Page 66 of Forget About Me

Now she’s waiting, arms open. Stepping into her embrace, I rest my cheek on the top of her head. That’s different, but the affection is the same.

“Thank you,” I whisper. She gives me one more squeeze before stepping away to hold me at arm’s length.

She shakes her head. “You’re too skinny.”

“You’re pretty skinny yourself,” I lob back.

She whacks me again before waving me toward the living room.

Mr. Minola’s hand settles on my shoulder. “Lucy will be down shortly. I hear you two have a date.”

I clear my throat. “Yes, sir.” I’m not sure what Lucy has told them, so I play it safe. “I owe her a special thanks for all the work she did for the play.”

“Come on, take a load off while you wait.” After Mrs. Minola sits on the couch, he sits next to her. “Doing that play was a good thing for her. She gets new clients every day. She’s hardly home anymore.”

As I perch on a chair, my eyes devour the room. It’s time in a bottle, just like the kitchen. Flowered chintz covers the sofa; crocheted antimacassars protect the matching armchairs. At Tony’s wake, every inch of this room was filled with people eating, drinking, telling stories, laughing and crying.

Pictures on the crowded fireplace mantle have me on my feet again. Lucy in a lacy white confirmation dress, a formal family portrait that must be over ten years old, and Tony in his high school baseball uniform, bat in hand.

I pick up one I haven’t seen before. “Wow, Sal and Vinnie got big.”

“Taller than the rest of us, both of them,” Mr. Minola says.

Lucy's mom pats the arm of the chair next to her. “Sit down, Ben. We want to hear what you’ve been up to.”

I give a brief summary of my dad’s heart attack and my subsequent return from California and the work I’ve been doing at Shakespeare Boston.

“Will you go back to California?” she asks.

“Well, I do have a career out there, an apartment and everything. But I don’t want to spend so much time away from my dad.”Or Lucy.“So, I’m still figuring out what’s next.”

She nods, an inscrutable look on her face. I’m not sure what else I should say. Am I supposed to ask permission to date Lucy?Why didn’t we talk about this?

Mrs. Minola looks like she wants to pry further, but before she can, Mr. Minola reaches over to squeeze her knee as he says, “It’s good to have you back, Ben.”

My jaw’s a roadblock my words can’t get past, especially when tears pool in Mrs. Minola’s eyes, but I finally manage a weak, “I’m sorry.”

Her watery eyes meet mine. “I know,” she says quietly. After a sharp nod of her head, she adds, “We’ve missed you too.”

The limo driver opens Lucy’s door, and when I hop out to meet her on the other side, I half expect to hear the pop of camera flashes. For once, I wouldn’t mind. I’d love a photo of Lucy in this sexy dress, a shimmery deep blue with tiny polka dots and a bow at the waist, like she’s a package just waiting to be unwrapped.

As I help her out of the car, her dark curls cascade in soft waves above a cleavage supported by the wrap of the bodice. When I catch the driver admiring the way the dress flares out over her curving hips, I guide her away from the car with a territorial arm around her shoulders. Eyes finally on mine, the driver murmurs that he’ll be nearby, reachable by the restaurant’s valet staff when we’re ready to go. I make myself smile and thank him before escorting Lucy inside. After we check our coats, the host seats us at a corner booth with the perfect romantic setup, curved so I can sit close enough to touch her, but angled so I can see her face.

That face glows in the candlelight, her cheeks round and pink. When she looks over the menu, her brow furrows. “There aren’t any prices.”

“That’s ’cause this place is fancy.” I put the emphasis on the wrong syllable and waggle my eyebrows. “You think I’d take you to some chintzy place with prices on the menu on our first real date? This ain’t the Ground Round, baby.”

She rolls her eyes and studies the menu again. “Hmm. No seitan or tofu or steamed vegetables here.” Her grin is wicked. “What will you eat?”

I shake my head. “I literally ate nothing today, so I can pig out.”

She shakes her head. “Sucks to be you.”

“Tell me about it.”

Our waiter materializes, answering questions and suggesting wine pairings. After a brief discussion, we decide to go for the tasting menu. When the amuse-bouches arrive with glasses of champagne, I lift mine in a toast. “To reconnections.”

“To reconnections.” She clinks my glass and takes a sip, wiggling in her chair as it goes down. “Ooh, yummy. Bubbles.” Setting the glass down and picking up a fork, she pokes at tiny mounds artfully arranged on the plate set between us. “I don’t think you’re going to have to worry about your diet if the servings are all this small.”

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