Finally she reached Yesler. The viaduct—that arching concrete overpass that dared a big earthquake to crumble it—held the rain at bay.
She ducked into the restaurant. Al Boccalino was empty this early in the day. The working lunch crowd wouldn’t be here for another hour at least.
Carlos, the owner of the restaurant, came around the corner. Seeing her, he smiled.
“Mrs. Malone. It’s good to see you again.”
“You, too.” She handed him her coat and umbrella and followed him into the small, Tuscan-inspired trattoria. Immediately, she smelled the pungent combination of garlic and thyme that reminded her of home.
“You should bring your mama back some time,” Carlos said with a smile.
Angie laughed. The one time she had brought her parents here, Mama had spent the whole night in the kitchen, chastising the chef for cutting tomatoes for marinara. Crush them, she’d muttered. That is why God gave us hands. “Sure, Carlos,” she said, her smile fading when she saw Conlan.
He rose at her entrance.
Carlos helped her into her seat, gave them each a menu, and then disappeared.
“It feels strange to be here again,” Angie said.
“I know. I haven’t been here since our anniversary.”
She frowned. “I thought your apartment was right around the corner.”
“It is.”
That silence descended again. They looked at each other.
Carlos appeared at the table, holding a bottle of champagne. “My favorite couple together again. Is good.” He filled each fluted glass with glittering, bubbling liquid. He looked at Conlan. “You let me decide your lunch menu, yes?”
“Of course,” Conlan answered, still looking at Angie.
She felt exposed by that look, vulnerable. She reached for her glass, needing something in her hand.
I want to tell you about this girl I met.
“Conlan,” she said just as Carlos reappeared by the table, holding a plate of caprese salad. By the time they’d oohed and aahed over the food, Angie had lost her nerve. She finished her glass of champagne and poured a second.
She’s really great. She’s living with me. Oh, and did I mention she’s pregnant?
Conlan leaned forward, put his elbows on the table. “This morning I got a call from my agent. I’ve been offered a book contract.” He paused, then said, “And the only person I wanted to tell was you. What do you think that means?”
She knew how much it had cost him to admit that. She wanted to reach for him, take his hand in hers, and tell him that she still loved him, that she’d always loved him and always would, but it was too soon for that. Instead, she said, “I think it means we loved each other for a long time.”
“Most of my life.”
She touched her glass to his. The brittle clinking was the sound of beginnings. She knew she should tell him about Lauren now, but she couldn’t do it. This moment felt magical somehow, full of possibility. “Tell me everything.”
He launched into the story of a local man who had been convicted of raping and killing several elderly women in the late nineties. Conlan had done an investigative piece on the story and been hooked. He’d come to believe the man was innocent, and DNA tests had just proven it. “It’s a Cinderella deal,” he said. “They’re giving me a decent amount of money to write this book and another one.”
He was still talking about the story an hour later when they finished their dessert and paid the bill.
Angie got to her feet, noticing that she was more than a little tipsy.
Conlan stood beside her, steadied her with his touch.
She stared up at him. His face, creased now in a smile, made her want to cry. “I’m so proud of you, Conlan.”
His smile faded. “This can’t be good.”
“What can’t? I—”
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, right there in the restaurant, in front of everyone. It wasn’t one of those you-could-be-my-grandma kisses, either. Oh, no.
“Wow,” she said when it was over. She realized she was swaying slightly. She tried to remain still. It was difficult; her heart was pounding. She wanted him with a ferocity that surprised her. “But we need to talk,” she said, trying to think straight.
“Later,” he said in a gravelly, desperate voice. Taking her hand, he pulled her toward the door. “We’re going to my place.”
She gave in. It was impossible not to. “Can we run?”
“Definitely.”
Outside, Angie was surprised to see that it was still light. Then she remembered: It had been a lunch date. They ran through the rain down Yesler Street, turned on Jackson.
Conlan jammed his key in the lock.
Angie pressed up against his back and put her arms around him. She moved her hands down to his waistband.
“Damn,” he muttered, trying another key.
The lock clicked open.
He pushed through the door and dragged her toward the elevator. When the doors opened, they tumbled inside, still kissing.
Angie was on fire. She touched him everywhere, kissed him until she felt dizzy.
She couldn’t breathe.