Page 80 of Ricardo

She hides a smile behind the menu, but I see it anyway. “Good.”

The server returns with our drinks, and Julia’s Coke arrives in a glass bottle with a small tumbler of ice.

She looks at it for a second.

“Well,” she says. “At least they understand one thing.”

“Sugar?”

“Presentation.” She pours the Coke over the ice. “But sugar helps.”

The faint fizz fills the quiet room.

I watch her take a sip. Her shoulders lower by a fraction.

“Better?” I ask.

“Marginally.”

“High praise.”

“From me today? Yes.” She sets the glass down and reaches for the menu again.

The server waits with the discreet patience of a man trained not to react to anything said at a table.

“I’ll have the club sandwich,” Julia says. “With fries.”

“Of course.”

“And the tomato soup.”

“Very good.”

I hand him my menu. “The branzino. No fennel. Grilled vegetables on the side.”

“Yes, Mr. Conti.”

“And the burrata to start.”

Julia looks up from her Coke. “Are we sharing that?”

“If you would like.”

“I would like.”

The server collects the menus and leaves us alone again.

Julia wraps both hands around her glass, the earlier fury not fully gone, but contained now. “I’m sorry.”

“For ordering fries?”

“For snapping at you.” Her thumb moves through the condensation on the glass. “You didn’t deserve that.”

“No,” I say. “I did not.”

Her eyes lift to mine.

“But I understood it.”