Jill must have read her face, for she said, “We’ll get one salad and share—the portions are large.”

That was an understatement; the “small” salad came on a platter, a great heap of mixed greens and purple onions, glistening with oil. Dark olives clung precariously to what showed of the rim. The garlic bread they ordered with it was the size and shape of a large pizza, crusted with Parmesan, greening with basil, thickly flecked with slices of roasted garlic.

Betsy had thought it was only New York cops who loved Italian food, but perhaps it was a universal trait; certainly Jill seemed familiar with the menu.

“How long have you known Margot?” asked Betsy as they waited for the entrée.

Jill considered. “Fifteen years, or thereabouts,” she replied, and added, “She taught me how to embroider and do crewel. And, more recently, needlepoint.”

“Do you knit?”

“No. And neither do you, I guess.”

Betsy thought for an instant that this was a witticism, but when she looked up from her second slice of garlic bread, all she saw was that implacable calm and a penetrating pair of eyes.

Jill had the full face the Victorians so admired; not a bone sticking out anywhere. And her eyebrows were so pale they were almost invisible. So there was no quirky eyebrow or quiver of jaw tendon to read in that face.

A little defensively, Betsy said, “Knitting’s a dull business, don’t you think? It seems so mechanical, knit, purl, knit, purl, on and on—but you have to pay attention, or you end up with a mess.”

“You did learn how to purl, then?”

“Yes, Margot showed me. I thought I had taught myself, but Margot looked at it and said she thought I had invented a new stitch.”

Was that a glint of amusement in those cool eyes?

Encouraged, Betsy continued, “And while I thought I was dropping stitches, it turned out I had added six. Did you ever notice how knitters have to keep stopping and counting? Always dropping or picking up stitches. Give me the kind of needlework where all I have to do is look and I know where I am.”

“Me, too.”

The chicken Marsala was to die for. A single serving came as three large chicken breasts in a caramel-brown sauce, covered with big hunks of fresh mushrooms. They shared that, too.

“Well?” said Jill coolly as the meal drew toward its end.

“Well what?” replied Betsy, feeling overfed, and a little fuddled with Chianti. It was too easy to be generous when pouring it into a tumbler.

“Is it as good as that little restaurant in Brooklyn?”

Betsy tried to think. “Frankly, it’s been too many years since I was in Brooklyn to remember. But I think so. In any case, it was delicious.”

“I’m glad you liked it,” said Jill. She looked at her watch. “We don’t have time for dessert.”

Betsy began to laugh, she couldn’t help it.

Jill’s inquiring glance had the wintry look in it again, even though she, too, watched as the waitress packed up half a slab of garlic bread and most of the garlic mashed potatoes and one of the chicken breasts. Was it a local custom always to order dessert, even when all you could manage was a polite bite of it? Did Jill think there was an empty refrigerator at home?