At six-thirty, I'm ready. The dress looks good. Not trying too hard, not trying too little. My hair is down, simple. Minimal jewelry. I look like someone going on a date.
A real date.
The doorbell rings at exactly seven. Punctual as always. I make him wait five minutes. Not fifteen like last time. Just five. Enough to maintain some control, not enough to annoy him.
When I open the door, he's standing there in dark jeans and a fitted shirt. No suit tonight. More casual. He looks good. Really handsome.
"Hi," I say.
"Hi." His eyes travel over me. "You look nice."
"Thank you. So do you."
We stand there for a moment. No sarcastic comments. No playful banter. Just two people noticing each other. It's unsettling.
"Ready?" he asks.
The restaurant he chose is exactly what he said. A small Italian place, family-owned, with checkered tablecloths and candles on every table. It's charming. Intimate without being stuffy.
I actually like it. "This is nice," I say as we're seated.
"No Marconi's tonight." There's a hint of humor in his voice. "Thought we'd try something more low-key."
"Probably safer for your wallet."
He actually smiles. "Probably safer for my sanity."
The waiter brings menus. I study mine, aware of Santino watching me.
"See anything you like?" he asks.
"The chicken marsala looks good."
"You're not on a diet tonight?"
I meet his eyes over the menu. He's testing me. Seeing if I'll admit to the steak incident.
"I'm taking a break from dieting," I say smoothly. "Doctor's orders."
"Your doctor told you to stop dieting?"
"My doctor told me I need to eat actual food. Something about nutrients and energy." I set down my menu. "So tonight, I'm eating real dinner."
"Good to know."
The waiter takes our orders. I get the chicken marsala. Santino gets veal piccata. We both order water.
"No wine?" I ask.
"Not tonight. I'm driving."
While we wait for food, we actually talk. Not about arrangements or families or the forty days. About other things. He asks about my charity work. I tell him about the senior center, about the residents I visit. Their stories. Their lives.
"There's this woman, Dorothy," I say. "Ninety-four. Sharper than anyone I know. She was a nurse in World War II. The stories she has..." I shake my head. "She's incredible."
"You really do care about this." It's not a question.
"I do. Old people get forgotten. But they have so much wisdom. So much life experience." I pause. "That's why I offered to have your grandmother live with us. I meant it."
