratched between her ears. The tiny hairs on top of her head felt like velvet fibers underneath my fingernails.
“Besides,” I added, “Greg’s nice. I enjoy his company. There are worse people.”
Edwina’s tail wagged uncertainly, as if she wasn’t entirely convinced.
“You’re a terrible wingman,” I told her, and carried my coffee back to the bedroom to start the morning ritual.
The rest of the day passed slowly. I tried to read, but couldn’t focus. Tried to watch TV, but everything seemed inane. Cleaned the kitchen, for something useful to do. It was neither fun nor glamorous, but it needed doing. Finally, around four, I gave up and went upstairs to get ready for dinner. Glass of wine, bubble bath, soothing music. And a Boston Terrier standing with her feet on the edge of the tub as if she planned to join me at any moment.
When I got out, I stood in front of my closet for a good ten minutes trying to decide what to wear.
Not the leather skirt from Friday night—that was still at the dry cleaners along with the suede boots. Not the gray dress, either—I wore that to David’s funeral. And I’d worn the plaid for lunch with Greg and his mother last month. Finally, I settled on dark slacks, heeled boots, and a cashmere sweater in a deep teal that I knew looked good with my hair.
I was applying lipstick when Edwina started barking. I checked my watch—five fifty-eight. Greg was early.
Or punctual, depending on how you looked at it.
He was waiting on the front porch when I opened the door, looking distinguished in dark slacks and a sweater under a wool coat. The Jaguar sat in the driveway behind him.
“You’re stunning,” he told me, and sounded like he meant it.
“Thank you.” I simpered. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
He smiled and offered me his arm. “Your chariot awaits. Do you want to know where we’re going, or can I surprise you?”
I’m usually not all that keen on surprises—they have a way of blowing up in my face—but I smiled back. “I trust you.”
I had a pretty good idea where we were going, anyway. He had wanted to take me to Fidelio’s last time, until I asked him to change it to Sambuca. And fate just seems to have that sort of sense of humor, doesn’t she?
With that in mind, it was no surprise at all when Greg turned off Charlotte Avenue at 46th Avenue and headed for the Sylvan Park restaurant district. Outside the car, renovated Victorian cottages and restored Craftsman bungalows rubbed elbows with modern infills that somehow managed not too look too awfully out of place.
We had spent the drive so far talking about Greg’s mother, and about getting to know Tara and Cressida. But now he told me, “You’re very quiet. Are you sure you’re up for this?”
I smiled automatically. “Sorry. I’m just... yes, I’m fine. There’s just a lot on my mind.”
“You can tell me about it, if you want. It’s no good, holding things in. Sometimes talking helps.”
Sometimes it did. Although?—
“I’m not really holding anything in. I mean… I spoke to Mendoza yesterday, and to Rachel today. I’ve done plenty of talking. It’s just?—”
I shrugged, since I couldn’t come up with the words for what it was.
