He laughed. It was a good sound. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose that’s what it is.”

O

It was as if she’d never been out with a man, never dressed up to look her best, never been told how beautiful she was. Jenna littered the floor with the contents of her closet, found fault with every garment she owned, then started all over again. She ended up in the most expensive boutique on Newbury Street, spending an outrageous sum of money on the kind of outfit she hadn’t bought in years—a creamy gabardine suit that lightly caressed the contours of her body. Not particularly suitable for work, but just right, she hoped, for her first date with Brad Pierce.

They met at Locke-Ober’s on Winter Place, with Brad apologizing for not picking her up and Jenna assuring him she didn’t mind making her own way there.

“But I mind. I’m an old-fashioned guy—like this place,” he said, indicating the dark-paneled woodwork, the traditional elegance of the private room he’d reserved. “I meant to come to your door with a bouquet of posies in my hand, but my meeting ran so long, and I didn’t want to just keep you waiting, so …”

“It’s all right,” she reiterated. “I’ll take the thought for the deed. At least this once,” she added boldly, wondering what on Earth had gotten into her.

A tuxedo-clad waiter who looked as venerable as the establishment itself hovered discreetly at Brad’s elbow. “Shall I serve the wine, sir?” Brad nodded. “I took the liberty of ordering ahead,” he said to Jenna, “but if you’d prefer …”

“No,” she said, “I like surprises.”

Deftly and without showy fanfare, the waiter served the meal: consommé, green salad, grilled game hen accompanied by a fine Cote de Beaune.

“I’ve passed this place dozens of times,” Jenna said. “I never realized it was so … so quaint.”

“It was my father’s favorite restaurant. I brought my first important date here.”

“Your wife?” Jenna asked, pleased to follow the tradition of Brad’s “first important date.”

He nodded. “We met in high school. And there was no more need to look around. I knew it, and so did Pat.”

“That sounds rather … old-timeyish.” “I told you—”

“Right,” she laughed. “You’re an old-fashioned guy.” They continued talking over coffee—he, reminiscing about his marriage and apologizing for boring her, she, enjoying his memories and assuring him she wasn’t the slightest bit bored.

“You never had children.” “No.”

“And you didn’t mind.” Despite her years in America, Jenna still reacted as a Remali would, finding it remarkable that a man so desirable continued to love a woman who bore no children.