“That’s the second time I’ve seen you do that. Were you an altar boy?”

“No, much to my mother’s disappointment. Among other things.”

“You gave her trouble?”

“Like you can’t imagine.”

She tilted her head, appraising me. “Oh, I can imagine.”

“And she didn’t deserve it.” Which was true. She’d always tried her best, and she loved me, I knew that. “I was afraid I wouldn’t see you again,” I said, a thought that I hadn’t meant to say out loud.

“I didn’t mean to disappear, I just—” She stopped, then shrugged off whatever she was going to say. “There were a few things I needed to take care of…at home.”

“Home here, or home in New York?”

“Both. Nothing serious,” she said, but her brow was knit.

I wasn’t sure I believed her, but when she looped her arm through mine, I no longer cared. Then she steered us toward a restaurant she knew, a place she said was popular with locals.

Inside, the restaurant was dimly lit, candles on the tables, no actual light fixtures that I could see.

“Are they being cool or saving on electricity?” I whispered as a waiter led us to a small table by the window. The restaurant was almost full, boisterous but in a good way, people enjoying themselves.

Alexandra slipped off her jacket. She was wearing a white blouse with pleats down the front like a man’s formal shirt, half the buttons open, a lacy camisole underneath, the gold locket peeking out, a combination of proper and sexy.

“Nice locket.”

“It’s my mother’s,” she said, wrapping her fingers around it.

“Does it have one of your baby curls in it?”

“Please,” she said and smiled, but her lips were tightly compressed.

“Something wrong? I’m sorry if I pried.”

“No. It’s…okay.” She leaned forward toward the candle and opened the locket. Inside was a small photograph of a woman, undoubtedly her mother, the resemblance striking.

“She’s pretty,” I said. “You two close?”

“Yes” she said on a breath. “She’s always been in my court, on my side.”

“You’re lucky.”

“Yes,” she said again, the locket trembling slightly in her hand. Then she closed it with a snap, signaled the waiter, and ordered a glass of red wine. When I ordered Pellegrino, she asked why.

“Don’t drink,” I said.

“Never?”

“Not anymore.”

“When did you stop?”

“I’m about to celebrate my tenth anniversary sober. Ta-da!” I twirled my finger in the air and faked a smile. I watched for signs of judgment or disapproval, but her face remained still and unreadable.

“Good for you,” she said. “What made you finally give it up?”

“Let’s see…” I tapped my chin theatrically. “I’d have to say it was waking up in a dumpster.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. And I do not recommend it. Particularly as I had no idea how I got there.”

“Blackouts?”

“Uh-huh. But that’s all in the past, and I’m not ashamed of it. Well, actually, I am, a little.”

“You shouldn’t be. It’s a disease, like measles or chicken pox. I have two friends in AA.”