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and had surmised that it was a favourite gathering place of English expats.
    James closed the door. “People in Belgium don’t seem to understand they have to close the door to keep in the heat.”
    She laughed and, realizing that he was still standing, asked him to join her. “Have you had dinner? The lasagna is awesome. Even better than my grandma’s.”
    â€œReally? I remember your grandmother’s lasagna,” he said, sitting down and unwinding his long red scarf. “Made me wish
I
had an Italian grandma.”
    â€œShe passed away two years ago.”
    â€œI’m sorry. You must miss her.”
    â€œThanks. I do.”
    James ordered lasagna and a glass of wine from the owner.
    â€œHow are your parents?” he asked.
    â€œThey’re well, though they divorced three years ago. This trip was a present from them. I think they realize Christmas just isn’t the same for me now that they have new families . . .” She trailed off again, feeling awkward. She wondered if he was feeling the same way. There was a lot of history between them. “Are you in Bruges on your own?”
    â€œAlone in Bruges and in the world. And you?”
    She nodded. “Yes to both.”
    â€œThen unless you have any objections, I’m going to change that order to a bottle.”
    â€œAbsolutely none,” she said, wondering whether James’s statement was loaded or not.
    â€œAre you still in Toronto?” he asked. “I ran into your roommate a few years ago, and she told me you’d gone back.”
    She nodded.
    â€œStill acting?”
    â€œNo. I didn’t last long at that. A few bit parts in television. If they taught us anything at NYU, it was that we’d chosen a very hard path for ourselves. Once I got out there, I realized I didn’t have the passion I needed to make it. I teach English as a second language now. Occasionally I do some community theatre. How about you? You must be a doctor by now.”
    â€œAlmost. I joined the reserves to help pay for medical school and ended up doing an eight-month tour in Afghanistan as a medic.”
    â€œReally? That must have been . . . intense.”
    â€œYou could say that.”
    The owner appeared with the food and poured the wine.
    â€œTo Christmas in Bruges!” James said, raising his glass. “It sure is good to see you again, Paula.”
    â€œYou too, James.” She took a sip of wine. “I thought you’d be married by now.”
    â€œI was. Until I came back from Afghanistan.”
    â€œI’m sorry. I’ve heard of that happening. Any children?”
    â€œNo. And you?”
    She shook her head. “I lived with someone for a couple of years. Broke up this spring. No need to say sorry—it was for the best.”
    â€œOkay, I won’t.” He looked at her intently over his glass. “You know, I’ve toyed with the idea of getting in touch with you for years. The Internet makes it pretty easy to look somebody up. But we didn’t part very amicably, did we?”
    â€œThat’s an understatement.” She took a long sip from her glass, and James refilled it and his own. They were working their way through the bottle pretty quickly.
Alcohol, the cure for awkwardness the world over
, she thought.
    They made small talk as James finished his meal. He’d arrived only that morning, while Paula had already spent two days in the city. They admired the bistro with its wooden tables and old mullioned windows. A real fir tree glittered with mercury glass balls and fairy lights, and the wine glasses over the bar sparkled in the candlelight.
    They were just about to order dessert when the owner’s wife brought not just dessert, but brandy too. “On the house,” she said with a smile. “It’s
dame blanche
, a sort of Belgian hot fudge sundae. Merry Christmas.”
    â€œThank you!” they said, and as James complimented her