Page 25

TWENTY-FOUR

The restaurant Tom chooses is tucked away on one of the shortest streets in Little Italy. With all of Alex’s aimless walking over the past seven years, it is rare for a place to be new to her. Glowing string lights crisscross the narrow street lined on both sides with little mom-and-pop Italian restaurants. People sit at tables along the sidewalk, talking and drinking wine over red-checked tablecloths as scents of garlic and oregano and freshly baked bread waft from the open doorways. Alex stumbles down the sidewalk transported. She’s so charmed by it all she almost doesn’t see that Tom is already waiting for her, sitting on the steps in front of a small church next to the restaurant. When he sees her, he grins and stands up, brushing off the front of his pants. He’s wearing a jacket despite the warm weather, a crisp blue shirt buttoned up underneath.

Alex is glad that she ran home after they texted, showering and changing into a long-sleeved white linen dress that is just a little too short with a cutout along the collarbone. She’d pulled out the only pair of heels she owns, a pair of nude slides that were an impulse buy she had yet to wear outside of her apartment. She’d gotten dressed and stood teetering on the edge of the bathtub to see herself in the bathroom mirror as the pigeons watched her warily from the window. Don’t worry, it’s just one date, she’d found herself saying, as much to herself as to Mildred.

Now she’s glad she made the effort as Tom walks down the steps of the church, looking at her appreciatively.

“Wow,” he says when he gets close enough. “You look great.”

“I’m not always dressed like a writer on deadline,” she says, the compliment making her cheeks flush. “Usually, though.”

“Ready?” Tom gestures for her to go ahead of him through a small red-painted doorway. Inside, the place is not one of the new modern Italian restaurants she often passes while out for walks in her neighborhood, the ones with the polished cement bars and people in the window eating tiny portions off massive plates. This is a proper Italian bistro, with an arched brick ceiling and bouquets of breadsticks teetering in cups in the center of the tables. A waiter brings them back to a small table set against the wall. A candle flickers invitingly, some of its wax already collecting on the checkered tablecloth below. The overt date vibes of the place make them both a little shy and they decide to order a bottle of wine. It’s an optimistic gesture, Alex thinks. A sign that they are anticipating the date going well.

“Any preference on style?” He looks at her over the plastic-coated menu.

“Red? Good-tasting?” Alex shrugs and he laughs. As much as she loves to drink it, she’s never been much of a wine snob. She tends to forget much beyond the very basics.

“I think we can probably do that.” She watches him deliberate with the sommelier about bottles. It’s been a long time since she’s had this kind of feeling about a person, the kind of comfortable chemistry where just watching them do something mundane is attractive.

“So—” they both start to say, and then stop and laugh, each waiting for the other to continue.

“I hope you like it here,” he says, looking around the cozy brick-lined room.

“It’s so lovely,” she says. “There’s something very comforting about it.”

He nods. “It’s one of my favorite restaurants in the city. Reminds me of my grandparents.”

“They were Italian?” Alex asks.

“Irish,” he says, and she bursts out laughing. He gives her a crooked grin, pleased with himself for inadvertently making such a funny joke. “But my granddad worked as a line cook in Philly. Was his first job off the boat, so our family dinners were decidedly very Italian American, with a potato or two thrown in.” Alex likes the way his eyes crinkle and the slightly shy duck of his head. Keep your shit together, she tells herself. No need to lose it because this is your first date in eight years.

“I would have thought you came from a long line of bankers,” she jokes.

“God, no. My whole family is blue-collar. I mean, they’ve done good for themselves, but no one has ever had any desire to work on Wall Street. Myself included.”

“You went into banking accidentally?”

“Kind of. I actually have no idea how I got into it. A friend of mine in college, his dad worked high up at Excelsior, and I just kind of glommed on, summer internship, first-year job. I kind of hate it, to be honest. I don’t think anyone understands why I do it to myself. The hours are terrible. They’d be happier if I found a nice girl to marry and took over the family restaurant.” Embarrassed, he clears his throat, his eyes jumping down to his menu. “What about you? Do you have a big family?”

Talking about her early life makes her skin prickle nervously. Under the table she tugs at her sleeves. It’s not that it’s a secret, but somehow bringing up the time before New York feels dangerous. The truth is, she is ashamed of what happened back then. And of the recluse she has let herself become. “No, I—” A waiter comes to the table, giving Alex a much-needed reprieve. He drops off two heaping plates of pasta flecked with basil and shavings of Parmesan and a bowl of some sort of salad with perfectly in-season sliced peaches, an orb of burrata nestled in the center.

