I suggest Lemon & Fig for breakfast—prepared to redouble my matchmaking mission. But Nora says she’s in the mood for the crab cakes at the Chapman, a spot on the other side of Park Avenue.
“Did something happen last night?” I ask, my eyes alightwith hope for some details of at least a flirtation. “I saw you talking to Marcus when I left.”
“I talk to Marcus all the time. What does that mean?” She shakes her head, but she’s avoiding something.
“Nothing,” I say.
Maybe we’re both ignoring the ghosts of our pasts.
We park beside a peacock mural—an ode to Winter Park’s crest—and slip inside the Chapman without much conversation. The hostess offers us a sunny table with a view of Park Avenue, but when I see another police car go by, I angle my body to obscure the window from Nora’s view and say, “I’m not ready for natural sunlight. What about something in the back?”
When I order a bottle of wine, Nora makes a face.
“I have some painting to do later,” she says, and at least this thought seems to cheer her up.
“Artists drink,” I rib.
“Van Gogh definitely didn’t cut his ear off sober,” she agrees.
“I think I read historians have called that story a myth,” I offer, hoping to guide the conversation toward calmer waters.
She takes a beat and then shakes her head. “Sorry. The police thing was a little too…”
“Right.”
Déjà vu.
A disquieting reminder that there’s no such thing as forgetting the lessons from our pasts completely. We should know better by now than to pretend the ground can’t shift without warning.
I’ve learned it’s safer to keep moving—find a scheme or two to occupy your mind—rather than stop and notice the cracks. But Nora’s memories are still fresh, snagging her mid-thought and threatening to pull her under.
“I’m sure it’s nothing.” I wave a hand.
After another beat, she straightens and says to our server, “We’ll have two glasses and a bottle of the Puligny-Montrachet.” I can start to feel the equilibrium coming back to baseline as she turns to me. “What are you getting up to today?”
“I’m tragically solo. You have that art class, and Beau’s up at the Ritz to play a round of golf with Shep and Ford.”
I don’t tell Nora that I think I might have to go on an apology tour today, dropping off a check with Carol for the damage to her yard and smoothing over the prank.
“Golfing with Shep and Ford?” She looks confused. “Why?”
“See, that’s what I said. Something about nine irons and a data-driven golf swing. You know I black out as soon as anyone brings up golf.”
“It’s good to have hobbies.” Nora shrugs.
“Sure, but there are more entertaining ways to pass the time.”
“Are we talking about Carol Parker? Because what was that?” She’s not judging. We don’t judge. But she’s giving me that “what are you capable of” look she sometimes gets. “Did you really TP her house?”
I laugh—unable to summon a straight face to deny it—and Nora takes it as a confirmation. She throws her napkin at me and we both erupt with laughter.
“What’s going on with you and your real estate adventures?” I ask.
“I think I might have found something.”
I lean forward. “Please tell me every single detail, starting with the price.”
Nora shakes her head at me. “No. Not yet. I’m not ready for anyone to know what I am eyeing.”
