Chapter 4: The Girl Who Left a Line Cook

"This is Stevie," Warner told the table, "the girl who left a line cook for me."

Everyone laughed.

There were six of them at the long table in his club, men in open collars and women with gold at their wrists.

I laughed too, for about a second, until I understood that it wasn't a joke about him.

It was a joke about me.

"A line cook," one of the women said. "Did he make you a little omelet before you left?"

"He made a lot of omelets," I said. "I miss them."

"I bet she does."

"And was it a long relationship?" asked the man across from her. "Please say it was long. It makes the story better."

"Two years."

"Two years on a cook's salary," he said, and shook his head. "You must have the patience of a saint."

"I had a roof," I said. "And someone who got up at four to drive my mother to dialysis."

Nobody said anything.

Then Warner put his hand on my knee under the table and laughed again, softly.

"She's loyal," he said. "It's a quality. Come on, everyone, be nice."

His thumb moved on my knee as he talked.

I removed the hand.

"Excuse me," I said. "I'm going to find the ladies' room."

I went through the dining room, past the coat check, and out onto the sidewalk.

It was raining a little.

I stood under the awning with my arms crossed in the green dress and waited for the doorman to bring my car around.

I realized then that I didn't have a car.

I had a key.

It was in my clutch, with a keychain shaped like a tiny pie, where I'd put it Saturday night when Caleb pressed it into my hand.

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