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“I’m free now.”
“And I’m starving and will soon have fish breath. Sure, let’s do the bar, keep it light, catch some music.”
“Perfect.” In more ways than one.
We left the studio, entered the house, and went into the kitchen. I said, “Mea culpa, culpa mea,” as she reached for the tuna can.
“You’re on the right track but have a way to go.”
—
I drank coffee as she ate, remained at the kitchen table when she went to freshen up. When the shower began running, I texted Milo and asked him to send me Giovanni Aggiunta’s and Meagin March’s headshots.
Why?
I told him.
Doctor Romantic.
The emoji that followed stuck its tongue out in disgust.
If you don’t want me to…
Fine, on their way. Any shame’s on you.
CHAPTER
8
The bar at the Bel-Air was half empty when we arrived, nearly full by the time we’d had our first drinks.
On the menu, tagliatelle with black truffles.
I said, “Karma.”
Robin said, “Did you plan it?”
“Wish I was that prescient.”
She stared at me. “I guess I believe you. What are you going to have?”
“Black bass sounds good.”
“I may steal some of that, too.”
She leaned over and kissed me. “This is great, I’m so glad you’re back in the swing.”
—
Midway through the food, the entertainment arrived. Solo pianist, older guy, bad suit, great touch, long memory. My opportunity came when he took a break and Robin said, “ ’Scuse me, back in a sec.”
The restrooms at the Bel-Air are outdoors, a short walk from the bar and a right angle beyond the restaurant.
More than a sec required. I went up to the hostess and showed her the photos.
She said, “Gio? He comes here. Her…don’t think so…nope, never. Why?”
“He and my girlfriend have kind of a history and bumping into each other could be, you know.” I smiled and shrugged.
