“You’re telling me. Spare me the recital.”

  Her mother let out a snort. It was a lady-like snort, but sufficiently stentorian that no one listening would have failed to grasp its import.

  “Pop goes the weasel maybe, but not the question from Arthur. At least, not the question you seem to be expecting.”

  Straightening her back, Jen flicked the side of her left hand toward her forehead as her tone turned mocking. “I hear ya loud and clear, sergeant! No happiness, no down time, no recreational activities. In bed and lights out by nine! It’s war, realty is, and I need to gird my loins for battle. I have my marching orders and I will obey!”

  “Don’t be a smart ass.” Sylvia wagged a finger at her daughter. “As for your loins, girded or otherwise, we’ve already talked about that. Just work hard and make money. I don’t want to be one of these doddering old nags who worries about where her offspring’s next rent payment is going to come from. Take it from a non-doddering young nag: money fixes everything.”

  Jen realized that if she didn’t finish dressing and fixing her face she was going to be late. And she did not want to be late. Not tonight, of all nights. Also, she’d had just about enough mothering for one evening, business-oriented and otherwise. So when she replied anew, her words reflected her attitude—if not her heart.

  “Did it fix things when dad left?”

  It would have stopped a lot of women in their verbal tracks. Not Sylvia Jensen. She didn’t miss a beat.

  “Absolutely,” she shot back. “I worked hard for everything we have. Where do you think you would’ve been if I hadn’t? So I missed a school recital or two, or an occasional PTA meeting. We both live in nice places, in the nicest part of Orange County, we have plenty to eat, drive nice cars…yeah, money fixes plenty. Those who say it doesn’t, don’t have any. Look around you.”

  Perceiving Jen to be under threat, if only verbal, Stuart had commenced barking non-stop. Sylvia ignored him. Unusually, so did Jen, as she focused all of her attention on her mother.

  “So I shouldn’t get married because your marriage failed? Because you and dad couldn’t make a go of it? Is that what you’re saying? Is that your maternal advice? Because if that’s the best maternal advice you can give me, I’ll stick with business mode, thank you!”

  Sylvia took a deep breath, calmed herself. “Jen, I’m just looking out for you like any mother would. There’s no Prince Charming out there. It takes time to find the right guy. To be sure.”

  Jen likewise settled down, but she was not mollified. “Seven years isn’t enough time?”

  “I’m just saying. Don’t set yourself up for a heartbreak. That’s my best advice. It’s easy to love someone. It’s hard to live with them.”

  Having managed yet again to get in the last word, she turned and let herself out. Leaving behind a teary-eyed Jen who promptly flomped down on the couch. Stuart was up and at her side in an instant to lick the side of her face. Lick away the tears, the upset, and anything else a dog’s loving tongue could manage. Bending toward him, she gently kissed the top of his head. It made her feel better.

  Him too.

  CHAPTER THREE

  If Pompeo’s food was not particularly understated, the front of the restaurant certainly was. The Fourth Law of Fine Restaurants states that the quality of the food is inversely proportional to the garishness of an establishment’s exterior. With quality inside there is no need to make the outside look like an architectural refugee from Las Vegas.

  Exiting the Uber, Jen fussed a moment with her dress before heading toward the entrance. It was typically busy: groups of stuffed diners waiting for transportation or their own vehicles, others gathering and conversing animatedly outside. Pompeo’s was a place to meet and to enjoy: both the food and the company of others.

  Though her bank balance might be less than most of those present, Jen looked as good as any of them. Make-up, hair, attire: all approached the Jensen standard of perfection. Initially the doorman was amiably professional.

  “Good evening, ma’m. Welcome to Pompeo’s.” He shuffled his expression. “Hey, I recognize you. You’re the Pet Friendly Realtor. The ad on the side of the bus. Nice!”

  Jen responded with a professional smile. Reaching into her purse she extracted a small cardboard rectangle. It was eye-catching yet tasteful. You never knew.

  “That’s me. Here’s my card if you ever need anything.”

