Their waiter arrived with the two steaming bowls of pasta. Lopez looked from the noodles topped with the sautéed scallops and shrimps to Cohen. She bit her lip and fought back a mischievous smile. “Are you sure you’re not going to rot in Jewish Hell just for trying to be polite to me?”

He grinned. “Aside from my aunt and uncle’s Friday night dinners—where they still try to set me up with every girl from their synagogue, regardless of age, size, or marital status—there is no such place as Jewish Hell.”

Over their dinners, which they devoured with equal enthusiasm, their conversation drifted from work to their personal lives. They discussed their childhoods, discovering they were both only children. Then they talked about the impact of their parents’ deaths. Feeling safe in his company, Lopez explained how she still hadn’t overcome the loss of her father. “My ex-fiancé told me I would never find another man that could fill his shoes.” She hurried to clarify. “He wasn’t trying to be hurtful or anything. Keith knew that for me Papa had been my family, my world. And then when Papa died so suddenly without me ever having a chance to say goodbye …” She swallowed, resolved not show any tears.

Cohen nodded. “How long were you and Keith engaged?”

“Eight months, but we were together for five years,” she said. “Keith’s a nice guy but we were at different stages in our lives. I was in my late twenties and still wanted to tackle the world. Keith was pushing forty. He wanted the instant house, four kids, and two cats.”

Cohen smiled understandingly. “You didn’t?”

“I’m not a cat person.” She forced a laugh. “But it was more than just that I wasn’t ready. I don’t think we were right for one another. There wasn’t enough passion, you know?” Flushing, she glanced down at her empty plate. “In my heart I have no doubt our breakup was the right thing for both of us. But in the odd moments when I’m a bit lonely, I still wonder.”

Cohen nodded. “I got married when I was twenty-one. A nice Jewish girl. She would’ve preferred someone with better financial prospects. We outgrew each other in a matter of months, but we lasted three years together. If she hadn’t left me, I probably would have left her. But there are times to this day when I still wonder if I couldn’t have done things differently to make the marriage work.”

She smiled, resisting the temptation to voice how sweet she found him. Instead, she pushed her chair back from the table. “I’m stuffed!”

“Me too,” he said. “Maybe we could walk off some of that fettuccine?” he exaggerated the Italian pronunciation.

“To do that, we might have to walk to Pittsburgh,” she laughed.