Emma closed her case. “If he’s not ready, and telling him made him feel obliged to step back, to just be friends again? I don’t think I could stand it, Parker.” She turned, faced her friend. “I guess I’m not ready to risk what we have. Not yet. So I’m going to enjoy our night away, and not put any added weight on it.

“God, I’ve got to get dressed. Okay, I’ll be back by eight, eight thirty at the latest. But if for some reason we get stuck in traffic—”

“I’ll call Tink, force her to get out of bed. I know how. She’ll take the morning delivery and start processing.”

“Good.” Confident in Parker’s abilities, Emma wiggled into the dress. “But I’ll be back.” She turned so Parker could do up the zipper.

“I love this color. Citrine. It’s annoying to know it would make me sallow. It just makes you glow.” She met Emma’s eyes in the mirror, then wrapped her arm around her friend’s waist and hugged. “Have a great time.”

“Can’t miss.”

Twenty minutes later when she opened the door, Jack took one look and grinned. “This is an excellent idea. I should’ve had this idea long before. You look absolutely stunning.”

“Snobby waiter and overpriced-food worthy?”

“More than.” He took her hand, kissed her wrist where the bracelet he’d given her sparkled.

Even the drive into New York struck her as perfect, whether they whizzed along or crept through a snarl of traffic. The light softening toward balmy evening, she thought, and the whole night ahead.

“I always think I’m going to get into the city more often,” she told him. “To play or to shop, to check out the florists and markets. But I don’t nearly as much as I’d like. So every trip in is exciting.”

“You haven’t even asked where we’re going.”

“It doesn’t matter. I love the surprise, the spontaneity. So much of what I do—you, too, actually—has to run on a schedule. So this? This is like a magic minivacation. If you promise to buy me champagne, I’ll have it all.”

“All you want.”

When he pulled up in front of the Waldorf, she lifted her eyebrows. “And the excellent ideas keep coming.”

“I thought you’d like the traditional.”

“You thought right.”

She waited on the sidewalk while the doorman took their bags, then she reached for Jack’s hand. “Thank you, in advance, for a lovely evening.”

“You’re welcome, in advance. I’m just going to check in, have them take the bags up. The restaurant’s about three blocks from here.”

“Can we walk? It’s beautiful out.”

“Sure. Give me five minutes.”

She wandered the lobby, entertaining herself with the shop windows, the lavish flower displays, the people swarming in, swarming out, until he joined her. He skimmed a hand down her back.

“Ready?”

“Absolutely.” She put her hand in his again to walk out on Park Avenue. “I had a cousin who got married at the Waldorf—before Vows, of course. Huge, ultrafancy formal affair as many of the Grants’ affairs are prone to be. I was fourteen, and very impressed. I still remember the flowers. Acres of flowers. Yellow roses the feature. Her bridesmaids were in yellow, too, and looked like sticks of butter, but oh, the flowers. They’d done this elaborate arbor of yellow roses and wisteria right there in the ballroom. It must have taken an army of florists. But it’s what I remember best, so it must’ve been worth it.”

She smiled at him. “What struck you most about a building that left that kind of impression on you?”

“There’ve been a few.” He turned east at the corner, strolling while New York rushed around them. “But honestly? One of my strongest impressions was the first time I saw the Brown Estate.”

“Really?”

“Plenty of mansions where I grew up in Newport, and some incredible architecture. But there was something—is something—about the estate that stands out. Its balance and lines, its understated grandeur, the confidence that combines dignity with touches of fanciful.”

“That’s it exactly,” she agreed. “Fanciful dignity.”

“When you walk in the main house, there’s an immediate impression that people live there. Really live, and more, the people who live there love the house, and the land. All of it. It remains one of my favorite places in Greenwich.”

“It’s certainly one of mine.”

He turned again, to open the door of the restaurant. The minute she stepped inside, Emma felt the pace, the rush drop away. Even the air seemed to hush.

“Nice job, Mr. Cooke,” she said quietly.

The maitre d’ inclined his elegant head.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle, monsieur.”

“Cooke,” Jack said in a James Brown deadpan that had Emma biting the inside of her cheek to smother a laugh. “Jackson Cooke.”

“Mr. Cooke,

bien sыr, right this way.”

He led them through elaborate flower displays and flickering candles, around the gleam of silver and glint of crystal on snowy white linen. They were seated with all expected pomp and offered a cocktail.