  “Thanks. I may.” He turned mockingly serious. “I’m looking for a dog house for my pit bull, Rambo.”

  “Haha,” she responded flatly. “Funny guy, very funny.”

  He gave a little shrug. “I’m workin’ the door at a restaurant. Not so easy to afford a place in Newport on my salary. But jokes are cheap, anyway.”

  She turned sympathetic. “Give it a few years. Never know who you might meet while holding that door. Never know what opportunity it might lead to.”

  “Thanks, ma’m. Good of you to say so. Anything else I can do for you while you’re here?” He opened the door for her and she started in.

  “Yes. Don’t call me ‘ma’m’. My mother is ‘ma’m”.

  He called after her. “Then what should I call you?”

  “’Jen works.”

  Within, the décor was understated Tuscan. Stylish, but leaving no doubt as to what kind of food was served. Unlike a steakhouse, the conversation as well as the ambiance was subdued. There was no shouting to be heard and little whispering. The normality of it appealed to Jen.

  Arthur was right where she expected to find him, at the bar. That he was chatting with a couple of attractive women did not trouble her. During the first year of their relationship it would have done so. After seven years she no longer worried. Her mother would have called her tolerance something unprintable. Jen didn’t care. On the contrary, she found it flattering to know that while every single woman in the place might hanker for a howdy-do with Arthur Daly, especially now that he was thirty and still single, he was only there at all because he was waiting for her.

  Noting her arrival he shook hands with each of the girls and headed toward her. As he wove a path toward the entryway, one of the two women left behind murmured to her companion.

  “You should have made your move before she showed up. He’s a catch.”

  Her friend replied without speaking. Instead, she flashed the business card Daly had handed her. It was enough to spark a toast.

  “Sorry I’m late.” Feigning more indifference than she felt, she looked past him and toward the bar. “Who are they?”

  “Who?” He looked over his shoulder, then back to her. “Those girls? Just some girls from the office. And you’re right on time, so no need for apology.” He grinned down at her. It was a marvelous, masculine grin. He had good teeth, did Arthur Daly. And much else besides. “Hungry?”

  “I’m starving.” She did not add that conflict with her mother always stimulated her appetite. Not appropriate subject matter for a dinner date—and perhaps more than that. Inside, she was fizzing with anticipation.

  A hostess led them to their table. It was isolated, private, quiet. Perfect for intimate conversation. Arthur always knew how to arrange such things.

  “I have some exciting news and something very special for you.” That smile again. Had worked for seven years, she knew. She took a deep breath as she sat down. Before either of them could say anything else a waiter appeared beside their table. For once she wished Pompeo’s celebrated service would dial it down a notch.

  “Would you like to start with a glass of wine, sir? I suggest our award-winning Chianti-infused Lambrusco, just in from the Vatican.”

  Most men would have made the decision outright. Not Arthur. He was considerate and thoughtful as well as good-looking. Jen found herself thankful she had arrived on time and not left him alone at the bar any longer with the two attractive women from his business.

  “What do you think, Jen?”

  Her response was not as sophisticated as she would have wished. Her knowledge of wine extended to liking it. “The Vatican?” she murmured.

  “Hmm, interesting,” Arthur added, so that her comment would not be left hanging out to dry.

  The waiter was too professional to do anything other than explain politely.

  “The Pope, sir. His side business.” He winked.

  It was enough to explain but not to sell. Tonight at least, Daly preferred to stick with the familiar. “How about the Barbaresco? Still in the cellar?”

  Playing his part, the waiter gazed off into the distance. “That was a well-received vino, sir, but sadly the northern Italian winter froze the harvest.”

  “So the vineyard purchased German grapes and…well, it just wasn’t the same,” Arthur surmised aloud.

  The waiter actually wiped away a tear. As for Jen, she looked bewildered as the two men entered into a connoisseur’s discussion of grapes, climate, and vintages that left her yearning for a quick trip down the chardonnay aisle at the supermarket. When they finally concluded the oenophiliac rondelet, the waiter’s admiration was unbounded.

