Now, as I was finally getting dressed for the day, I stared long and hard at my sweaters, a little disgusted. If I had been at school and were planning to see a boy on what could only be construed as a date, I would have borrowed one of Erica’s. I hadn’t that choice here in Vermont. I considered a dress, and threw three possibilities on their hangers onto the bed. I toyed with a dotted shirtdress pulled extra tight at the waist with a belt, but that seemed a little too formal for lunch with a cop. It screamed date and neediness in ways that I didn’t like. And so I wandered into my parents’ bedroom to see what my mother had. She was four inches taller than me, so anything I found was sure to be a little big. But maybe I could find something that would work if I rolled up the sleeves.
And I did. I found a Norwegian cardigan that hung midway down my thighs, red and white and gray, buttons the size of checkers, and it would work well with jeans. It might be a little heavy for the first days of autumn, but I reminded myself that this was Vermont and it wasn’t supposed to climb above fifty-five degrees that afternoon. I dressed up my jeans with a pair of black shoes with lace accents on the sides that Erica had christened my lingerie flats.
I was nervous as I was driving to Burlington, and a little relieved that I had nearly an hour to listen to music and steady myself. I hadn’t had a boyfriend since the middle of my sophomore year, and even Carl—another kid who, like Erica, planned to change the world—had been more like someone to hang out with at parties and sleep with than a boyfriend. We’d spent the summer between our first and second years apart because he was an aspiring documentary filmmaker and was interning with the PBS affiliate in New York City, while I was working children’s birthday parties across northern Vermont. I certainly hadn’t ached for him. I was pretty sure that he hadn’t ached for me. I presumed that was why we broke up just before Christmas that year. It had been almost eerily amicable, in hindsight.
And yet there had been a time when I was nineteen when I’d been quite sure that I loved him. Same with my boyfriend in high school.
I’d never been on a date before with someone older than me. I’d never been on a date before with—and the words caused me to smile and roll my eyes, even though I was alone—a grown-up.
I shook my head reflexively, trying to clear my memories of Carl. Of all my boyfriends. I told myself that viewing this as a date might be a stretch. I was, arguably, simply grabbing a bite to eat with a friend of my mother’s. I reminded myself that I might even discover something interesting or important about her, and that this alone was sufficient justification. Still, I understood there was a reason for stealth.
Rikert was already at the bakery when I arrived. He had a table in the back corner, beside the window. He was seated facing the door. For a moment I was surprised that he was dressed as casually as he had been at his niece’s birthday party, but then I remembered: he had said it was his day off. He had a leather jacket draped over the back of the chair, the coat a shade of dark caramel.
“Oh, my God,” he said, laughing, as he stood to greet me, “you’re wearing your mother’s sweater.”
He was extending his hand, but I stopped and stood perfectly still, a little nonplussed. “You recognize it?”
“I do. Your mom loved it because it was warm and had pockets. But even she called it ‘the spinster sack.’?”
“Well, thank you. You really know how to make a girl feel good about herself.”
He shook his head. “You’re beautiful. Your mother was beautiful. But I’m a guy. I will always prefer what you were wearing as Lianna the Enchantress over Lianna the Spinster.”
“It’s too cold for a belly shirt.”
“And harem pants. I get it. I’m sorry, it was just a reflex. I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have said anything. Let’s start again. Lianna, lovely to see you. Thanks for joining me.” He pulled out a chair for me and I sat down.
“That’ll work,” I said.
“Again, my bad.”
“I guess I should be impressed that you remember the sweater. A lot of guys probably wouldn’t even have noticed.”
“Maybe not.”
“On the other hand, you’ve been carrying a grudge against it for a really long time.”
He chuckled. “Grudge is a very strong word.”
I almost said something about the profound effect my mother must have had on him, but stopped myself. “This place smells pretty incredible,” I said instead, inhaling the aromas of confectioner’s sugar, vanilla, and maple. There were a dozen tables in the bakery, all but one taken, and the crowd was a mix of students and Burlington executives. People were chatting easily, laughing at some tables, leaning in attentively at others.
“It does. The secret is to make a decision: entrée or dessert. If you order a sandwich, you won’t be able to restrain yourself. You will eat every bite. And then you won’t have room for dessert.”
“I am an eat-dessert-first girl. Life is short.”
“Very wise. That’s how you have to approach a place like this.”
He nodded in the direction of the glass case with the desserts and the long blackboard with the lunch specials. “The way it works here is that we go order and then they bring it to our table. We should decide what we want so they don’t kick us out.”