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“Does Steven know you’re here?” he asked.
“I wanted it to be a surprise.”
His smile remained in place, but she noted a flicker of misgiving in his eyes. “He’d want you to have the best table. Leave your drinks. I’ll bring them over.”
He rounded the end of the bar and escorted them to a corner booth on the far side of the dining room. “Steven sometimes sits here because you can see the whole room. I’ll get him.”
She watched as William Stroud wended his way through the tables and sidled up to Steven. He spoke only a few words to him before Steven quickly looked their way. His gaze lit momentarily on Dent, then focused on Bellamy and maintained eye contact with her as he said something to William, who nodded and returned to the bar. Steven started walking toward the booth.
“He doesn’t seem all that surprised to see us,” Dent murmured. “Or happy about it.”
Bellamy, by contrast, was overjoyed to see Steven. She slipped out of the booth and was waiting to embrace him when he reached her. She hugged him tightly and held on even as she felt him easing away.
She had loved him from the day Olivia had introduced him to his soon-to-be stepsisters. She and Steven had bonded instantly and had remained close friends until the event that had shattered all their lives. Their friendship, as strong as it had been prior to Susan’s death, couldn’t withstand the strain of the tragedy. The pall cast over the family, and over each of them singly, had remained through Allen Strickland’s trial and beyond.
By then, Steven was making plans to go away as soon as he graduated.
When he left for university, Bellamy had been disconsolate, sensing that his leaving would be permanent and that their separation would entail more than geography. Sadly, her foreboding had come about.
She clasped both his hands. “It’s so good to see you. I’ve missed you.”
“Howard…?”
“No, no, that’s not why we’re here,” she said, quickly alleviating his concern. “His prognosis isn’t good, but he’s still with us.”
“He’s defied the odds by living this long.”
“He doesn’t want to leave Olivia,” she said, and Steven nodded solemnly in agreement. She motioned toward Dent. “You remember Denton Carter.”
“Of course.”
With apparent reluctance on both parts, the two men shook hands. “Swanky place,” Dent said.
“Thank you.”
Bellamy tugged on Steven’s sleeve. “Can you sit with us for a while?”
He glanced over his shoulder as though searching for a valid reason to excuse himself, or perhaps for rescue, but when he came back around, he said, “I can spare a few minutes.”
He slid into the booth next to Bellamy and across from Dent, placed his clasped hands on the table, and divided a look between them. “Let me guess. You’re here because of today’s column in that gossip rag. I thought—hoped—we were old news by now.”
“I’d hoped so, too,” she said. Steven had gone straight to the heart of the matter, no chitchat, no catching up, which saddened her immeasurably, but she had to address his consternation. “I tried to hide behind the pen name, Steven. I wanted to remain anonymous and never wanted anyone to know that the book was based on Susan’s murder.”
“For days after you were exposed, I had to dodge the press. Van Durbin sent a stringer here to interview me. I refused, of course. Things calmed down when you returned to Texas. Then this morning…”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Well,” he said, smoothing out his frown, “all that aside, I congratulate you on your success. I’m happy for you on that score. Truly.”
“You just wish I hadn’t become successful at your expense.”
“I won’t deny it, Bellamy. I’d rather not have been a character in your story or had our connection revealed.”
She looked out over the busy dining room. “It doesn’t seem to have hurt your business.”
“No, I must say that hasn’t suffered.”
“Your success is to be congratulated, too. Three restaurants now, and all of them sweethearts of every food critic.”
