“One can never be too careful.”
“What else did you forget?”
A pause. “Nothing. I only wanted to hear whether you sounded strained.”
“I’m not strained.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
The line clicked off.
From the doorway of the salon, Thiago watched me. “Update?”
“Apparently she forgot to ask about garlic.”
“You don’t believe her.”
“No.”
“Neither do I.”
At six fifty-five, the front bell rang. I opened the door to Celeste Boudreux Hargrove in rose-colored linen and a narrow gold cuff bracelet, gripping a bottle of Burgundy by the neck.
“I selected this for the chicken,” she said, pressing it into my hand before I could greet her. “Are you sure you used enough garlic?”
“Celeste.”
“More is almost always the answer.”
She moved past me into the hall, trailing expensive perfume. Seventy-one had not softened her into anyone’s decorative aunt.
Dominic emerged from the salon in a dark jacket over an open-collared white linen shirt. “You’re ten minutes early.”
“Five minutes. Arriving this early required tremendous personal sacrifice.”
They kissed each other lightly on each cheek.
From the kitchen doorway, Thiago said, “Good evening, Ms. Hargrove.”
She turned toward him and gave him a swift once-over. “Mr. Reyes. You remain reassuringly difficult to read.”
“In my line of work, that helps.”
“It does.” She lowered her voice half a degree. “The men who are easy to read rarely know anything useful.”
I led her through to the kitchen, where I’d set the table and the air smelled of garlic, sausage, and the lemon trees cooling outside in the evening. She looked over the room with a slight narrowing of her eyes.
“The house feels attentive tonight,” she said.
“That,” Dominic replied, “is because Luca has spent all day in the kitchen.”
“A noble and deeply Catholic use of time.”
I poured wine.
We were halfway through the first course when Celeste set down her fork, drew a folded slip of paper from the pocket of her jacket, and pushed it down the table toward Thiago.
He caught it before it reached the bread plate.
