"Darling, are we acting insane?" She looked up, eyes uncertain. "I'm half afraid."
"Don't be." He touseled her hair before thinking. "Nobody's going to touch you, believe me. I've nailed the bastards. All of them."
It was flawless. They dined in a Gothic, ivy-covered greenhouse in the garden of a maitre nineteenth-century inn where waiters scurried, the maitre d' hovered, and the wine steward nodded obsequiously every time he passed their table. It was even better than their first visit. After a roulade of red caviar, Eva had the ragout au gratin, Vance the boeuf a la ficelle, his favorite. For dessert they shared the house specialty, tulipe glacee aux fruits, after which they lingered over Stilton cheese and a World War I bottle of Lisbon port.
And they talked and laughed and talked. They both tried to focus on the good times: trips they'd taken, places they'd shared, what they'd do next—together. She even agreed to spend August helping him sail the Ulysses over to Crete, his latest plan. The gap in time began slowly to drop away. It was as though they'd been reborn; everything felt new, fresh, and full of delight. Who said you couldn't start over?
Neither wanted it to end, but finally, reluctantly, he signaled for the check. After a round of farewells from the staff, they staggered out into the brisk evening air.
"Where to now?" He was helping her into a black London taxicab, after drunkenly handing the uniformed doorman a fiver.
"God, I'm so giddy I can't think." She crashed into the seat and leaned her head against his shoulder.
"Yanks?" The driver glanced back with a genuine smile. He wore a dark cap and sported a handlebar mustache of Dickensian proportions. "Been to New York myself, you know, with the missus. Two years back. Don't know how you lot can stand the bleedin' crime, though."