He was at the stove, shaking a pan over the flame. “Come see, come see.”

“Hello, Angelo. I see you’ve not stopped yet tonight.”

“This is for you and me. Look.” He pointed at the pan where vegetables and chicken livers sautéed in a brown sauce. “I visited Mon Lay Won in Chinatown and had this dish. They call it chop suey.”

She had heard of this restaurant. It was referred to as the Chinese Delmonico’s, but her mother refused to allow her to travel to that neighborhood. Someday, Alice would find a way to go. “It smells delicious. What’s in it?”

“Fungi, buds of the bamboo, bean sprouts, some chicken livers and pigs’ tripe, celery and onion. And the spices, of course.”

“I cannot wait to try it.”

“The rice is there.” He pointed to a pot on the stove. “Use those plates and dish up the rice. The chop suey is ready.” When she had rice on both plates, he brought over the skillet and poured some of the mixture out. “Now we sit,” he said.

They took their plates to a tiny table in the corner. During the day, it was where Angelo worked, reviewing the evening’s menu. Waiting there was a bottle of red wine for him and a glass of water for her. She sat down and smelled the dish first. “Is there vinegar or wine in there?”

“Yes, it is a Chinese wine.” He tapped his nose. “I knew you would smell it.”

She picked up her fork and tasted it. “This is fantastic. There’s garlic and ginger root, too.”

“Fast and simple, yet has a lot of flavor. This is not quite as good, though. I must go back and watch the chef make it once more.”

His eagerness to learn was one of the many things she loved and respected about Angelo. “I wish I could go with you.”

“Someday, lucciola,” he said, calling her “firefly” in Italian. “You will marry soon and become one of those independent women with their bicycles and pantaloons.”

“Bloomers,” she corrected with a fond smile. “They are called bloomers.”

He waved his hand. “I prefer dresses, but what do I know? I am an old man. Tell me, how goes the search for a husband?”

“Fine.” She sighed. “No serious suitor, though.”

“Some not serious suitors, perhaps?”

She thought of Kit and her lips twitched. Definitely not serious, but she didn’t regret it; those memories were some of the best she had. “Perhaps,” she hedged.

Though he grinned, Angelo wagged his finger at her. “You had best be careful. Your mother is a hawk.”

“Chef Franconi!”

The booming voice from the direction of the alley startled her. She turned as Preston Clarke strode into the kitchen. Tall and intense like a thunderstorm, Mr. Clarke could not be missed in a crowd. He also happened to be Kit’s close friend.