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I closed her door, went around to the driver’s side, and started the car. Lionel Richie came through the radio in the middle of a chorus, smooth and determined.

Lorrie looked at the dashboard. “He’s everywhere.”

“I think he may be following us.” I reached out to change the station.

“Leave him. He sounds like he knows where he’s going.”

I glanced over. “Unlike us?”

She looked out the windshield. “I didn’t say that.”

No, she hadn’t. The trouble was, Lorrie didn’t always need to say things.

I drove toward Monroe Street, past clipped lawns and the last bright flare of sun on the lake. A boy on a ten-speed cut across the road ahead of us.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“That Italian place you like.”

“They have delicious bread.”

“I can be romantic about carbohydrates.”

She laughed as I smiled.

The restaurant was narrow and warm, with red-checkered tablecloths, candles stuck into empty Chianti bottles, and a smoking section that wafted through the whole place. It smelled like garlic, tomato sauce, melted cheese, and cigarette smoke, which shouldn’t have gone together and somehow did. Two men at the bar were arguing about the Brewers as we passed by on our way to the corner table so she could watch people coming and going.

The waiter brought menus, water, and a basket of bread wrapped in a red napkin. The menu covers were cloudy at the edges, and the candle on the table had melted down one side.

Lorrie ordered eggplant Parmesan and I ordered lasagna and a house salad.

Her smile came and went as we talked about our days, and I found I wanted to keep her smiling.

I handed her the bread before taking a slice myself, knowing she liked to pick her piece.

“You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Hand me the bread first.”

“I have many talents.”

She smiled and took two pieces, slathering them with butter. My mother would have been horrified. I don’t think she’d eaten bread in years. I liked that Lorrie didn’t pick at her food like lots of women I’d dated in the past.

At the table behind me, a baby in a high chair slapped both hands against the tray while his mother attempted to feed him pasta. He wore a blue bib, had round cheeks, and a serious expression that made him look like a small grouchy loan officer. His father leaned too close, and the baby grabbed his tie smearing it with tomato sauce.

The father made a sound I hoped never to make in public.

Lorrie pressed her lips together.

“Silk,” I said. “Good luck getting that out.”

“You know it’s silk?”

“By that sound of anguish, I’m guessing it is. I also know enough not to wear a good tie near someone who eats with both hands.”

She looked at the baby for another moment. “Do you want children?”