“The lady prefers champagne.”

“Very good. I’ll inform your sommelier. Enjoy your evening.”

“I already am.” Emma leaned toward Jack. “Very much.”

“Heads turned when you walked through.”

She sent him that smile—that sexy, sultry smile. “We’re a very attractive couple.”

“And now, every man in this place envies me.”

“I’m enjoying the evening even more. Don’t let me interrupt.”

He glanced over at the approach of the sommelier. “Let me get back to you.”

When he’d ordered a bottle that met with the wine steward’s lofty approval, Jack laid his hand over Emma’s. “Now, where was I?”

“Making me feel incredibly special.”

“An easy job considering what I’ve got to work with.”

“Now you’re turning my head. Do go on.”

He laughed, kissed her hand. “I love being with you. You’re a lift to the day, Emma.”

What did it say about her, she wondered, that “love being with you” made her heart jump? “Why don’t you tell me about the rest of your day?”

“Well, I solved the mystery of Carter.”

“There was a mystery?”

“Where does he go, what does he do?” Jack began, and told her the studio routine he’d observed. “I’m only around for short periods,” he continued, “but those short periods range from morning to late afternoon, so my canny observations have taken in a variety of slices of the pie of their day.”

“And what were your conclusions?”

“No conclusions, but many theories. Was he slinking off to have a torrid affair with Mrs. Grady, or indulging in a desperate and downward cycle of online gambling on his laptop?”

“He could do both.”

“He could; he’s an efficient sort.” Jack paused to approve the label on the bottle presented to him. “The lady will taste.”

As the uncorking ritual began, Jack leaned closer to Emma. “And there, our beloved Mackensie, unaware, trusting, slaving away. Could the seemingly innocent and affable Carter Maguire have these shameful secrets? I had to know.”

“You put on a disguise and followed him to the house?”

“Considered and rejected.” He waited while the sommelier poured a taste of the champagne into Emma’s flute. She sipped, paused, then sent the man a smile that melted the dignified ice. “It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

“A pleasure,

mademoiselle.” He poured the rest expertly. “I hope you’ll enjoy every sip.

Monsieur.” He replaced the bottle in its bucket, bowed away.

“All right, how did you solve the mystery of Carter?”

“Give me a minute, I lost my train with the spillover dazzle. Oh yeah, my method was ingenious. I asked him.”

“Diabolical.”

“He’s writing a book. Which, you already knew,” Jack concluded.

“I see them every day, or nearly. Mac told me, but your method was a lot more fun. He’s been writing it on and off for years, when he can squeeze in the time. Mac gave him a nudge to work on it this summer instead of teaching summer classes. I think he’s good.”

“You’ve read it?”

“Not what he’s working on, but he’s had some short stories and essays published.”

“He has? He’s never mentioned it. Another mystery of Carter.”

“I don’t think you ever learn everything about anyone, no matter how long you know them, or how well. There’s always another pocket somewhere.”

“I guess we’re proof of that.”

Her eyes smiled and warmed as she took another sip of champagne. “I guess we are.”


“The waiters aren’t snooty enough. You’ve charmed them so they want to please you.”

Emma took a scant spoonful of the chocolate souffle she’d asked to share. “I believe they achieved the perfect level of snoot.” She slipped the souffle between her lips. Her quiet moan spoke volumes. “This is every bit as good as Laurel’s, and hers is the best I’ve ever tasted.”

“

Tasted is the operative word. Why don’t you actually eat it?”

“I’m savoring.” She scooped up another smidgen. “We did have five courses.” She sighed over her coffee. “I feel like I’ve had a little trip to Paris.”

He traced his finger over the back of her hand. She never wore rings, he thought. Because of her work, and because she didn’t want to draw attention to her hands.

Odd he felt they were one of the most compelling aspects of her.

“Have you been?”

“To Paris?” She savored another stingy bite of souffle. “Once when I was too young to remember, but there’s a picture of Mama pushing me in my stroller down the Champs-Йlysйes. I went again when I was thirteen, with Parker and her parents, Laurel and Mac and Del. At the last minute Linda said Mac couldn’t go, over some slight or infraction. It was awful. But Parker’s mom went over and fixed it. She’d never say how. We had the best time. A few days in Paris then two amazing weeks in Provence.”