“I’ll be sixty-two in August,” Joe says, as though he’s amazed such a thing could happen. I know how he feels.

“I was sixty last November.”

He reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You look great, Rita,” he says, and smiles. “Any thoughts of retiring?”

“No,” I say quickly. “What would I do with my time?”

“No man in your life?”

“Not presently.” It’s been a while, but I don’t tell him that. Despite Collin’s efforts to find me a date, I’ve been in a lull lately. Don’t know why exactly. I fiddle with my collar and change the subject. “Besides, Joe. I like what I do. I don’t feel sixty, do you?”

He shakes his head, takes a long sip of his beer. “Not most days.”

I stretch my legs under the table and feel a small ache in my hip. “I had a big case last fall. I had to kick in a door. Hostage situation.”

He grins. “No shit?”

“Well, the door was pretty well rotted, but I kicked the fucker in.”

We laugh. He salutes me with his beer. I pick up my wine and drain my glass.

* * *

When I get back to my place, enter the foyer, Collin is just about to head upstairs, a small Tupperware in his hand.

“Hey, Rita.” He looks guilty, of what I have no idea.

“What you got there?” Usually he’s coming down the stairs with a Tupperware full of food for me.

“Oh, this. Uh, Mrs. Antonelli invited me for dinner. André’s out of town this week, that convention I was telling you about.”

“Thought you were going with him? Catch some rays in Miami?”

He sighs. “I was, but Margo got the flu.”

She’s their café manager. “Huh, so you had to stay behind.”

“Yeah. Anyway, Mrs. A’s son canceled on her, and she had all this gnocchi.” He raises the container.

“Good?” I feel a dart of jealousy. Never had kids, and since Collin and André have lived upstairs, Collin and I have gotten close.

“Yes. Amazing. I asked her for her recipe, but she yelled at me. I guess old Italian ladies don’t use recipes.” He smiles. “She told me she’d teach me to make it, though.”

“Well, that’s nice. But I’ve had your gnocchi. I don’t think she can teach you anything.”

He tips his head. “It’s better than mine, Rita. I was so bummed.” His brow furls. “Where were you? Working late on that psychologist case?”

I fish my keys out of my purse, turn to my door. “Yeah. It’s gotten pretty complicated.”

“It’s really late. I keep telling you, you work too hard. Oh, I met Mrs. Antonelli’s son, Leo, the other day. He’s about your age. Pretty handsome, Rita, and he’s divorced.”