“Told me what?” I ask.
“I told you Midnight is special.”
I nod. “You did. I didn’t understand it at the time, but I think I’m starting to get it.”
We’re in front of the cafe. Dory’s written in thick, curvaceous font on the glass of the door. Another blackboard, this one listing champagne and oysters as their “every night special.”
Jane stops, and looks up. I see the hesitation on her face.
“There’s always-”
“Bob’s clam hut?” I interrupt with a grin. “Maybe next time.”
We step inside. Above us, the bell jingles and the same petite blonde from earlier in the week looks up from behind the counter. She smiles and Jane waves.
“Well, hello again!” The blonde, Dory I presume, approaches us, two menus in hand.
“Hi, sweetie, how are you?” Jane leans in and they hug, a warm casual greeting.
“I’m great. Got PEI oysters in this morning, but they were gone by ten. Sorry.” Dory smiles. “Table for two?”
I nod, briefly wondering who eats oysters for breakfast, and we follow her to the back of the restaurant, a small table tucked behind a potted lemon tree. I sit with my back to the window, so Jane can look out on the street.
“What can I get you to drink?” Dory asks as a waiter, younger, male, and trying too hard not to make eye contact with me, hovers behind her.
“Water’s fine,” Jane says quickly.
Dory nods, placing the menus on the table in front of us, each a thick, single page of homemade paper with items written in calligraphy.
“Are we here for dinner, or just a snack?”
Jane opens her mouth but I jump in. “Dinner,” I smile at Dory. “We’re celebrating.”
Jane stares at me.
“Really?” Dory looks between the two of us. “Any particular celebration?”
“It’s not-”
“I impressed her,” I grin at Jane, “with my brain.”
She shuts her mouth with a harrumph.
Dory’s eyebrows go up ever so slightly, her face a mask of professionalism.
“Through my exceptional literary analysis,” I wink at Jane. She rolls her eyes at me. “Nothing untoward, of course.”
“Of course,” Dory smiles at me. She turns to Jane. “Were you impressed Jane? By his exceptional literary analysis?” I swear I can detect a hint of euphemism behind her words. The young man behind her, pen and pad in hand, furrows his brow, as if he too is trying to understand the subtext of her question.
Jane pauses, glances at me, and pivots to look her friend squarely in the eye. “I was, actually. He offered some excellent insights on Pride and Prejudice.”
“You’re reading Pride and Prejudice together?” Dory looks between the two of us.
We both nod.
“It’s a very romantic story,” Dory continues, her fingers tapping lightly against her sides.
“It’s romantic in the classical sense of the term, yes.” Jane offers, shooting her friend a warning look.
“I also think it’s a very romantic story,” I glance at the menu in front of me, trying not to grin. “That’s probably why Jane had me read it, to get all sorts of ideas in my head.”
Jane chokes slightly and inhales, “You-”
“You know, Jane,” Dory interrupt gently, her hands lingering over the menus in front of us, “We did get your favorite Chateau Margaux back.” She looks at me, despite addressing her friend. “It’s a delicious red. We import it directly. We are the only restaurant north of Boston to have it, so it’s hard to keep in stock.” She smiles broadly at me. “Jane loves it.”
“We don’t need-”
“That sounds lovely,” I grin at Dory, my new favorite person.
“I’ll bring two glasses, and a sample of our beef tartare. It really compliments the smoky undertones of the wine.”
“I don’t think we-”
“Oh!” Dory smiles again, as if she isn’t completely railroading her friend. “And Philippe made the most wonderful chocolate torte for dessert, with blueberries he picked himself.” She purses her lips in what I suspect is a completely fake look of concern, “but it is selling quickly.”
“Put in an order for two, please.”
“Of course, David.” She smiles again. I notice her hand lightly steer the gaping waiter away from our table.
I look at Jane, who seems to be shifting between irritation, frustration, and disbelief, and try not to grin.
“This is a great place.” I pick up my menu and look over the items.
Jane is silent. Her eyes narrow at the corners, lips press together in a way that makes me want to kiss them open.
“Dory’s fantastic,” I glance at her over the top of my menu, and I can practically see the steam rise off her head.
Jane shakes her head at me, grabs the menu in front of her, and I hear her mutter Dory’s dead under her breath.
The waiter returns, shows Jane the bottle of wine and she nods. He places two long-stemmed glasses in front of us, pops the cork, and gives me a taste. It’s an earthy red, with hints of leather and tobacco. Dory was right to suggest the tartare as a compliment.
I nod to the young man, who trembles as he places a white cloth over his arm. I can’t help but smile, wondering if white cloth service is standard here, but it’s a nice touch.
Dory returns, brandishing a carafe of sparkling water, two tumbler glasses with ice and lime, a plate of rye and sourdough bread rolls, and the samples of tartare, decorated with swirls of olive oil and lemon wedges.
“Have you decided what you would like?”
“Jane?” I ask as I pour a sizable portion of the bottle into her glass.
“I’ll take the chicken.”
Dory turns to me, “She always orders the chicken.”
“Does she now?” I meet Dory’s twinkling gaze.
“I like the chicken,” Jane says from across the table.
“Does she ever order anything else?” I ask.
Dory gives me a pitiful look. “Not once. Only the chicken, and the pie.” She shrugs. “Sometimes the wine, obviously.”
“You have excellent chicken,” Jane sputters.
“That’s too bad,” I shake my head.
“It really is,” Dory nods.
“There’s nothing wrong with-”
“Would you like to try something new, Jane?”