  “Bravo, sir! Compliments on your knowledge of the humble grape. And yes, very, very sad about the Lambrusco.” Leaning in, he whispered confidentially. “I do have a bottle of the Brunello.”

  Arthur made an off-hand gesture. “Not necessary. I’ll just have the Malbec.”

  A quick nod, and the waiter turned to Jen. “And you, madame?”

  At least he didn’t say “ma’m”, she thought. To hell with it. “I’ll have what the Pope had.”

  “Good choice.” He stepped back and bowed slightly, as if auditioning for the part of a mustachioed sommelier in a 1930’s Busby Berkeley musical. “I will return with your drinks.”

  As soon as he was out of earshot, Arthur leaned forward. “Jen?”

  Folding her hands on the table in front of her she looked deep into his eyes. Or as deep as the restaurant’s subdued lighting would permit. “Yes, Arthur?”

  At the tables nearby, couples were toasting, leaning toward one another, holding hands beneath the tablecloths, and in general savoring being in one another’s presence. One slightly older gentleman handed a small box with a curved lid to the elegantly dressed woman seated across from him. Jen could just make out the contents as the woman opened it and exhaled delightedly. Earrings. Expensive pair, from the way they refracted the light from overhead. The dining room positively reeked of romance.

  “I have been holding off telling you this for a while now,” Arthur began, “but waiting for the right timing. The right day, the right moment.”

  She was breathing hard and hoped he didn’t notice. “And?”

  Reaching into his jacket’s inside pocket he pulled out a small jewelry box and held it out to her. It was not all that dissimilar to the one that held the glittering earrings she had just seen shared by the couple nearby. The words accompanying the presentation spilled easily from his lips.

  “And…I was made partner!”

  Not only did the anticipation that had been building in her go out of her like air from a balloon, what remained was equally shriveled and limp. She struggled to process the twist the conversation had taken. Or maybe it hadn’t actually taken a turn. Maybe it had shifted only in her imagination. The reality was disconcerting. So much so that she hardly knew how to respond. A distant voice, far off and generic that might have been hers, mumbled a response.

  “Partner? But you’re already the….”

  He interrupted before she could finish, as he often did. She was used to it by now—wasn’t she?

  “I know, I know, but now I’ve got more responsibility, control of new business, voting rights. I’m on my way to running the company, Jen! Only Martin and Goldberg are above me, and Goldberg’s probably going to retire next year.”

  “Congratulations, Arthur. That’s wonderful.” Her tone was flat. If he noticed her disinterest he didn’t remark on it. He could be very self-involved at times, could Arthur. In fact, he could be self-involved a lot of the time.

  “So,” he continued, moderating his excitement slightly, “I wanted to give you something precious.”

  “Precious?” She was having a hard time focusing. The evening was not going as she’d hoped.

  He opened the jewelry box he was holding and turned it toward her. It contained a small gold locket. It was well-made but not especially fancy. It did look quite old. There were no gemstones set atop it, much less anywhere else on the box. She pointed.

  “What—is—that?”

  She didn’t have to admire it and gush over it. He was doing it for her. A passing stranger might have thought it was a gift from her to him instead of the other way around.

  “It’s a locket.” He paused for emphasis. “With my picture in it.”

  “A locket with your picture in it?” Dimly, she was aware that repeating what he said did not constitute an exchange of views, much less a conversation.

  “Yeah.” He set the box down on the table. “Since I’ll be going away, I thought you would like to keep me close to your heart.”

  “Away?” There, she was doing it again, she told herself. “Where are you going?”

  He puffed up like a penguin in a snowstorm. “There’s a new venture that could be worth millions. Martin was going to supervise the deal but he passed it along to me. That shows you the kind of confidence he and Goldberg have in me. Also, how old they are. So, I have to go up to San Francisco. You know—due diligence. Meetings are scheduled for every day and I have to absorb a lot of information, financial and otherwise.” He tapped the side of his head. “Plenty of room on the ol’ hard drive. I’ll master everything, the deal will go through, and then the rest of the company will have to rely on me for everything. It’s a lot of work, but the end result will be that my position within the company will be untouchable.”

