I suggest a new Pan Asian place downtown, but he shakes his head.

“I really like the Blue Door,” he persists. “I don’t have a reservation, but I have a hunch you can get us a great table.”

I want to push back. It’s not that I’m ashamed of Connor working there. He’s great at his job. And it’s consistently rated as one of the best restaurants in Seattle. Really. It just feels awkward. And I admit to myself, the idea of sitting there with my boss while my husband serves us a meal is a little embarrassing.

Randall squires me in like I’m his date. He insists that Connor serve us.

“We’re family,” he says.

Connor does his unfailing best to charm. He’s juggling three other tables, and his smile is omnipresent. But he can’t hide it from me. Our eyes lock when he hands us the menus. I can tell that this is humiliating for him too.

“I’m a big fan of Chef Micah,” Randall says, putting on his readers to review the fresh sheet. “And of you, Connor.”

“You’re too kind,” Connor says.

As we sit there, and I process the moment, I can’t help but think of the time my husband’s connection to the Blue Door sent a monster to my office.

“New client’s here,” Marcy announced.

I checked the printout for the day.

Adam Warner, 2 p.m.

A minute later Mr. Warner was sitting across from me. He was a good-looking man, early forties, I thought, in a nice suit. A very nice suit for Seattle. Italian cut, I’d say. Marcy made the appointment, and I couldn’t recall at the moment why he was seeing me. Our firm is big enough to manage cases both civil and criminal.

“You don’t know who I am,” he said.

I looked at his face. Did we meet somewhere? At a conference? Was he with another firm in town?

And then he looked at me like I was a tin rabbit at a shooting gallery.

Without preamble, he fired.

“Your husband fucked my wife.”

Even before I could process what was happening, I wanted to defend Connor. It’s what I do. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, taking my eyes off him for a fleeting second that I knew would clue any juror in to the fact that I was lying.

“Yes,” he said. “You do.”

“I think you should leave, Mr. Warner.”

“You might think that, but I think you need to hear me out. Things are about to get real ugly. The truth, as I’m sure you know, being in the legal arena, is sometimes not very pretty.”

“I will call Security,” I said.

“No you won’t. Not until after I say what I’m going to say.”