“You don’t recognize the name?”
He shook his head.
Their waitress—young, blond, with a face ful of freckles—
arrived at their table. “What’l you have?”
“Do you have bottled water?” Lara asked.
“This isn’t the Galaxy. You can drink out of a glass here.”
Iestyn smiled. “You can even order wine.”
Wine was a bad idea. Wine belonged to celebrations and candlelit dinners, the whole ordinary dating world she’d never real y been part of. But just for tonight, she was tempted to go with the flow, to pretend they were out to dinner to enjoy each other’s company, to imagine that they could have a future together.
She swal owed. “Maybe . . . a glass of white?”
“A bottle of the pinot grigio,” Iestyn said. “A bottle of Sam Adams. And the swordfish for me.”
“I hear the lobster fra diavolo is good,” Lara said to the waitress.
“Wel , yeah, it is, but . . .”
“I’m not making it,” a raspy female voice shouted through the pass. “You can have the steamed lobster or the clam linguini.”
Lara bit her lip, wavering between offense and amusement.
“She’l have the lobster,” Iestyn said.
“One swordfish, one lobster.” A strong-featured Italian woman, with one of those faces that looked the same at forty and at sixty, appeared briefly in the pass, her mouth a hard red slash, her dark eyes snapping in satisfaction.
“Coming up.”
24 0
V i r g i n i a K a n t r a
“Cole slaw, fries, or baked potato with that?” their waitress asked.
“Cole slaw, I think.”
When their waitress was gone with their order, Lara met Iestyn’s eyes, resisting the urge to giggle.
“If that was Dylan Hunter’s wife,” he said, “more has changed than I thought.”
“Don’t mind Nonna.” The busboy appeared with a basket of bread and a bottle of olive oil. “Mom’s out of the kitchen tonight, so she’s feeling feisty.”
“Nonna?” Lara repeated.
His smile was quick and charming. “My grandmother Antonia.”
Lara squeezed her hands together under the table. “So the regular chef—your mother—would be Regina Hunter.”
The boy drizzled oil and herbs onto a thick white plate.
“That’s right.”
“Your father is Dylan Hunter.”
“So?”
“So?”
“Where is he?” Lara asked.
The question earned her a measuring look from those big, dark Italian eyes and another charming smile. “At work.”
“What kind of work does he do?”
The boy’s smile faded.
Iestyn’s foot pressed hers under the table. “Good bread.”
“Glad you like it,” said the boy and escaped.
Lara frowned. “Why did you stop me?”
“Because you were scaring him.” Iestyn’s long, strong fingers tore a hunk from the loaf of bread. “And because I want to enjoy our dinner.”
She didn’t understand him. Everything inside her was alight and alive with impatience. If this was the end, she F o r g o t t e n s e a 241
wanted to get there as quickly as possible.
“We wil find them.” He dipped the bread into the olive oil.
