Anne supposed she looked a little worse for wear at the end of this day, even though she had started out feeling smart and together in olive slacks and a lightweight black sweater set. Now her slacks were creased and wilted, and her sweaters seemed to have stretched and grown in the heat of the afternoon.

She had cried off most of her makeup during what she called her “mini-meltdowns” of the day. At some point she had given up on her hair and pulled it back into a ponytail with a brown scrunchie she had found in the bottom of her purse.

“You’re not seeing me at my freshest,” she said. “I feel like something the cat threw up.”

“Are you pregnant?”

“No. And thanks for reminding me.”

It was no secret to Franny that she and Vince were anxious to start their family. He made it his life’s work to dig out the most private details of her life—and she usually gave them up without too much of a fight because he was in many ways better medicine than her therapist had ever prescribed.

His face softened and he reached across the table to put his hand over hers. “It’ll happen, honey. You’re just still under a lot of stress.”

“I know,” she said softly. And pushing thirty. Ticktock.

“For God’s sake, you haven’t been doing it all that long,” Franny said. “And don’t forget, we’re talking practically uncharted territories down there.”

“That isn’t true!” Anne protested, finding an embarrassed grin.

“Virgin forest,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Thank God you found yourself a lumberjack with a big axe.”

“Stop it!” Anne said, giggling as her cheeks burned. “You’ll get us thrown out of here.”

“You’re a lucky girl, Anne Marie. That’s all’s I’m saying,” he said with an extra-thick Long Island accent.

A waitress came by and took Anne’s order for a glass of pinot grigio.

Piazza Fontana was the restaurant where she and Vince had had their first unofficial date. He had asked her here on the excuse of wanting to talk about her students who had discovered the body of Lisa Warwick. She had gone, protesting the notion that she was interested in anything other than just that. After dinner he had stolen a kiss when he walked her to her car. Her lips had tingled all night.

The restaurant had become their favorite haunt. Vince, who came from—by his own description—a big, loud Italian family from Chicago, knew good food and wine. Anne loved the ambience of casual elegance—dark wood and white table linens, exposed brick walls, a fountain gurgling in a corner. They dined here at least once a week.

The owner himself, a transplant from Tuscany, brought her a glass of wine and a broad smile.

“Signora Leone! What a pleasure, as always.”

“Thank you, Gianni. It’s good to see you.”