“Yeah. Right across the street. On Cambridge. It’s a little hole-in-the-wall—but the food is amazing. Better than anything on the North End. Best chicken and broccoli I’ve ever had—including my mom’s,” Nick says, patting the front pocket of his jeans as if checking for his keys.
“Sounds good,” Jason says, pointing decisively at Nick. He turns to Valerie and says, “Could you pick me up a piece of lasagna?”
“Sure,” she says.
“But take your time,” he says. “Eat there. I’m not that hungry.”
“That’s a first,” Valerie banters, realizing that on the contrary, she, for once, is famished. She kisses Charlie, now snoring, on his good cheek, then walks out the door, feeling Nick trail several steps behind her.
“I’m on my way out, too,” he says once they are alone in the hall. “I’ll walk you over there?”
It is a tentative offer, and Valerie opens her mouth to refuse, not wanting to be any trouble. But at the last second, she changes her mind and says, “I’d like that.”
Moments later, they are leaving the hospital together, entering a night so sharp and cold that it becomes an instant subject of conversation.
“Ugh,” Valerie says, pulling her scarf around her face as they fall into a quicker stride. “It’s freezing out here.”
“Yeah. We didn’t get much of a fall this year,” he says.
“I know. I don’t remember the leaves changing at all,” Valerie says, thinking she wouldn’t have been able to enjoy it anyway.
They look both ways, waiting a few seconds for traffic to clear before crossing Cambridge Street at a brisk clip, headed toward the black and white awning Valerie has seen many times in passing but not really noticed. As Nick opens the door for her, a stout man with a mustache—the exact type one would expect to greet you at a restaurant called Antonio’s—bellows, “Dr. Russo, where you been, good man?”
Nick laughs. “Where’ve I been? I was just here last week.”
“Oh, right. Guess you were,” he says, giving Valerie a circumspect look.
She feels a wave of guilt-tinged nervousness, which dissipates as Nick says, “This is Valerie. My friend. Valerie, this is Tony.”
She likes the plain introduction, the honest way it sounds—and tells herself that it is honest. They are friends. Almost so anyway.
Nick continues, “Just wanted to give Valerie a proper introduction to the city’s best Italian.”
“The city?”
“The world,” Nick says.
“All right then. Dinner for two!” Tony says, rubbing his beefy hands together.
Nick shakes his head. “No. I can’t stay. Not tonight.”
Tony says what Valerie is thinking, “Oh, come on. One glass of wine? A little bruschetta?”
Nick hesitates, pushing the sleeve of his jacket up to check the time on his watch—the bulky digital kind with lots of buttons on the side. Valerie has noticed it in the hospital and has imagined him setting it before the early morning runs she is sure he goes on, even in the dead of winter.
“Twist my arm,” Nick says, peering into the dimly lit dining area. “And look. My table’s free.”
“Why of course! We saved for you!” Tony bellows. He winks at Valerie, as if she is an insider now, too, and leads them over to a two-top in the corner. He pulls out a chair for Valerie, hands her a large, laminated menu, and offers to take her coat.
“Thanks, but I think I’ll keep it,” she says, still chilled.
She watches Tony’s lips move as he rattles off the specials, but has trouble concentrating on anything other than Nick, who is now discreetly checking his BlackBerry. She imagines the words on the screen—Where are you? Or maybe, When will you be home? She tells herself that that is none of her business, a convenient conclusion, as she orders a glass of Chianti at Tony’s recommendation.
“And you, sir?” Tony says, waiting for Nick’s order.
“The same.”
Tony turns to go, and Valerie rests her forearms on the glass-top table, as she recalls the pompous warning from the only attorney with whom she ever went out—that you should never order wine at a restaurant with checked tablecloths, paper napkins, or laminated menus. They were twenty minutes into their date when she determined that there wouldn’t be a second.
“See. You were in the mood for a drink after all,” Nick says.
Valerie looks at him, confused.
“You said you weren’t in the mood for wine?” He smiles knowingly. “When you left the basket?”
“Oh, right,” she says, trying to relax—or at least look relaxed. “Well, I guess I am now.”
He seems to consider this, turning a little in his seat to look at her from a different angle. Then he clears his throat and says, “Why didn’t you?”
“Why didn’t I what?”
“Take the basket?” he says.
She swallows, choosing her words carefully. “I don’t. . . exactly trust. . . the women who brought it.”
He nods, as if this makes total sense, and then surprises her further when he says, “I don’t trust them, either.”
She gives him a puzzled look as he clarifies, “They were on the way out of the waiting room as I was on my way in. I had a brief chat with them.”
“So you know them?” she asks.