“Greektown.”
“Why?”
“Lamb and valet parking.”
“Unbeatable combo.”
I made a left onto Halsted, crossed over the highway, and, minutes later, pulled to the curb at Adams. When I got out of the car, wind whipped my scarf and drove sleet into my face. The ice felt like match heads burning my cheeks.
Accepting a valet ticket from a man in a parka and orange Bears hat pulled low to his brows, I slip-skidded to the restaurant. Ryan followed.
The Santorini’s interior was exactly as promised by its name. Wooden tables with lattice-back chairs and crisp linen cloths, whitewashed walls, stone fireplace, copious fisherman paraphernalia.
Ryan and I hung our coats on a rack. Then a waiter with a Sonny Bono mustache and blue plaid shirt led us to an upper-terrace table. Only a few of the lunch crowd lingered, most wearing suits and retsina glows.
A second waiter brought menus. Same mustache, different shirt. I ordered a Diet Coke. Ryan asked for a Sam Adams.
“People rave about the seafood, but I like the lamb.” Ignoring the menu, I brushed moisture from my hair.
“Not even a glance?”
“I know what I want.”
Ryan studied the selections. “The Lamb youvetsi?”
I shook my head.
“Kampana?”
“Nope.”
“You’re being childish.”
“Lamb artichokes.”
“Not today, cupcake.”
I checked. Damn. Ryan was right. Lamb artichokes were offered only on Tuesdays and Sundays.
“No problem.” I leaned back, arms crossed on my chest. “Buttercup.”
First the weather. I hate cold. Wet cold? Don’t ask. Then meeting Schechter and learning of an anonymous enemy. Now no lamb artichokes. Or maybe it was proximity to Ryan. Or his use of the old endearment. My mood was heading into free fall.
Beside us, two men argued the pros and cons of hockey players whose names meant nothing to me. Outside, a siren grew loud, dimmed, faded. Glassware clanked somewhere off to my left.
When the waiter returned I ordered the exohiko lamb. Ryan requested the seafood combo and a second Sam Adams.
A very long time passed without conversation.
Ryan’s mug was half empty when he finally said, “What are you thinking?”
“Don’t men hate being asked that question?”
“Not me.” Ryan beamed a little-boy smile.
I couldn’t help but grin back. We’d been a team for so long, Ryan detecting, me working the vics. Though the breakup was difficult, I wanted this to continue. We’d been strictly colleagues once, could be again.
“I’m thinking we should eat and get you to the airport. With this weather, the trip to O’Hare could be a bitch.”
“Very practical.” Ryan nodded solemnly.
Minutes ticked by. Beside us, the men disagreed on the abilities of the Blackhawks’ coach.
Our food arrived. Mine turned out to be chunks of lamb and cheese baked inside phyllo.
As I ate, unbidden memories elbowed for attention.
The beginning. My arrival at the Montreal lab, armed with a rule against office romance. Ryan’s disregard for that rule. My eventual surrender.
The middle. Candlelight dinners in Vieux-Montreal. Walks on the mountain. Sofa suppers watching classic films on TV. Trips to the Laurentians. The Carolinas. Israel. Guatemala.
The end. Ryan’s revelation of a newly discovered offspring, angry, addicted to heroin. Daddy’s plan to reconnect with Mommy in an effort to save Daughter.
Our last meal, Ryan’s words ripping a hole in my heart. I was out. Lily and Lutetia were in.
Then, months later, an admission of error, an apology, an invitation to reunite. Lily was in rehab, and he and Lutetia were living apart. Ryan wanted me. Wanted us.
Whoa, big fella! Do-overs ain’t so simple.
Two months had passed since that conversation. I’d neither vetoed nor embraced detente with Ryan. Once burned, twice shy.
Trite, yes. But there’s a reason some phrases grow into cliches.
“-ovabitch. They’ve shut down O’Hare.” The words intruded on my reverie.
I glanced toward the next table. One of the sports critics was reading his BlackBerry.
“Did you just say the airport is closed?” I asked.
“Can you believe it?”
“Why?”
“A bomb threat, or a security breach, or some freakin’ thing.”
Ryan’s mobile made an odd croaking noise.
“Text message. My flight’s been canceled.” He was already punching keys.
For the next thirty minutes Ryan spoke to airlines, then to a minimum of eight hotels. No flights. No rooms. Even the place we’d just left was fully booked.
“How’d everyone move so fast?” I asked.
“Apparently no one’s checking out. And there are several huge conventions in town.” Innocent choirboy look. “Guess you’re stuck with me.”
“You know I have plans.”
“I suppose I could
Dear God. I couldn’t take Ryan where I was going.
“Could be nasty, what with this weather, and me unfamiliar with the city,” Ryan went on.
“Agencies provide maps. Or you can ask for something with GPS.”
No go at Hertz or Avis.
I couldn’t believe this was happening. Could the day get worse?
I thought of the evening ahead.
A lot worse, I realized.
“All right,” I said as Ryan requested the number at Budget. “You can have my car. But you’ll have to drive me to the burbs.”
“Sounds workable. Surely motels that far out will have vacancy.”
“Surely.”
That’s not how it went.