  Though she heard everything he said, all Jen could mumble was, “San Francisco?”

  “Yes. I’m leaving later tonight.” Not a word about inviting her to join him. Nothing. Not that she could have left Stuart and her own work on such short notice anyway but—it would have been nice to have been asked.

  “Tonight?” Surely, she thought through the fog of unreality that now suffused her brain, she could think of something to say that didn’t echo him.

  “I know.” His expression was sympathetic. Whether it was also genuine was another matter entirely.

  She giggled. It was a totally unexpected response. As she did so she was studying the immaculate cutlery that had been neatly laid out on their table. Fortunately for the new partner of Daly Enterprises, the knives on display were designed for butter and were not sharp.

  “I thought it’d be better to tell you over dinner,” he rambled on, ”and maybe you could come visit in a few weeks. I’ll make some time despite my schedule. We’ll go out, maybe take in a concert, try a new restaurant or two. Unless you just want to stay in and cook. I’ll have an apartment.”

  Mechanically, as if something else was moving her hand, she picked up the locket and dropped it in her purse. “A few weeks?” Pushing back her chair she rose and took a step away from the table. “Well, thank you for the gift. I will surely keep it close to my heart. In fact, I know just the place to keep it.” Looking around, she located the entrance to the bathrooms.

  “Excuse me, I need to find the ladies’ room.”

  The facility was as spotless and elegant as the rest of Pompeo’s. Pausing in front of one of the sinks, she studied the face in the mirror that was looking back at her. It was an attractive face, a kind and forgiving face. She then began, softly and angrily, to cry.

  “What’s wrong, honey?”

  Turning, Jen found herself face to face with Mrs. Walley. It required a moment to fully identify the older woman since Jen had only previously encountered her at the dog park, clad in sweats and sneakers. She was dressed beautifully now. Understated but classy. It was a bit of a shock. The second one of the evening.

  “Mrs. Walley? Fancy seeing you here.” Using a towel Jen dabbed at her eyes.

  Noting the younger woman’s distress, the matron tried to be as upbeat as possible. “Oh, Harold and I used to come here all the time. One of our favorite restaurants. I come from time to time to reminisce. And to eat, of course. The food is wonderful. Did you know they make their own pasta on site?” She hesitated, wanting to help, not wanting to intrude. “You’re upset, dear. It didn’t go as you thought?”

  “Not tonight.” Jen sniffed, then frowned uncertainly. “How do you know anything about it?”

  “I saw him hand you the little jewelry box. But I didn’t see him put anything on your finger. For that matter, I didn’t see you put anything on your finger.” She smiled reassuringly. “It’s never the one you think, Jen. Sometimes, the one you’re looking for is right under your nose.” She looked away, backwards in time. “There was this fella. Good-looking, athletic, steady income. The kind of man any woman would be glad to have. That was the trouble. There were too many women happy to have him. Harold, now…he maybe wasn’t movie-star handsome and he maybe didn’t drive a fancy car, but the only thing in the world he was really interested in was…me. That makes up for a lot of looks and money, my dear. If you can find someone like that.”

  “You may be right. Because it sure isn’t Arthur.” Fumbling in her purse, she pulled out the locket to show the other woman. “I really thought he was proposing tonight and all he gave me was this stupid locket. That, and a lot of talk about himself.”

  She held it up to show Mrs. Walley, but the older woman was gone. Vanished. Jen frowned. She hadn’t seen her leave. Oh well. Seniors could surprise you like that. Move faster than you thought possible.

  Might as well wear the damn thing as keep it in its box. It took a bit of wrestling to get it fastened around her neck. At least it hung properly against her chest.

  Arthur was waiting at their table. He did not seem upset by how long she had been gone. Something, perhaps, to his credit. On the other hand, he didn’t ask if she was okay, either.