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"Then let's go to hell together. Mother," I countered. Her smile widened into a thin laugh.
"Come on," I said, tuning on her to rise. "Let's look at some magazines and think about a new hairstyle for you. We'll make appointments
tomorrow."
"That soon?"
"Why wait any longer to start again?" I asked. "Hesitation just makes it all seem so serious."
"It is serious. For me," she whispered.
As if she were made of air, she rose at the end of my hand and let me lead her along like a balloon on a string, just as light, but just as fragile and just as vulnerable to a strong, stormy wind.
3
New Beginnings
.
Thatcher couldn't have chosen a mare
inconspicuous restaurant. I passed it twice, turned around, and practically crawled along the highway until I spotted it. The neon sign he'd described was so small, you really had to start down the driveway of the restaurant before fully seeing it, and the restaurant itself looked like someone's home, with a short walkway and steps leading to a small entry porch. The wooden cladding, stained by years of sea air, was a marine gray, reminiscent of a ship's hull. I recognized Thatcher's Rolls-Royce parked off to the right, sufficiently in the dark to go unnoticed by
disinterested eyes.
I parked in a lot that contained a half dozen other vehicles and walked to the entrance. There was a short foyer with a dark oak desk on my right. The lighting was subdued, only a small lamp on the desk and a dull fixture above dripping just enough pale yellow glow to reveal a coat rack and a poster-sized map of Italy. I could hear some chatter coming from the room off to my left, but before I took another step, a short gray-haired lady in a black dress with a cameo on her bodice stepped in from the room on the right and went around the desk. She had a round face with Santa Claus-red cheeks and eyes the color of black pearls.
"Buono sera," she said. "and welcome to Diana's. Did you have a reservation?"
"I'm meeting someone who might have made a
reservation," I said. "Mr. Eaton?"
"Oh, yes, of course. He's already here. Please,"
she said, indicating I should follow her.
We went to the right, but I glanced into the
room on my left and saw a half dozen tables, all
occupied. The recognizable voices of the famous three
tenors-- Carreras, Domingo. and Pavarotti-- came
over the sound system, but the volume was kept just
low enough to serve as background and not
overpower the conversations.
The room to the right was smaller, with only
three tables. The one at which Thatcher waited was
off to the left in the corner, screened by privacy walls
on both open sides. He stood up quickly. A bottle of
