“Nowhere is as hot as here.”
“The Gobi desert, possibly.”
He gave Field a thin smile. “It doesn’t rain in the Gobi.”
“Did you meet Capone?”
“No.”
“Did you like Chicago?”
“Yes.”
“Do you ever answer questions with more than one syllable?”
He smiled again. “No.”
Field put a potato into his mouth and spoke as he chewed. “Okay, let’s have a competition—see who can come up with a topic of conversation that will take us further than three sentences in a row.”
“Where are you from?”
“Uh-uh. No. If your past is off-limits, then so is mine. I’m from Yorkshire, you’re from Chicago—that means we’re quits.”
Caprisi leaned back. He pushed away his plate, exchanging it for a bowl of custard and some kind of cake pudding. “You went to one of those smart schools, I know that.”
“Not that smart. Where did you go to school?”
Caprisi shook his head, in the midst of another mouthful. “Your uncle’s one of the elite.”
“He is, yes.”
“And your aunt.”
Field pushed his own plate away and started on his pudding. “You know, I could lose my sense of humor in a minute.”
“Who’d notice?”
They were smiling at each other now. Field looked down at his food and sighed. “God, this is disgusting.”
“Leave it,” Caprisi said. “I’d hate to see you poison yourself. I’m looking out for you, remember.”
“You’re just like my mother.”
“She’s got hairs on her chest?”
“That same look of anguished concern, as though I’m not capable of looking after myself.”
“Maybe it’s not you she’s thinking about.”
Field frowned. “What do you mean?”
The American looked up from his food. “She’s looking at your face thinking that she’s devoted her whole life to you and now you’re gone. So the anguish is for her, not for you.”
“How do you know that?” Field said quietly.
Caprisi shook his head. “I’ve already said enough.”
“You can’t say one minute that we’re friends and then leave us knowing nothing about each other.”
“What I like about you, Field, is that you’re the best of British—solid and uncomplicated—so don’t—”
“You think I am, but you don’t know. Solid maybe, I’d like to think so. Uncomplicated? I’m not so sure.”
There was a long silence. Caprisi stared at his food as though it were suddenly the most interesting thing he’d ever seen. When he looked up, Field saw something in his eyes that spoke of a loss that was beyond words. Field knew that look.
“My wife’s name was Jane and we were childhood sweethearts. My father owned a hardware store and Jane’s family lived in the house opposite, just across the street. As kids, we used to wave at each other at night.” Caprisi looked down again. “We started dating.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “We got married and it always felt right. In a way nothing has since. We had a boy . . .” He seemed about to say the name but was unable to manage it. “He was a good kid.” Caprisi looked up, shaking his head slightly, his lips tight and his eyes narrowed as he fought to contain his emotions. “He was a great kid. Affectionate . . . Jane wanted a big family, but we couldn’t . . . you know, we only had our one boy. It was okay, we had each other, we’d always said that, you know, even before we got married, we said if we couldn’t have kids, that would be all right, because we were in it for each other.” Caprisi shook his head again. “It’s too cute. I should come up with a better story.”
Field did not know what to say.
“Have you ever been in love, Field?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then you never have been.” Caprisi sighed. “We had what both our parents had, and it was all we wanted and the boy was a blessing. He was a God-given extra. Do you believe in God, Field?”
“No.”
“There’s nothing out there, just darkness?”
“I don’t know what’s out there, but I don’t think it’s God.”
“Jane would have tried to convince you. She was a believer. The little boy was so loving, it made everything all
