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Jason wanted to walk. While the evening held a bracing, February chill, it was not raining and the sidewalks were clear Ree loved this idea, as she loved everything about family vacation thus far She walked between us, her left hand tucked in Jason’s, her right hand tucked in mine. She would count to ten, then it would be our job to hoist her into the air so she could squeal at passing pedestrians.

They would smile at us, a well-dressed family out and about in the big city.

We followed the red line tracing Paul Revere’s ride toward the Old State House, then took a left and continued past Boston Commons, toward the theater district. I recognized the Four Seasons, where I passed my spa nights, and walking toward it, holding my daughter’s hand, I couldn’t bear to glance at the glass doors. It was too much like looking at a crime scene.

Fortunately, Jason veered away, and soon we arrived at a charming bistro, where the air smelled like fresh-pressed olive oil and ruby red Chianti A tuxedoed maitre d’ led us to a table, and another black-vested young man wanted to know if we wanted still or sparkling water I was about to say tap, when Jason replied smoothly that we would like a bottle of Perrier, and of course, the wine list.

I blinked at my husband of five years, struck speechless yet again, while Ree squirmed around in her wooden seat, then discovered the bread basket. She stuck her hand beneath the linen covering, producing a long thin breadstick. She snapped it in half, obviously liking the noise it made, and proceeded to munch away.

“You should put your napkin in your lap,” Jason told her, “like this.”

He demonstrated with his napkin and Ree was impressed enough to follow suit. Then Jason helped scoot her chair closer to the table, and explained the various pieces of silverware.

The waiter appeared. He poured elegant pools of olive oil onto our bread plates, a routine Ree recognized from our usual North End haunts. She fell to work soaking each piece of bread from the bread basket, while Jason turned to the waiter and very calmly ordered a bottle of Dom Pérignon.

“But you don’t drink,” I protested, as the waiter nodded efficiently and once more disappeared.

“Would you like a glass of champagne, Sandra?”

“Maybe.”

“Then I would like to share some with you.”

“Why?”

He merely smiled and returned to studying his menu. Finally, I did the same, though my mind was racing. Maybe he was going to get me drunk. Then, when Ree wasn’t looking, he’d push me into the harbor. No walking near the water on the way back to the hotel, I thought with a vague sense of rising hysteria. Must stick to the opposite side of the street.