“Perhaps I shall change mine, too,” I said.
Ticknor said, “Wait. Now just wait. I’m sure Rachel meant no harm. Her point is valid. Surely, Spenser, you understand that.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Dinner this evening, of course, is perfectly understandable,” Ticknor said. “You had a date. You had no way to know that Rachel would require you today. I’m sure Rachel will be happy to have dinner with you both.”
Rachel Wallace didn’t say anything.
“Perhaps you could call the lady and ask her to meet you.”
Rachel Wallace didn’t like Ticknor saying “lady,” but she held back and settled for giving him a disgusted look. Which he missed, or ignored—I couldn’t tell which.
“Where are we eating?” I said to Rachel.
“I’d like the best restaurant in town,” she said. “Do you have a. suggestion?”
“The best restaurant in town is not
“What’s the cuisine?”
“Northern Italian Eclectic. A lot of it is just Rosalie’s.”
“No meatball subs? No pizza?”
“No.”
“Do you know this restaurant, John?”
“I’ve not been out there. I’ve heard that it is excellent.”
“Very well, we’ll go. Tell your friend that we shall meet her there at seven. I’ll call for reservations.”
“My friend is named Susan. Susan Silverman.”
“Fine,” Rachel Wallace said.
Rosalie’s is in a renovated commercial building in one of the worst sections of Marblehead. But the worst section of Marblehead is upper middle class. The commercial building had probably once manufactured money clips.
The restaurant is up a flight and inside the door is a small stand-up bar. Susan was at the bar drinking a glass of Chablis and talking to a young man in a corduroy jacket and a plaid shirt. He had a guardsman’s mustache twirled upward at the ends. I thought about strangling him with it.
We paused inside the door for a moment. Susan didn’t see us, and Wallace was looking for the maitre d‘. Susan had on a double-breasted camel’s-hair jacket and matching skirt. Under the jacket was a forest-green shirt open at the throat. She had on high boots that disappeared under the skirt. I always had the sense that when I came upon her suddenly in a slightly unusual setting, a pride of trumpets ought to play alarms and flourishes. I stepped up to the bar next to her and said, “I beg your pardon, but the very sight of you makes my heart sing like an April day on the wings of spring.”
She turned toward me and smiled and said, “Everyone tells me that.”
She gestured toward the young man with the guardsman’s mustache. “This is Tom,” she said. And then with the laughing touch of evil in her eyes she said, “Tom was nice enough to buy me a glass of Chablis.”
I said to Tom, “That’s
He said, “Excuse me?”
I said, “It’s the tag line to an old joke. Nice to meet you.”
“Yeah,” Tom said, “same here.”
The maitre d‘, in a dark velvet three-piece suit, was standing with Rachel Wallace. I said, “Bring your wine and come along.”
She smiled at Tom and we stepped over to Wallace. “Rachel Wallace,” I said, “Susan Silverman.”
Susan put out her hand. “Hi, Rachel,” she said. “I think your books are wonderful.”
Wallace smiled, took her hand, and said, “Thank you. Nice to meet you.”
The maitre d‘ led us to our table, put the menus in front of us, and said, “I’ll have someone right over to take your cocktail order.”
I sat across from Susan, with Rachel Wallace on my left. She was a pleasant-looking woman, but next to Susan she looked as if she’d been washed in too much bleach. She was a tough, intelligent national figure, but next to Susan I felt sorry for her. On the other hand I felt sorry for all women next to Susan.
Rachel said, “Tell me about Spenser. Have you known him long?”
“I met him in 1973,” Susan said, “but I’ve known him forever.”
“It only seems like forever,” I said, “when I’m talking.”
Rachel ignored me. “And what is he like?”
