“It’s got to do with power generation. You know, electricity.”

“Energy?” she asked.

“That’s right. Energy.”

“That’s a good issue. A strong issue.”

Jake bobbed his head up and down. “Well, that’s what I’m looking into.”

Amy looked pleased. “Senator Leeds is vulnerable on energy. He voted for the cap and trade bill, and he gets big campaign contributions from the oil lobby.”

Suddenly Jake felt confused. “I thought big oil was against cap and trade.”

She shook her head. “Only on the surface. They know it won’t be effective.”

“Really?”

With a slightly pitying expression, Amy said, “In politics, Jake, things are not always what they seem. It’s not like science.”

“I don’t know much about politics,” he admitted.

“And I know very little about science.”

“We both have a lot to learn.”

“I guess so.”

Jake didn’t know what more he could say. He glanced at the photo of Louise, smiling at him.

Amy said, “So why don’t we have dinner? You’re not busy tonight, are you?”

Jake almost blurted that he hadn’t been busy any night for months. But he caught himself in time and replied merely, “No, I’m open for dinner.”

“Good.” Amy fished in her purse and pulled out a card. “Here’s my address and phone number. My e-mail address, too.”

Jake took the card and asked, “What time do you want me to pick you up?”

She hesitated a moment. Then, “I’ll meet you at the restaurant. Ristorante Amore, in center city. Do you know it?”

“I’ll find it,” Jake said. “What time?”

“Seven? Is that all right?”

“Seven is fine.”

She stood up and put on her cheerleader’s smile. “See you at seven, Jake.”

Amy Wexler picked up her umbrella and stepped out into the hallway, leaving Jake standing behind his desk as the office door slowly swung shut. After many minutes he turned and looked out his window. The rain had stopped and sunshine was breaking through the clouds.

Ristorante Amore

RISTORANTE AMORE

“I’ve never been here before,” Jake said as he and Amy Wexler entered the restaurant.

“I think you’ll like it,” she replied. “The food’s wonderful and the service is really great.”

Jake had expected that a posh midtown restaurant would have its waiters in tuxedos, but the maitre d’ wore a tight-fitting black T-shirt and matching narrow-legged slacks. He was a suavely handsome young man who knew Amy well enough to give her a brotherly hug. She pecked at his cheek and said something to him in Italian.

“This is Stefano,” Amy introduced. “He’s the owner.”

Stefano offered his hand and a gleaming welcoming smile.

“If there’s something you want that isn’t on the menu,” Amy explained as Stefano led them to their table, “just ask our waiter and they’ll fix it for you.”