Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [52]
Nick laughs. “Where’ve I been? I was just here last week.”
“Oh, right. Guess you were,” he says, giving Valerie a circumspect look.
She feels a wave of guilt-tinged nervousness, which dissipates as Nick says, “This is Valerie. My friend. Valerie, this is Tony.”
She likes the plain introduction, the honest way it sounds—and tells herself that it is honest. They are friends. Almost so anyway.
Nick continues, “Just wanted to give Valerie a proper introduction to the city’s best Italian.”
“The city?”
“The world,” Nick says.
“All right then. Dinner for two!” Tony says, rubbing his beefy hands together.
Nick shakes his head. “No. I can’t stay. Not tonight.”
Tony says what Valerie is thinking, “Oh, come on. One glass of wine? A little bruschetta?”
Nick hesitates, pushing the sleeve of his jacket up to check the time on his watch—the bulky digital kind with lots of buttons on the side. Valerie has noticed it in the hospital and has imagined him setting it before the early morning runs she is sure he goes on, even in the dead of winter.
“Twist my arm,” Nick says, peering into the dimly lit dining area. “And look. My table’s free.”
“Why of course! We saved for you!” Tony bellows. He winks at Valerie, as if she is an insider now, too, and leads them over to a two-top in the corner. He pulls out a chair for Valerie, hands her a large, laminated menu, and offers to take her coat.
“Thanks, but I think I’ll keep it,” she says, still chilled.
She watches Tony’s lips move as he rattles off the specials, but has trouble concentrating on anything other than Nick, who is now discreetly checking his BlackBerry. She imagines the words on the screen—Where are you? Or maybe, When will you be home? She tells herself that that is none of her business, a convenient conclusion, as she orders a glass of Chianti at Tony’s recommendation.
“And you, sir?” Tony says, waiting for Nick’s order.
“The same.”
Tony turns to go, and Valerie rests her forearms on the glass-top table, as she recalls the pompous warning from the only attorney with whom she ever went out—that you should never order wine at a restaurant with checked tablecloths, paper napkins, or laminated menus. They were twenty minutes into their date when she determined that there wouldn’t be a second.
“See. You were in the mood for a drink after all,” Nick says.
Valerie looks at him, confused.
“You said you weren’t in the mood for wine?” He smiles knowingly. “When you left the basket?”
“Oh, right,” she says, trying to relax—or at least look relaxed. “Well, I guess I am now.”
He seems to consider this, turning a little in his seat to look at her from a different angle. Then he clears his throat and says, “Why didn’t you?”
“Why didn’t I what?”
“Take the basket?” he says.
She swallows, choosing her words carefully. “I don’t. . . exactly trust. . . the women who brought it.”
He nods, as if this makes total sense, and then surprises her further when he says, “I don’t trust them, either.”
She gives him a puzzled look as he clarifies, “They were on the way out of the waiting room as I was on my way in. I had a brief chat with them.”
“So you know them?” she asks.
He drums his fingers on the table and confirms, “Yeah. I know them.”
She starts to ask how but stops herself, surmising that the connection involves his wife. She does not want to go down that road, fearing that he will respond awkwardly, breaking the rhythm of their tentative friendship, indicating that there might be something less than pure about it. She wants to believe that a true friendship is possible, one extending beyond Charlie’s stay in the hospital. It has been a long time since she has forged a genuine bond with another—so long that she had just about given up on the