He was right. In fact, during the lunch, the one bottle remained in its ice bucket, and I suspected it wouldn’t be opened, its presence only for show. Instead, I sipped my iced tea, another beverage I’d acquired a taste for, and tucked into a very good veggie moussaka.

While the conversation was busy elsewhere, Mitch leaned in, fork raised. “There was something I wanted to ask you.”

I narrowed my eyes, my own fork halfway to my mouth. “Yes?”

“I don’t want us to cut our ties entirely.”

Thankfully there had never been anything romantic between myself and Mitch, not even a hint of it, so I had no fear that he meant anything like that.

He grinned as if he knew what I’d been thinking. “I’m talking about professionally. Sometimes we need a contact on the other side of the Atlantic. Any interest in being that contact?”

I frowned. “For what kind of work?”

He took a bite of his food, chewed and swallowed, taking his time to respond. “Outstanding warrants, that kind of thing, I guess.”

“Do you get many of those in Ireland?” I was surprised. I hadn’t come across a single outstanding warrant for Ireland in the six months I’d been in the US. But then I hadn’t been working in crime.

“A few.” He took a sip of his Diet Coke. “Maybe the odd tax issue?”

I shook my head. “I’m no tax expert, Mitch. And you know my practice is a small operation – nothing like here. There’s only me and my legal assistant.”

He shrugged, not quite meeting my eye. “Well, whatever comes up that you might be able to help us with? What do you think?”

I smiled, taking a sip of my iced tea. “Can I decide on a case-by-case basis?”

“Sure,” he clinked his glass against mine. “I’m glad it’s not goodbye, completely.”

We walked back to the office together, just the two of us, down Main St with its pretty shops and restaurants, then across Pineapple, and towards the water. My attention was taken by a wooden windmill in the window of a café, and a blue ghost bike leaning against a telephone pole with a bird on its handlebars. I liked Sarasota. It was arty and creative, with a significant retirement community of readers and painters. Bookstore1, a bright independent bookshop with regular events, had been my refuge since I’d arrived. It was a place Phyllis Kettle would have appreciated.

We reached the traffic lights at the seafront and crossed the road, walking out towards the sea and back along the marina, returning to the office the long way around.