“Not at all. The shrimp and grits sounds delicious.”

“And just so you know, I’m partial to townies.”

“Even though you’re a come-here.”

“A what?”

“That’s what locals call the visitors from the city.”

“Who serve foie gras at their parties.” Finn ordered the crab cakes and a side of fresh cucumbers. “I’ll share,” he said, savoring her shy smile. His pleasure wavered when he noticed a table full of D.C. power brokers across the room. Among them was a lobbyist Finn had slept with not long after his divorce—not his finest moment. He turned slightly, facing Camille.

“What?” She dabbed at her lips with a napkin. “Do I have something on my face?”

“I was just wondering about something.”

“About what?”

“Why are you single?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Most women like you are already taken.”

“Women like me?” Her eyes sharpened with suspicion.

Okay, that came out wrong. “Smart, interesting, cool . . . It just occurred to me to wonder why you’re single. Was your divorce recent?”

“I’m not divorced. My husband died,” she said, her mouth tightening.

“What?” Shit. He wasn’t expecting that. “I mean, I heard what you said . . .”

“It always creates an awkward moment,” she said.

Shit shit shit. “Sorry I brought it up. I just assumed . . . Has it been . . . when did he die?” Finn realized he was babbling. There were no smooth come-ons or pat phrases for this.

She hesitated, then added, “It’s been five years.”

That was slightly less freaky. Five years seemed like long enough. “Oh man. Was he in the service?” Finn flashed on the endless alabaster rows of markers at Arlington. All the guys he knew who had died young had been in the service.

“No,” she said. “It was an accident.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. And for what Julie will never get to know. I’m sure you’ve been hearing that for five years, but I do mean it, Camille.” Shit, he thought again. A divorce was one thing. But a death? At a loss for words, he touched her hand. A crazy feeling went through him. He had no idea what was going through her, but she looked down at their hands, and gently moved away.

“Thank you. I guess . . . so maybe you can relate to Julie’s situation. Growing up without your dad.”

“Yes and no. I had a stepfather by the time I was two. My sisters, especially Margaret Ann, missed my dad horribly, but they adjusted. I hope your daughter does, too.”

“She seems resilient,” said Camille. “I hope so. I hope she doesn’t carry sadness around with her all day every day.”

“I hope you don’t either,” he said. “I mean, losing your husband must have been a nightmare, and I’m sorry as hell it happened to you, but he’s going to be dead for a long time, and there’s nothing wrong with moving on.”

“That’s a blunt way of putting it.”