Odette cranked the restaurant windows open as darkness descended. A bar across the street had its doors open, and a live brass section filtered out. It was traditional New Orleans jazz with a melancholy edge.
We ate slowly.
The main course arrived in two wide bowls: a broth of roasted tomatoes and white beans with short ribs braised until yieldingto a spoon. Odette finished the dish with herbs and a drizzle of good olive oil.
We ate. The broth was rich without being heavy, and the ribs separated cleanly from the bones.
The music next door shifted to something slower. A brushed snare entered under the trumpet, settling into a rhythm of late evenings and open windows.
I set my spoon down.
The memory of meeting Bridget that morning at the market came back to me. I repeated the quiet precision of her questions in my mind.
Thiago watched me for a moment.
“I know you’ve been with Dominic for seven years, but I don’t know how it happened.”
“What happened?”
“Your hiring.”
I refilled my glass from the wine bottle.
“I corrected him,” I said.
“Corrected him?”
“At a donor reception. I was twenty-five and working temporary admin for the orchestra office. Dominic made a comment about Stravinsky’s rehearsal letters that was slightly wrong.”
“You told him?”
“Yes.”
“In public?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It was.”
I drank some of the wine.
“He asked me three questions afterwards. Then he told me to report to the house the next morning and bring a notebook.”
I watched Thiago as he slurped some of the broth from his spoon.
“Santiago Rafael Reyes,” I said.
He looked up from his bowl.
“You gave me the surface version on Magazine Street,” I said. “Tell me the rest.”
He refilled his wineglass before answering.
“The surface version was accurate,” he said.
“I know it was. I’m asking for what lies beneath it.”
