Frankie ordered a kir royale and began munching on the chips. She thought of calling Jil again or a girlfriend, but decided she preferred to sit alone and listen to the pianist’s medley of Gershwin, Berlin, and Cole Porter. For a moment, her mind drifted to Pippa and her son, Alex. Frankie had convinced herself that she was incapable of loving anyone as much as a parent loved a child. She believed she had chosen the right profession because her gift was for analytical detachment.

The Texas ladies were toasting their second round of margaritas when the pianist began to play “There’s a Small Hotel,” a favorite song of her father’s. Frankie began singing to herself.

“There’s a small hotel / With a wishing well / I wish something something.” Frankie felt a lump growing in her throat and waved to the waiter for a check. She would not allow herself to drift into some sentimental reverie about her father. She was determined to nip it in the bud.

Frankie waved again for the waiter.

“How did you know I’d be coming? I know you’re intuitive, but it was really thoughtful of you to have already gotten us a table.”

Frankie felt a hand on her shoulder, turned around, and saw Charlie Acton in a sheepskin coat.

“Charlie?”

“I assumed you were waving at me. Or are you here with someone else? Did I catch you in flagrante?”

“No, no. I was just getting the check.” Frankie was completely flummoxed.

“Don’t go. Stay and have a drink with me? Samantha is working late.”

Frankie was reluctant to say that as far as she knew, Samantha didn’t technically work, but she let it go. “Oh, sure. Please join me.”

Charlie took off his jacket. He was wearing a surprisingly unformed old Shetland sweater and corduroy jeans. Oddly, it was the same sort of clothes he wore when Frankie first met him twenty years ago.

“I come for the chips.” He smiled at her. “The greasier the better.”

Frankie looked at his intelligent blue eyes. Without the chic setting of Alvar Aalto modern treasures and the sleek Samantha Acton on his arm, he had a warm innocence.

“What are you drinking? It looks like a Shirley Temple.”

“Kir royale. Champagne and cassis.”

“Girl drink.” He stuck out his tongue. “I used to have a girlfriend from Skidmore who’d come down to Princeton and have those.”

“She drank champagne at college?”

“Oh please. It was Asti Spumante.” He laughed. “Who knows? Maybe that’s why I didn’t get into the Ivy.” Charlie waved for the waiter. “I’ll have a Grey Goose martini, up, olive, and my sister here will have one, too.”

“But—”

“Oh ya gotta have a martini here. They come in little silver shakers in their own personal mini ice buckets. What did you get with what you’ve got? Just a skinny glass and some fizz.”

“Two martinis?” the waiter asked.