She lives simply but deeply and values people above possessions. That’s why she refuses to carry a cell phone, because she says that being available to everyone at every moment makes it impossible to truly be there for the people who count when they really need you.
Nan isn’t like anyone I’ve ever known—she’s part hip and part homespun, motherly and mysterious all at once, and beautiful. Not just “for her age,” but beautiful, with that glorious crown of curls and eyes that have seen everything—good and bad—and still keep smiling, enthused about whatever comes next. She’s an old soul with a young heart and might be the only real grown-up I’ve ever met.
“Nelson is a beautiful little schnauzer,” she said. “Three years old, perfectly behaved, handsome as they come. He’d make a wonderful brother for Maisie.”
“No,” I said firmly, because when it came to Nan and dogs you have to.
Nan has found the “perfect” dog for me about once a month since we met. Though I would never have pictured myself with a Chihuahua, in Maisie’s case she was right. Nelson might have been perfect, too, but my building only allowed one dog per condo, as I explained to Nan yet again.
“But Maisie is so tiny,” she protested.
“No, there’s no room in my life for an emotionally needy schnauzer,” I said as Nelson began whining again. “Listen to him. He’d be miserable left alone all day.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Nan sighed. Nelson’s pathetic whine became even more pathetic—the canine equivalent of keening. “Oh, dear. Oh, this poor baby. Grace, I have to go. I’ll see you Monday.”
I said goodbye and finished putting on my makeup, my mouth watering as I thought about dinner. I planned to dive face-first into a platter of just-shucked oysters, then follow it up with crab cakes, then lobster claws, then start all over with oysters again. Just thinking about it made me dizzy. But the fact that I hadn’t eaten anything all day might have had something to do with it. I was saving room. Tonight, for once, I didn’t want to feel guilty, about calories or anything else.
I slipped my feet into a pair of heels and checked the time, momentarily forgetting that my watch was broken. Seeing the hands, frozen at two and eighteen minutes past, I felt a catch in my throat.
Stop. It’s too late to back out. You’re going to have a good time tonight. You are. It’s not like you’re doing anything wrong.
I took a deep breath to collect myself, swallowing back the wave of guilt, and then reached for my earrings. As I did, I heard a ping, the sound of something dropping onto the counter. I looked at my left hand and saw an empty setting where a diamond should have been.
My ring! Jamie sold his motorcycle to buy that diamond!
Panicked, I dropped to my hands and knees. After five heart-pounding minutes of frantic searching, I found the stone hiding in the threads of my fuzzy white bathmat. It must have bounced off the counter.
I sat back, legs crossed underneath my skirt, and took a deep breath, trying to collect myself and swallow the wave of guilt and doubt. Maybe it was a sign. Maybe I shouldn’t go. But I couldn’t back out on Monica, not at the last minute.
I climbed to my feet, smoothed out my skirt, then put my ring and the loose diamond in my jewelry box before running out the door. I was so late and so frazzled. And I couldn’t remember Luke’s last name. What would I say when the hostess asked for the name of my party?
Stop. Seriously, stop. You’re getting worked up over nothing. If you have to, you can go into the dining room and look for him. You’ll remember Luke once you see him. And even if you don’t, Monica will be there already so you can just look for her.
Say what you want about Monica, at least she’s never late.
Chapter 3
Monica
When Luke Pascal showed up at my restaurant to give me a bid for new tables and banquettes, I got so flustered that I asked what kind of wood he worked with twice, only realizing I’d done it when he tipped his head to one side and slowly said, “Well, as I said before—”
“Sorry,” I replied, “My stepson plays his music so loud—I think I must be going a little deaf.” I laughed self-consciously and forced myself to quit staring. But, really, it was hard not to.
His eyes were the same rich, golden brown as the beef-and-bone broth I make by the gallon for the restaurant. His physique caught my attention as well—tall and lean, athletic looking but not muscle-bound, which I now consider a plus.
Vince used to spend hours at the gym—at least, that’s where he said he was. It’s just as possible he was out bench-pressing blondes. But he was definitely a Muscle Beach type—big biceps, thick neck, even thicker skull. I’ve sworn off gym rats for life.
Luke was absolutely nothing like my late, hideous husband, not in manner, temperament, or looks. My first impression of him was that he was polite, capable, and smart—and undeniably attractive. But he wasn’t my type.
I don’t know why, but the men who melt my butter are always Italian. Always. Which is weird because my maiden name is Schiller and my roots are German/Polish and Lutheran. Yet, the men who make my heart go pitter-pat have names that end with vowels and marinara sauce running through their veins. It makes no sense, but it is what it is. And I have to tell you my track record is not good.
In high school, Johnny Zeffirelli cheated on me with my best friend and stood me up on
