Adam seated himself next to Elle. Ludwig had always treated Adam as a favored customer. But this...this was a welcome!

The kitchen door swung open, and Señor Alfonso himself bustled out. Everything Ludwig was not, Señor Alfonso was: effusive, balding, smiling. One shoe was untied, and a series of stainless-steel toothpicks decorated one lapel of his white chef’s jacket. He held out his hands to Elle. “Señorita! Bienvenida a mi restaurante!”

“Gracias, señor. Estoy contenta y honrada.”

Señor Alfonso’s mouth dropped.

Adam was flabbergasted. He had spoken Spanish well before he settled in Gothic. Now he had little chance to practice, but he recognized Elle was fluent.

Where had she come from?

“You speak my language!” Señor Alfonso said. “With a delightful New World accent. Where did you learn?”

Beside him, Adam felt Elle tense. “In the New World, I suppose.”

“South America, I think. What an honor to serve you today.” In an obvious aside, Señor Alfonso added, “And you, of course, Mr. Ramsdell. Lunch has been consumed. Dinner is not yet prepared, but Ludwig—ah, here he comes. Ludwig is bringing you a selection of tapas. We start with a few cold small plates, aceitunas and papas arrugadas con allioli.”

On the table, Ludwig placed a small bowl of marinated olives and a plate of small potatoes with a creamy sauce.

“These are what we eat in the kitchen to give us strength. You like shrimp?”

Elle relaxed into her chair. “I love it.”

“I will return to the kitchen and prepare gambas y setas al ajillo. The setas, the mushrooms, Ludwig himself gathered nearby. Spring! Local mushrooms! You will be delighted.” Señor Alfonso hustled back into the kitchen, Ludwig trailing behind.

“If I had known speaking Spanish to him would result in tapas, I would have done it myself.” Adam spooned olives and potatoes onto the plates, added a dab of creamy sauce to Elle’s and pushed it toward her.

Elle dipped the potato in the sauce, took a bite and inhaled with delight. “So much garlic!”

Adam tried it, too. “It’s a good thing we’re not—” He stopped. Don’t say kissing.

Clarice saved him. She stepped to the table and, as before, asked, “May I?”

“Of course!” Elle indicated the chair opposite. “You’re Clarice Burbage, aren’t you? I’m Elle. I saw you on stage in New York in the revival of The Miracle Worker. You were phenomenal!”

Adam tensed. She remembered that? A play?

Clarice lit up. “You remember? So long ago. I was sixteen.”

“I was twelve, and afterward I wanted to be an actress like you. Then I read how you were bruised every night after the performance—”

“The folding-Helen’s-breakfast-napkin scene,” Clarice explained to Adam, who still didn’t understand.