Small talk isn’t one of my fortes, but Trish is easygoing and has graciously overlooked more than a few of my malapropisms. After she settles back into her seat and meets my gaze with a warm smile, I show off my stellar conversational skills by noting that her surname isn’t a common one. “You’re my first Pangborne. Is that your married name?”
“I wasn’t bringing any of my ex along when I left,” she says while reaching across the table to touch her fingertips to the back of my hand. A playful smile plays on her lips. “You’re my first Valenti.”
The touch is electric. How did I resist Trish all the time I was at Fleiss Lansky?
My phone comes to life and vibrates on the table. I should have turned the damned thing off, or at least silenced it. “Sorry,” I mutter while reaching to power it off. A reference to Brittany in the text message from Pat that has just arrived stays my hand.
Is B there?
I assume Pat means at 47 Liberty Street. Why would she think that? I glance up at Trish. “Babysitter. Mind if I make a quick call?”
Trish smiles and shakes her head. “Of course not.”
Pat picks up on the first ring and asks, “Is she with you?”
“No. What’s up?”
“Probably nothing. She went to drama rehearsal at Jocelyn’s house with Bobby. They’ve done it a few times now. He walks her home afterward. They’ve never been late before.”
“I assume you’ve called?”
“A few times after I sent several texts. Straight to voicemail.”
The ignored calls and voicemails aren’t surprising—kids don’t talk on or answer their phones. The unanswered texts, however, are out of character. I force the memory of Brittany and Bobby exchanging longing looks across the dinner table last week out of my mind. Well, I try to. “That’s odd for her.”
“Yeah, but listen to us,” Pat says with an uncertain laugh. “It’s hardly after nine on Saturday night. I’m sure they’ll be along soon.” She’s probably right.
I say, “Have her text me as soon as she gets home.”
“One of us will. Hearing your voice seems to have settled my nerves. Thanks for calling.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What are you up to?” she asks.
I look up and find Trish’s concerned eyes on mine. Well, isn’t this awkward? “I’m out for dinner with a friend,” I reply in a tone I hope doesn’t invite further inquiry, then wonder why. Pat has made it clear that she’s not interested. Trish is interested. I’ve got nothing to hide and nothing to feel guilty about. Mel made it clear that even I deserve happiness.
“Oh!” Pat says in surprise. “I’ll let you go.”
Trish’s eyes are still on mine when I disconnect, silence the phone, and jam it into my rear pants pocket.
“Everything okay?” she asks.
“Yup. My daughter’s just a little late getting home.”
Trish cocks her head to one side. “Your babysitter doesn’t know you’re out for dinner?”
“Long story,” I reply without mentioning shootings, custody battles, or any of the other complications I could cite to explain why my daughter isn’t living with me at the moment.
She accepts the explanation with a nod and then fixes me with an amused expression. “Isn’t your daughter fifteen or sixteen?”
“Fifteen,” I reply.
She laughs a deep smoky laugh that stirs something inside of me, then injects a little note of challenge in her voice when she asks, “What time did you get to stay out until on Saturdays when you were her age?”
I must sound like the ultimate parental ogre. “Midnight, maybe?”
Trish leans back in her seat and pastes a mock scowl on her face. “She’s a girl, so she can’t stay out?”
I chuckle and shake my head. “It’s not like that! The babysitter’s a little skittish, that’s all.” For many good reasons, I don’t add.
Trish covers my hand with hers. “Just teasing you a little, Tony. She’s a lucky girl to have a father who cares so much.” Something in her tone and deep in her eyes makes me wonder if maybe her father wasn’t all he should have been to his daughter.
Supper is excellent—the food and especially the company. We’re polishing off cherries jubilee for two when Trish leans closer and smiles. “I’m really enjoying this, Tony.”
“Then I guess we both are,” I say with an answering smile.
Her eyes continue to hold mine. “No need for the evening to end yet. We can have coffee or a nightcap at my place.”
“That sounds perfect,” I reply while a little thrill passes through me. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt the ache of anticipation when a woman looks at me the way Trish is doing right now. I signal to the waiter and mimic signing a check.
“Where to?” I ask as we leave the table two minutes later.
She takes my hand in hers. “Just to the elevators and down to the fifty-third floor.”
She stands close and smiles up at me while the elevator takes us down seventeen floors. Her perfume is a very subtle and appealing fragrance, dabbed on so lightly that it’s only noticeable at close quarters. We step off the elevator and saunter along a carpeted hallway to the door of her condominium. She lets us in and flicks a light switch, powering on a pair of wall sconces that cast little pools of intimate yellow light on the ceiling. The light reveals a sprawling living room with floor-to-ceiling windows that follow the rounded contours of the building. They say this building is oriented to afford every suite its own unobstructed view of Lake Michigan. It seems to be true.
My eyes stray back to Trish when she asks, “You like?” She’s posed like a game-show hostess displaying a prize while she awaits my verdict with a smile playing on her lips. Is she asking
