The hostess tried to seat us near the kitchen doors, but Jack redirected her to a small room they hadn’t started filling yet. Our table was tiny, but private, the noise of other diners only a distant murmur. The lights were low. Too low really. Nice for atmosphere—not so good for reading menus. When I noticed Jack squinting at his, I borrowed his matches and lit our oil lamp. It sputtered a moment, acrid smoke filling the air, then lit, casting a wavering yellow glow over the table.

Jack considered the wine list, but seemed relieved when I said I’d be having a mixed drink instead. I ordered a Caesar, then—seeing the server’s blank look—changed it to a Bloody Mary. Jack got draft beer.

For our meals, we both chose steaks, with vegetables on the side and loaded baked potatoes. Add on an appetizer, plus the bread they brought with our drinks, and it was probably enough calories to last a week. But after grazing on fast food for days, I considered this healthy eating. At least there would be something green on my plate.

“Today go okay?” Jack asked when the server left.

“You mean with Evelyn?”

He nodded.

“It seemed fine.”

He hesitated, his gaze sliding to mine, searching. After a moment, he broke away and nodded, satisfied.

“If you were worried she was going to pester me about the protégée thing, it didn’t happen. She hinted about better jobs, but didn’t pursue it. I think she’s changed her mind about my suitability.”

Another pause, butter knife raised. Then another nod. He speared one of the bread slices with the knife, offering it to me. I took it. Then the server arrived with the appetizer, and I asked how his trip to Illinois had gone.

As I sipped my Bloody Mary, I thought about how long it had been since I’d had something like a “date dinner.” Not that I’d mistaken this for a date, but the general scenario—sitting in a semidark restaurant, enjoying drinks and conversation with a man over a long, leisurely meal—was one I hadn’t experienced in a while.

Three years since my last relationship. Even that had been casual. My last serious one was six years ago, when I’d been “preengaged.”

That had been Eric’s word for it. He’d even bought me a preengagement ring. It’d been a joke, something to placate his mother, who kept looking at me with visions of grandchildren in her eyes, but after a while, I think it became reality for Eric, and maybe even for me, the idea that we really were headed toward engagement. I didn’t need to get married. But I could, with the right guy. And if there was a right guy, Eric was it.