Chapter 1
""Where is she?""
Vincent Morelli stood beside a table at the back of the restaurant, looking down at the woman who had arranged his blind date.
Cara set her wineglass on the table.
""You're looking at her.""
For several seconds, Vincent did not move.
At 59, he had negotiated with dangerous men, managed violent disputes, and spent decades building a position of authority within the city's criminal underworld. He was accustomed to difficult conversations and rarely allowed anyone to see him unsettled.
Yet the woman sitting before him had managed to leave him without an answer.
Cara was 36. She had been his closest friend for 5 years.
She was also the last person he had expected to find waiting for him that evening.
Vincent had arrived at 7:00 p.m., carrying the October cold in with him. His driver continued toward the parking area while the restaurant's host straightened at the sight of him.
""Your table is ready, Mr. Morelli.""
The host took Vincent's coat personally.
Vincent had agreed to the evening because Cara had been persistent. She had promised to arrange 1 final blind date and, if it went badly, never raise the subject again.
He had accepted largely to end the discussion.
His wife had died almost 10 years earlier. After her death, Vincent had eventually attempted to date again, but the experience had left him dissatisfied.
Some women were more interested in his reputation than in knowing him. Others spent dinner watching the room, wondering who might recognize the man sitting across from them. Conversations became performances in which people attempted to anticipate what he wanted to hear.
He grew tired of it.
Eventually, he stopped dating altogether.
Most of the people close to him accepted the decision. Cara was the exception. She could tease him about his solitary habits without making him feel that his life was somehow incomplete.
When she proposed another introduction, Vincent agreed to a single dinner.
He planned to be polite, make conversation, and return home afterward.
Then he entered the restaurant and saw Cara seated beneath a lamp with a cream-colored silk shade.
She wore a wine-red dress that followed the curve of her waist and full hips. Small gold earrings caught the light when she turned toward him.
He recognized the earrings.
He knew the slight crease that appeared between her eyebrows when she concentrated on invoices for her flower shop.
He knew how she laughed when she found something genuinely funny and how quickly she could challenge him when he became unreasonable.
But he was not accustomed to seeing her look at him this way.
Her wine remained untouched.
The chair opposite her was empty.
Vincent stopped beside it.
""You're early,"" he said.
Then he asked where his date was.
Cara gave him the answer that made him hesitate.
""You're looking at her.""
He waited for her to explain that it was a joke.
A waiter passed carrying 2 plates. Someone laughed at a nearby table. The restaurant continued operating around them.
Cara did not laugh.
She remained seated, watching his face.
""You said you had someone for me to meet,"" Vincent reminded her.
""You already know her. That should save us some awkward questions.""
Vincent rested his hand against the back of the empty chair.
""Cara.""
He had used that tone to end arguments with men who were accustomed to intimidating others.
But when her smile began to disappear, he softened his voice.
""Tell me this isn't some kind of game.""
""It isn't.""
They had been friends for 5 years.
During that time, Cara had become part of the ordinary routines Vincent valued most. She came to his house for Sunday dinners, called about problems at her flower shop, and listened when he complained about his schedule.
Sometimes they spoke without having any particular news to share.
Their friendship occupied a part of his life that he had kept separate from his work.
He trusted her in ways he trusted very few people.
Now she had placed herself in the chair reserved for a stranger, risking a relationship they both depended upon.
""You should have told me,"" he said.
""I know.""
A waiter approached with the wine list and asked whether Vincent wanted another glass.
He did not answer.
Cara politely asked the waiter to give them a minute.
When he moved away, she lowered her hands into her lap.
Vincent had already noticed that her fingers were trembling.
He also noticed something else.
The candle on the table had been shifted away from the place where he usually sat. Cara knew he disliked crowded table settings and preferred enough room to move his arm comfortably.
Even while preparing for a conversation that might end their friendship, she had remembered that small preference.
""You can leave,"" she said quietly. ""I won't stop you.""
She meant it.
Vincent looked toward the restaurant entrance.
His coat was still at the host's desk. His driver would be available if he called. He could leave without answering any questions he was not prepared to face.
But he understood what it had cost Cara to make the invitation.
She had come knowing he might reject her.
He had come expecting nothing more difficult than an evening of polite conversation.
To understand how they had reached that point, Vincent found himself thinking about the Sunday dinner they had shared 3 nights earlier.
Cara had arrived at his house carrying a paper bag of fresh rolls.
Rain remained in her hair when she entered the kitchen.
Vincent took the bag while she hung her coat over a chair.
