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The place Dexter knows is a Mediterranean restaurant on Broadway with gorgeous outdoor seating. He's already made a reservation, so they're shown right to a table for two, and he offers Ruby the banquette--a green leather seat that faces the sidewalk--and he takes the woven wicker chair with a marble table between them. Banks sits about twenty feet away in a chair with his back against the building so that he’s facing Ruby and Dexter. He’s wearing sunglasses and scanning the crowd and assessing the situation, just as he always does.
"Here you are," the hostess says, handing them each a menu. "Your server will be right over."
By the time they're ready to order, Ruby and Dexter have decided on the hummus plate to start, and then a chicken schnitzel and a pan-seared salmon with chickpeas. Their waiter suggests a bottle of champagne that Ruby sees is a hundred and fifty-five dollars; Dexter agrees without flinching.
"I'm expensing everything," he says, handing both of their menus to the waiter and leaning his elbows on the table as he looks at Ruby. "So go wild while we're here, got it?"
Ruby laughs, feeling her spirits lighten as three pigeons peck around near the tables, picking up fallen french fries and bits of flatbread. As she'd hoped, the trees along Broadway are on fire with autumn, and everywhere she looks, women are wrapped in cashmere shawls, chunky sweaters, and the kind of lightweight scarves that are more for show than for warmth. Fall has arrived on the back of a crisp, beautiful day, and New Yorkers are making the most of it.
"Did you decide what you wanted to do here that was fun?" Dexter asks, still watching Ruby across the table like she's the only other person on the planet. In truth, the banquette runs the length of the sidewalk outside the restaurant, and at every table there are people of interest: women with tattoos on their arms, men with cleanly shaped beards, little dogs on leashes sitting obediently beneath the chairs of their masters. So many people and sounds mixed together feels like sensory overload for Ruby after six months on Shipwreck Key, and she's taking it all in like it's a feast for the eyes.
"Well, with weather this beautiful, I think a walk through Central Park is a must."
"Or a carriage ride?" Dexter offers. "I could take notes easier if we were sitting and talking."
Ruby laughs again, watching as the waiter approaches and uncorks the champagne for them. "Ever practical," she says, lifting her champagne flute to toast Dexter. He raises his glass and holds it to hers. "Cheers," Ruby says, "to teamwork. And to talk therapy, which is sometimes what I feel like I'm doing when I talk to you."
Dexter looks amused as he takes a drink of his champagne and sets it on the table. "Oh? I come across like a therapist? I mean, I guess I can see why, given that I'm asking leading questions and prying into your inner life. But then I guess I should ask: is it helping? In any way at all?"
It's Ruby's turn to put her elbows on the table and look at him. "Yeah, weirdly, I think it is. There are times when I don't want to talk about something, but when that happens I look atwhyI don't want to examine it, then I convince myself to just try it. I give myself permission to tell you to move on if it becomes physically uncomfortable--"
"Like heart palpitations?"
"Like my stomach hurts, or yeah, my heart races--but that usually doesn't happen. It's almost like forcing yourself to go numb through exposure, you know? The more you talk about something, the less it hurts."
"I see." Dexter glances at the greenery that lines the shelf above the banquette behind Ruby. She knows it's filled with potted plants and flowers, and that overhead are hanging chandeliers in a variety of colors that are anchored to the outdoor structure, but she doesn't tear her eyes away from Dexter's handsome face. He looks back at her. "Then let's try something new. Rather than me opening with a question that's been on my mind, I'm going to ask you to think of something: a story, an anecdote--anything, really--and tell it to me."
"Now?" Ruby glances up at the waiter as he sets down their hummus tray. She picks up a piece of flatbread and dips it into the olive oil on the platter. "Over lunch?"
"Yeah. I say let's start strong. I want this trip to be a combination of great food, Central Park, and anything else you want to do mixed in with us talking about anything you'd like to talk about."
"Ah," Ruby says, taking a bite of her flat bread as she watches the pigeons scampering in her direction at the possibility of potential snacks being dropped to the ground. "This feels like a new therapy tactic."
"More like a biographer tactic," Dexter admits, cocking his head to one side as he reaches for a piece of bread and dips it in hummus. "Actually, in all honesty, I'm just winging it with you most of the time, Ruby. I've definitely gone into interviews with agendas and goals, and with the understanding that I was taking on a serious project, but I'm being truthful with you when I say that this is more like having a conversation with a real person than grilling someone whose life I want to turn inside out on the page."
"Oh, good," Ruby says with an amused laugh. "I'm so glad you aren't just looking to rip up my life and regurgitate it on paper for the masses."
Dexter holds up both hands. "Hey, my work sometimes requires a little regurgitation."
"So this first conversation can be about anything I want?"
"Anything," Dexter says, drinking more champagne. "It's the lady's choice."
Ruby thinks about this, looking at a table through the window where two women who appear to be in their eighties are laughing uproariously and sharing a bottle of red wine. One of them is wearing a silk scarf tied jauntily around her neck, and the other is in a denim jacket that's covered in all kinds of colorful patches—rock bands, a smiley face, a glittery rainbow, and flowers.
Dexter is waiting patiently as Ruby thinks of a topic. He tops off their champagne glasses, but says nothing as she thinks.
“I’ve got it.” Ruby smiles at him with satisfaction as the waiter drops off their salmon and schnitzel. She waits until he’s offered them fresh ground pepper and vanished again before she goes on. “I want to talk about the best year of your life.”
Dexter frowns like he’s confused. “The best year ofmylife? Why?”
“Yeah. I want to hear how old you were, what was so great about it, and what you learned from that year." Ruby picks up her flatware. "And why? I guess I would answer that withwhy not?”
Dexter’s face relaxes and he picks up his fork. “Okay, that’s a fair question, and a creative one, which is a high compliment from someone whose job it is to come up with creative questions.”
Ruby adjusts the gray linen napkin on her lap. She’s ready to be the recipient of someone else’s life stories for a few minutes.
“Okay,” Dexter says, gazing up at the wooden beams of the outdoor structure above them. “The best year of my life was 2003. I was sixteen.” Ruby makes a disbelieving sound as she looks up from her chicken; this makes Dexter smile. “I’ve already done the math: I know you were twenty-nine that year, which highlights the fact that we're from entirely different generations. You were raising kids in 2003, and I was listening to Outkast and getting my driver's license.”
