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minutes to get there. But traffic in Manhattan was always unpredictable. If he arrived early, he’d have a drink at the bar. “Yes, seven-thirty. Thank you, Mrs. Hemingway.”
    “My pleasure, sir.” She closed the door silently behind her, leaving Cole alone with his thoughts. He wanted to call Eva and invite her out for dinner tomorrow night but resisted the urge. It was too soon. Their lunch had ended less than three hours ago. Still, the desire to hear her voice was stronand disconcerting. This was a new experience for Cole and an uncomfortable one, and rather than figure out what it meant, he looked through the stack of files on his desk to find something equally consuming to distract him.
    ***
    When Cole arrived at the Blue Water Grill ten minutes late, his mother was already sipping white wine at a table by the window. She was staring at the park with a look of consternation on her face, but when he greeted her with an affectionate kiss on the cheek, her expression lightened. Taking the seat across from her, he examined the restaurant, which was known throughout the city for its delectable seafood. It was nestled in a building that used to be a bank, and Cole liked the high ceilings and bustling atmosphere. Too often he sat down to eat in rarified interiors that were elegant but stifling.
    “Mrs. Hemingway chose well,” he said, as he unfolded his napkin. The smells emanating from the kitchen were divine and for the first time in hours he felt his stomach grumble.
    His mother handed him the drink menu. “Mrs. Hemingway is a jewel.”
    “That’s what Dad used to say.”
    “Did he?” she smiled fondly as she remembered her late husband. “I wondered why it sounded familiar.”
    Once he’d ordered a scotch on the rocks from the waiter, who promised to return shortly to rattle off a list of specials, Cole leaned back and examined his mother. Dressed simply in black slacks and silk blouse, she was the epitome of stylish sophistication. This was what Loretta Hammond was known for and she had packaged her product well. Throughout the years she had been featured in magazines as diverse as Vogue, Town & Country, Forbes, New York and Ladies Home Journal. Style X had been her idea and for many years she toiled as its editor-in-chief. Now she had one of those honorary titles like editor emeritus that let her drop in whenever the mood moved her. It was the perfect arrangement and in the year since her husband lost his long battle with colon cancer, it had served as the perfect distraction.
    “You’re looking well,” he said honestly. Loretta hadn’t rebounded from her husband’s death. Although she tried not to let others notice, she’d been wallowing in her grief for months. It was easier than facing life without her dear Coleman.
    “I’ve been busy,” she said. “It would seem that activity is good for my complexion.”
    “How are arrangements for the Fashion Ball progressing?” he said, asking about the annual charity event his mother hosted to raise money for colon cancer research and education. A huge affair that drew socialites and celebrities alike, it was no small feat to pull it together.
    “As vexing as ever. I’ve yet to meet a caterer who can follow instructions. I say canapés with cheese and he says canapés with caviar. I’m adamantly against caviar. It’s so cliché. There’s this persistent assumption that rich people eat caviar all the time, as though we put it on top of French fries or ice cream. I can’t remember the last time I had it. I much prefer ketchup on my French fries.” She paused and smiled at her son. “I must be boring you.”
    “Not at all,” he assured her, pleased by the healthy flush vexation brought to her cheeks. “Tell me more. How is the florist this year?” He had been on the planning end of events like this one for many years and knew the trouble spots like the back of his hand.
    “Already warning me that she can’t get Rhyncholaelia digbyana , which