Page 63 of The Contract Marriage

“Ms. Pryce-King asked us to reserve this table for you,” he explains. “Is this acceptable?”

I glance at Olivia. She cranes her neck to look at the huge circular water tank filled with various types of seaweed and colorful fish. To our side is another—this one flat with a blue background and a trio of huge orange-gold jellyfish floating inside. This table has the best view of the aquarium and privacy.

“Love it,” she murmurs.

I nod. “This is fine. Thank you.”

He inclines his head, then pulls out a chair for Olivia. She takes it, eyes glued to a particularly large jellyfish. He asks about any allergies, and we shake our heads.

He leaves and brings out two flutes of Salon Blanc de Blancs Le Mesnil and two oysters on the half shell. Finely shaved frozen mignonette granita sits on top of them like snow. “Compliments of the chef.”

I smile. Must be Elizabeth’s doing. I push the small, elegant blue-and-gold-edged plate toward her. “Go ahead.”

Olivia’s eyes sparkle. She picks up one of the oysters, and gently pushes the plate toward me. Her eyes go round when she takes the shellfish into her mouth. I sample mine. Holy shit. It’s amazing, with just the perfect balance of brine, shallot and fruity tartness. Well worth calling in the favor with Elizabeth.

“Oh my God. I didn’t know oysters could taste like this.” Olivia flushes. “I want to ask for more, but I feel like the chef’s going to look at me funny.” She leans forward. “I heard he’s French and won’t listen to anyone.”

“So you’ve read up on him?”

She shakes her head. “It was one of those in-flight magazines.”

“I’m sure we can ask for more. For a Spectre—albeit used—he’ll do it.”

She laughs. “Don’t you dare!”

“Nothing’s too much to satisfy my wife.”

“I’m not walking home.”

“Car service.” I smile, take her hand and toy with the Rubedo. I should see if the lab can make something that can rival this stone, so I can give it to her for our first anniversary. It would be fun to create a new stone every year. When we’re old and gray, we can look at them and recall the stories and memories that go with them. And eventually pass them down to our children as heirlooms.

The waiter returns and asks us if we’d like to order. Olivia looks at him with the excitement of a child about to ask Santa for her first present. “Does the chef still offer ‘His Choice’?”

“Yes.”

“That one for me.”

“Whatever she’s having,” I say, since the night isn’t about food for me. After he’s gone, I turn to her. “What’s in ‘His Choice’?”

“You don’t know?”

“No. But I figured you wouldn’t have gotten it if it sucked.”

She chuckles. “Thank you for your trust. It’s basically the chef deciding what we eat. Sort of like omakase. He selects the wine pairing, too. I always thought it looked interesting and wanted to try.”

The waiter returns with some paper-thin slices of fish on a huge green and white plate for each of us. But shouldn’t it have more than just some tiny slices of citrus fruit of unknown origin on top? The white crystal flakes look like salt or something. At least the wine is Chablis Grand Cru, something I recognize.

“Hirame crudo,” the waiter announces, his back straight. He isn’t looking down at us, but something about the way he stands makes him seem just a tad condescending. “Slices of flounder, caught in the icy waters off Hokkaido, Japan, and dressed with fermented yuzu and fleur de sel. Enjoy.”

“I think the chef forgot to finish cooking this,” I whisper after he’s gone.

“Don’t you think our waiter would’ve pointed it out before bringing them here?”

“He could’ve feared for his life.”

She laughs. “Or it’s just the way it should be? Don’t you like sashimi?”

“No, sashimi’s fine, but this doesn’t even have wasabi. I’m very traditional when it comes to raw fish.”