little restaurant.â He led them to a booth near the window.
âThe foodâs quite good, very authentic.â Angie studied his chubby face and wide forehead and nose. âI must say, the name Leer doesnât sound Greek.â
âIâm not, but my cook is. Michael Zeno. Youâll have to meet him. I understand youâre a restaurant reviewer. Miss Amalfi, is it?â
âThatâs right. Iâm sorry to say I havenât written any reviews lately.â She fingered her engagement ring. âIâve been distracted.â
âCongratulations.â Leer glanced from her toStan. âNo wonder you arenât doing reviews.â He handed them menus. âMy waiter will be with you in a moment.â With that, he bowed and walked away.
âI guess heâs disappointed,â Angie said to Stan. âNo free publicity.â She stopped talking as the friendly and garrulous Tyler Marsh arrived to take their orders. Fresh-caught bass baked in a tomato, wine, and garlic sauce called spetsiotiko, with egg-lemon soup for Angie and chicken gyros again for Stan. Tyler rolled his eyes.
âThereâs something about that guy I just donât like,â Stan muttered when he and Angie were alone again.
He proceeded to tell her about meeting Nona, but the entire time he searched for the mysterious waitress. He knew he wasnât an artistic man, knew that much of the beauty around him went right over his head unnoticed and unappreciated. And yet, he felt like Michelangelo discovering the face for his Pieta. He couldnât get enough of looking at her.
She wasnât in the dining room. He had no idea if that meant she wasnât working or if her duties kept her in the kitchen. He tried to concentrate on Nona and to work up some enthusiasm. Nona was not only gorgeous and stylish, but she was clearly interested and available. She wouldnât have phoned Angie about him if she wasnât.
And yetâ¦
âSounds like sheâs not your type,â Angie said, studying Stan. âIt surprises me. I thought you two would be a perfect match.â
âSo did I,â he said, his mind contrasting take-charge Nona with the soft winsome woman heâd seen on the dock. âOnce.â
Â
Stan watched Angie head toward the parking garage. She would have dropped him off back at the apartment, but he didnât feel like going home yet. Nothing waited for him there.
Even here on Jefferson Street, nothing interested him. He hadnât seen the waitress. She was probably home with her husband. Maybe with her new baby as well. Everyone seemed to have someone but him.
And Nona.
He sighed, trying to decide what to do with himself, when he glanced down the side street to the wharf. Although it made no sense, his steps turned in that direction. The backsides of restaurants had never interested him before, nor had staring at the water or at fishing boats. They always looked dirty. He suspected fish guts lurked in every corner. He hated untidiness in anything, and flicked a speck of lint from his cashmere sweater.
The dock closest to the restaurant was empty, just as it was the last time heâd been there. Boats lined other docks, tied to thick moorings. He wondered what it would be like to own one of those boats, to sail out to sea away from all this. The only problem was heâd be thereâboring, same-old-same-old Stan.
He stood with his toes along the edge of the wharf, hands in the pockets of his slacks, andlooked down at the water. Today it had a greenish tinge, like pea soup. He never much liked pea soup.
Behind him, he heard a soft, âHello.â
Startled, he turned to see the woman who had captured his thoughts. She wore a long trench coat. It wasnât buttoned or belted and where it gaped open her stomach protruded.
He stepped back.
âBe careful!â She started, reaching her hand out toward him, then looked embarrassed by her
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