He’s freaking adorable, all flushed cheeks and hopeful smiles. I tug him through the entrance.
We spend the rest of the afternoon wandering the aquarium like little kids. We marvel at the giant Puget Sound octopus, peer at tiny sea horses and transparent jellyfish, watch playful otters splashing around, and point out puffins torpedoing through their pools. I laugh when Max stands next to a huge wooden cutout of a shark to measure his six feet, two inches, then squirm when he makes me poke at sea stars and anemones in the hands-on tide pools. We walk through the gift shop, where he buys Oliver a rubber version of the creepy octopus we saw, and I pick out a stuffed sea horse for Ally.
After, we sit on a bench in front of a huge wall of aquarium water contained behind glass so thick it distorts what’s beyond: salmon, eels, and oddly, a scuba diver.
“Hungry?” I ask Max.
“Starving. What’re we doing for dinner?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Pizza?” he guesses, taking my hand and pulling me from the bench.
“You think my favorite restaurant in all of Seattle serves pizza?”
“Mexican?”
“Nope.”
“Thai?”
“Max,” I say, flashing the flirty I’m-so-innocent smile I learned from him. “You’ll see when we get there.”
He swats my butt. “Then let’s move. I’m withering away.”
We hoof it up the hill toward Pike Place Market. Darkness has fallen and it’s bitter cold. He offers me his jacket; I feel a little silly accepting it, like a distressed damsel, but it’s toasty and smells delightfully of him. I don’t slip it off my shoulders until we’ve climbed a steep set of stairs that takes us to the entrance of a little restaurant. Its door is the color of sunlight.
“The Yellow Door?” Max says, reading the plaque.
“My dad and I used to come here all the time. It’s the best—you’ll see.”
We’re slightly underdressed, but the hostess is gracious, the restaurant cozy and familiar. Candles flicker and the aroma of smoky meat and bright citrus makes my mouth water. We’re shown to a secluded table overlooking the darkened bay. Wineglasses sit in front of our places, along with a line of sparkling silverware. I skim the menu’s Chef’s Specials insert: Seared Artisan Sonoma Foie Gras and Escargots à la Bordelaise.
Under the table, Max nudges my ankle with his foot. When I look up, he winks. “Bunco was good to me, so I’ve got the check. Get whatever you want.”
We decide on the tasting menu—that’s what my dad and I used to share—and end up oohing and aahing our way through each course: sweet cream of carrot soup, foie gras, pan-seared salmon, and melt-in-your-mouth beef tenderloin with fingerling potatoes. Dessert, a velvety chocolate mousse, is delectable. By the time we’ve finished, I feel like I’ll need a crane to lift me from my upholstered seat.
“You were right,” Max says, looking over the bill. “That was really freaking good.”
“I knew you’d like it. Also, will you please let me split that with you?”
He eyes me, offended. “I told you I’ve got it.”
“But—”
“Jillian,” he warns, “don’t even. Treat me to ice cream next weekend, okay?”
Hardly a fair trade, but my stomach is pleasantly full and I’m gratifyingly content, so I give up my protest. When the bill’s settled, we grab our aquarium bags and stand to leave. I smile up at Max. “Thanks for—”
He stops suddenly, pulling me back against his chest with a mumbled, “Uh-oh.”
I look to him for explanation, and I’m thrown by his panicked expression. I follow his gaze to the lobby, my hands tingling with trepidation. There, a man checks in with the same hostess who seated us. His back is to us, but his confident stance and chestnut hair are alarmingly familiar.
Dad.
I notice his suit first—charcoal, expensive-looking, one I haven’t seen before—and then the fact that he’s unaccompanied. Of course he’s unaccompanied; Meredith’s home with Ally. But Dad wouldn’t come to the Yellow Door on Valentine’s Day by himself.
Dread tiptoes up my spine.
Max mutters through clenched teeth, like a ventriloquist, “What do you want to do?”
I am literally speechless.
“Jill—”
I yank him behind the back of the nearest booth, pulling him down until he’s crouched beside me, until we look like two kids playing hide-and-seek in the world’s most inappropriate venue.
“You’ve got to be joking,” Max says in an undertone.
Nearby diners stare us inquisitively, but I don’t care. “We can’t let him see us.”
“You want to crawl out of here?”
“No. I want to spy. Then, when he turns his back, I want to run.”
Max doesn’t consent, but he doesn’t object, either. I suspect he’s annoyed—worst ending to a date ever—but this is it. Tonight, I’m going to get to the bottom of my dad’s disappearances.
Bracing my hand on the floor, I lean around the edge of the booth. Dad’s still talking to the hostess, grinning broadly, gesturing toward the restroom—the location of his companion, if I had to guess. The enormous meal in my stomach gurgles like chocolate in a double boiler.
“Maybe it’s a work thing,” Max says, leaning forward to take a peek.
“Maybe,” I say. Or maybe not.
Dad’s on the move now, following the hostess, who carries two menus. They’re headed right for us. I wrench my head back like a turtle tucking away from a predator. I hunker down next to Max, the two of us barely concealed, as the hostess says, “Will this table do?”
“It’s perfect,” Dad says. I sneak an upward glance: the back of his head moves closer, closer, and then he sinks down onto the bench and leans back against the seat Max and I are hiding behind. My heart’s jumping around behind my ribs, trying to break free.
The hostess says, “Enjoy your meal, and happy Valentine’s Day.”
I’ve seen enough. Two menus and a Valentine’s Day salute—he’s on a date.
Max grabs my hand and whispers, “Let’s go.”
We circle around the perimeter of the restaurant, faces hidden, dodging waiters and waitresses as we make our escape. We don’t slow until we’re in the lobby, well out of sight. I’m panting, more from adrenaline than actual fatigue, and I’m so hot I’m light-headed. Max cradles a cool hand around the back of my neck and guides me to the exit. Down the steep staircase we go, and then we’re standing in the bracing night air.
He exhales a big breath and says, “Holy. Shit.”
“Indeed.”
He touches my cheek. “You okay?”
“Tell me I’m not nuts to think something’s going on.”
He hesitates. “It was sort of sketchy.”
“Sort of?”
“I really do think it could’ve been a work meeting.”
“In Seattle? On Valentine’s Day? At a restaurant that’s supposed to be special to the two of us?”
“Maybe he’s seeing a client who lives close by. And you said so yourself—he likes the Yellow Door, too.”
“Or, maybe he was on a date. He kept looking at the bathroom. Did you notice that?”
“No, Sherlock, I sure didn’t.”