“This looks delicious,” Alex says, thrilled to be looking at real food for the first time all week. Tom scoops up a bite of linguine, expertly twirling it around his fork and taking a bite. He closes his eyes, enjoying the flavors. Alex watches him, intrigued. She wonders if he is always so appreciative of things.

“Well, it’s no nine p.m. chocolate chip muffin.” He puts his fork down and smiles at her. “Now, I was hoping you could tell me what the name of your column is, because I’ve been reading the Herald all week and I can’t find it for the life of me.”

She weighs her options. She can’t keep everything from him. Plus, she is starting to suspect that she might truly like Tom. Which means she’ll have to open up to him. This realization makes her stomach flip. She takes another sip of wine.

“I feel almost bizarre telling you this, because it barely feels real to me. I was hired just a week ago to be the new Dear Constance.”

She watches him put it together. His eyes get big. “The advice columnist?”

She nods.

“The one who—”

She nods again, hoping that he won’t focus on the sad part of her job. She realizes with some heaviness that her job will always be linked to Francis’s murder. That telling people will always have them scratching their heads and asking whether they’d ever found the person who killed her, and watching their eyes widen when she says no.

“That’s great, Alex. Amazing, really. What a cool job,” he says. And she smiles, relieved.

“I actually turned in my first column today,” she admits. “It’s why I texted you. I felt like I could finally relax a tiny bit.”

“Wow. I can’t wait to read it. I’m honored to celebrate with you,” he says. “Truly. What an accomplishment. I have no doubt you’ll be amazing at it. There is something about you, something I noticed right away—I hope you don’t mind me saying it. I think you make people feel comfortable.”

She reaches her wineglass to his, a tingling in her chest as the glasses ding together. Alex has heard this before. She’s always been the kind of person who people feel at ease around, who they’d tell things to. Back in the before times, she used to joke that if someone had committed a murder, they’d probably tell her about it. She wonders if that is still true.

There is a pause in their conversation as they eat. The wine has made her warm inside. Tom smiles at her over the candle. She holds his gaze. There’s no ducking away this time, no awkwardness. It is the first time in as long as she can remember that she has felt this calm. And then he puts down his fork, pats his mouth with the white napkin, and leans back.

“So, your boss is the Howard Demetri?” he asks.

“The one and only!” She expects him to be impressed, but instead Tom looks down into his lap. “Why?” she asks, confused. He hesitates, like he’s not sure he wants to tell her now.

“Well, when I said I recognized him earlier, it wasn’t the way you might think. I mean, now that you say it, of course I know his name. And I thought he had a familiar look to him. But there is something else I wasn’t sure I should bring up.”

“And now?” She feels her skin prickle.

“Now I’ve had half a bottle of this fabulous pinot and I am losing my ability to keep this extremely tantalizing gossip from you.”

Alex leans in. She raises her eyebrows at him, trying to ignore the anxious flutter that’s started in her stomach. “Tell me.”

“Okay, I know this is going to sound kind of weird, but I think his office window is directly across from mine. I’ve seen him in there at night…” He trails off.

“You spy on him?” Alex narrows her eyes at the stranger across the table. His cheeks flush and he holds his palms out to her, pleading innocence.

“No! I mean, not on purpose. My desk points right toward the Herald . When it’s dark out, those big windows are practically lit up like television screens.”

“Are you sure it’s him?” Alex asks, her elbows on the table. She is afraid of what he’s about to say, and she’s not sure if it is because of what it will reveal about Howard or what it already tells her about Tom.

He nods. “After seeing him outside the other day, I’m positive. I can’t see too many details, but I know it’s him. You can’t exactly mistake him for someone else with that height and that thick JFK hair of his and all.”

It’s true, Alex thinks. The shape of Howard Demetri is so striking that it would be almost impossible not to pick him out of a lineup. “So, what have you seen?”

His finger traces the top of his empty wineglass. “I hope what I’m about to tell you doesn’t make me sound creepy.”

“I hope not, too,” she says with a laugh, but her hands have gone slick as she tugs on her sleeves under the table.

“I don’t normally watch people at night through the window, you have to understand. But there was a while there where I was working on a big project for the bank and I was staying late, even later than normal. And let’s just say that, at least during that time, Mr. Howard Demetri had a semiregular nightly visitor, and it was very friendly.”