""You look annoyed.""
Cara explained that a man she had dated the previous evening had sent her an entire business plan for her flower shop.
Vincent stopped cutting the bread.
""Did you ask him for one?""
""No. He sells insurance. Apparently, that makes him an authority on reorganizing my wedding orders.""
She laughed and reached for a plate.
The encounter had been irritating, but she was already able to describe it with humor.
Their Sunday dinners had become the most comfortable part of her week.
Cara had met Vincent 5 years earlier when she delivered flowers to his restaurant.
He wanted lilies placed in a particular area.
She refused because their strong scent would overpower the food.
Vincent argued.
Cara explained her reasoning.
Eventually, he listened.
That disagreement became the beginning of their acquaintance.
Over time, they found reasons to speak that had nothing to do with flower arrangements or restaurant decorations.
Cara had rebuilt her life after a divorce. She owned a business she loved, maintained friendships, and made plans without expecting anyone else to organize her future.
Vincent respected her independence.
When she mentioned a problem, he asked questions rather than immediately assuming she wanted him to fix it.
He remembered details from conversations she herself sometimes forgot.
For Cara, those qualities had become increasingly difficult to regard as merely friendly.
As Vincent placed the fresh bread on the table, he asked about the man who had sent the business plan.
Cara wanted to know whether he was checking the man's credentials.
Vincent claimed he was only making conversation.
She suggested they discuss his dating life instead.
He set the bread knife down.
""Fine. Short conversation.""
Cara asked why he had stopped trying to meet anyone.
Vincent pulled out her chair before answering.
He was tired, he explained, of watching people decide what he wanted to hear before he had said anything.
By the end of those dinners, he usually wanted nothing more than to go home.
Cara sat down.
""What would make you want to stay?""
Vincent considered the question.
He wanted a woman with her own life.
Someone willing to tell him when he was being unreasonable.
Cara remarked that such a responsibility could become a full-time job.
Vincent smiled.
He wanted someone comfortable with silence. Someone who could hear his name without forgetting what she had been saying.
Cara looked down at her plate.
She had spent years doing precisely those things.
She had never been afraid to challenge him over ordinary matters, and she had never treated his reputation as the most interesting thing about him.
She knew the man who prepared their Sunday dinners, remembered her business concerns, and sometimes preferred a quiet evening in the kitchen to any public event.
Vincent's description sounded painfully familiar.
Before she could respond, he changed the subject.
He asked whether her landlord had sent the lease renewal.
Cara looked up in surprise.
The document had arrived that morning, and the terms were the same as those they had previously discussed.
Vincent seemed relieved.
He remembered that she had been worried about the renewal.
Cara had mentioned the concern only once, weeks earlier, during one of their many conversations.
He had not forgotten.
Later, while reaching for coffee cups, his sleeve brushed her arm.
Cara resisted the urge to move closer.
She had begun noticing ordinary moments like that with an intensity she could no longer easily dismiss.
Sometimes she wondered how many more Sunday evenings she could spend behaving as though her feelings had not changed.
At the end of dinner, she put on her coat and prepared to leave.
Then she turned back.
""I know someone you might like.""
Vincent looked at her.
She described the woman as independent, honest, and patient.
She knew who Vincent was and still wanted to have dinner with him.
He wanted to know why Cara believed they would get along.
""She isn't afraid to disagree with you.""
Vincent sighed.
He had little enthusiasm for another blind date.
Cara promised that this would be the final attempt if it did not work.
Eventually, he agreed.
""One dinner.""
Cara left with his consent, but he had no idea whom she intended him to meet.
On Wednesday evening, she stood before her mirror wearing the wine-red dress.
Vincent's number was already open on her phone.
She could still cancel.
If she did, their Sunday dinners might continue without either of them ever learning how the other felt.
She could explain that the proposed date had fallen through.
Vincent would probably accept the explanation.
They would go on discussing restaurant problems, wedding flowers, and the ordinary details of their weeks.
But Cara understood what that would mean for her.
She would continue leaving his house after dinner, waiting until she reached her car before allowing the disappointment to show.
She had already spent too much time hoping Vincent might someday recognize the possibility she saw between them.
Now she wanted an answer.
Even if he rejected her, she would at least know.
She lowered the phone.
Then she smoothed her dress, collected her coat, and left for the restaurant.
By the time Vincent arrived, she had been sitting alone with an untouched glass of wine.
She had also spent approximately 10 minutes in her car practicing how to greet him.
May you like
None of that preparation had made the moment easier.
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