It takes her a second to understand what he’s referring to. “What! You mean they were having sex? In his office?” Alex asks, scandalized. “Did you see her?”

Tom blushes. “Not really. Just her back. They were, um, on the desk.”

“Wow. I would not have expected that.”

“I know. It was so wildly inappropriate I couldn’t tear my eyes away,” he says. “Anyway, sorry, this is not the most date-friendly topic.”

“I mean, it is kind of a shock, honestly. But he did stop wearing his wedding band right after I got there, so maybe it shouldn’t be.”

“Maybe it’s all aboveboard then?”

Alex shakes her head, feeling sad. “I don’t know why people do that to their partners. Fragile egos, I guess. I just can’t imagine that kind of thing even feeling good. Not long-term. The stress of it.”

“No. I mean, I don’t even think it’s about the women for so many of them. It’s like getting an expensive car, more about how you view yourself than anything else. Plus, someone like Howard Demetri is probably used to the rush of excitement from his work. Maybe this is just an extension of that.” Tom is watching her intently, a crease between his brows. “You really admire him?”

Alex nods. “It is a bit disappointing, though it probably shouldn’t be. This is what powerful men always do, isn’t it?”

“Too many of them,” Tom says, still looking right at her. She is unused to this kind of direct attention and is relieved when the waiter interrupts, bringing them dessert menus. “But not all of them. Some just use their powers to order multiple desserts. What do you think about tiramisu?” Tom smiles and Alex laughs, nodding in agreement.

After dinner they linger on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. Tom tilts his head down to look at her and they lock eyes. There it is, that buzzy feeling again, that energy crackling between them like static electricity.

“Thanks for dinner,” she says, allowing herself to lean into him slightly. Alex can smell the bite of garlic and wine on his breath. It isn’t bad. She actually finds it weirdly intoxicating. He is so close that the pattern on his shirt blurs in front of her eyes and she can smell his laundry detergent. The scent of it reminds her of her childhood home, of the laundry room off the kitchen with the big tubs of powdered detergent her mom bought on sale. He doesn’t come from money, she realizes suddenly. The thought fills her with empathy. He feels comfortable, like someone she’s known for years and years. For a moment she thinks he might kiss her.

“Should I get a car?” Registering the surprise on her face, Tom pulls back and clears his throat. “I mean for you to get home in.”

Alex exhales, both relieved and disappointed. She isn’t ready for that. Not yet. At least, she doesn’t think she is. She punches her information into his phone and lets him order her an Uber.

“Thank you for dinner. I loved that place.”

“Anytime,” he says.

The wine has made her sleepy and happy, and she leans back in the seat on the way home and watches the city pass in a blur of lights and people, some of them stumbling to bars or out into the street as the car brings her uptown.

It isn’t until she has gotten home and bolted the door behind her that she hears the cheerful ding of an incoming text and realizes what she has done. She looks down at her phone, her stomach already turning. It glows in her hand. A text from Tom reads:

I see you are home! Tracked it on the app. Hope you have a good sleep. Oh, and, Alex, I had a really nice time tonight. Hope you did too.

She leans her back against the door feeling dizzy. She wasn’t being careful. It was the wine and the almost-kissing that threw her. And now he knows where she lives. Alex checks the locks again on the door, then the windows. She looks out onto the street. The diner lights are out for the night. A few dark figures rush past. One stops and loiters there. It’s probably fine. Alex realizes she doesn’t even know Tom yet. She should have ordered her own car home but was stupidly swept up in the chivalry of all of it. Drunk on the attention. It was sloppy of her.

And yet Alex knows she will have to let go of all this fear if she wants to let anything in. She is done running. If not for the stupid threatening letter, she would almost be ready to believe that no one is chasing her anymore. Another text comes in.

I hope I didn’t freak you out with all of my talk about your boss.

He hadn’t, not at the time, but now she wonders if it isn’t a little strange to sit there in your office and spy on people through the window while they are having sex.

He’d had a nice time though, that was what he wrote. Alex had had a nice time too. The thought is startling, foreign to her. A nice time on a date. It’s almost like she is a normal woman. Things are okay, she tells herself. She remembers the words from one of Francis’s columns. It was one from years ago about a man on the precipice of starting his life over. She can’t remember all of the details, but she remembers one line: Sometimes it is easy to mistake hope for fear.