The Last Double Date

The candle beside Vanessa’s plate guttered when the restaurant door opened, throwing a thin blade of light across the white tablecloth. She caught the flame with the silver snuffer before it died and looked up at exactly the right moment.

Richard Hale was watching her.

He sat three tables away beneath a brass globe, one hand resting on the stem of his wineglass, the other folded over the black handle of a walking cane he did not seem to need. His silver hair was combed neatly back. His suit had the quiet, expensive cut of a man who never checked a price tag. Beside him, Thomas Mercer laughed at something the waiter had said, his broad shoulders shaking beneath a navy jacket.

Vanessa let her gaze remain on Richard for one beat too long.

Then she smiled.

Across from her, Camille lifted her champagne flute. “That one?”

“Both,” Vanessa murmured.

Camille’s mouth curved. “Ambitious.”

“Reliable.”

That was what mattered. Not the watches, not the tailored jackets, not the practiced loneliness in the way the men looked toward the empty chairs beside them. Reliable meant money that could be reached, property that could be leveraged, accounts with fewer hands on them than there should have been. Reliable meant no furious wife waiting at home, no suspicious girlfriend, no adult child sleeping in the guest room and monitoring every dinner.

The restaurant glittered around them, all dark wood and candlelight, with a pianist playing something soft enough to disappear beneath conversation. Crystal chimed. Silverware whispered against porcelain. A waiter passed carrying a tower of oysters on crushed ice, and the cold scent of the sea followed him through the room.

Vanessa touched the diamond at her throat. It was glass, but the candlelight made it persuasive.

“Give me five minutes,” she said.

Camille caught her wrist beneath the table. Her nails pressed lightly into Vanessa’s skin.

“Don’t rush the first move.”

“I never rush.”

“You rush when you’re bored.”

Vanessa looked again at Richard. His eyes had shifted to the entrance, then to the mirrored wall, then back to her. He was not admiring her now. He was measuring the room.

She withdrew her wrist. “Then keep me entertained.”

She rose with her champagne and crossed toward the bar, letting her heel catch slightly on the edge of the carpet. It was a small stumble, graceful enough to seem accidental. Thomas noticed first. He leaned toward Richard and said something. Richard answered without taking his eyes off her.

At the bar, Vanessa ordered nothing. She rested one elbow against the polished stone and examined the row of liquor bottles as though choosing between them.

“Vanessa?”

Thomas’s voice arrived warm and amused.

She turned. “Have we met?”

“Not officially.” He glanced at the empty champagne flute in her hand. “But I’ve been trying to decide whether you’re drinking that or merely carrying it for decoration.”

“Does it matter?”

“To a man who spends too much time around wine, yes.”

“Then I’m drinking it.”

Thomas smiled, pleased by the answer. He was seventy-two, perhaps, with a ruddy face and thick white eyebrows that made him look permanently entertained. His wedding ring was gone, but the pale band it had left behind remained visible.

Richard approached more slowly. Up close, his eyes were clearer than Vanessa had expected, a cool gray that made her think of locked doors.

“Thomas Mercer,” Thomas said, extending his hand. “This is Richard Hale.”

“Vanessa.”

She gave them the name without a surname. A name was more useful when it seemed incomplete.

Thomas took her hand and held it half a second longer than manners required. Richard did not reach for it immediately. His gaze dropped to the diamond at her throat, then to the narrow gold watch on her wrist.

“Enjoying the evening?” he asked.

“I was. Now it has improved.”

Thomas laughed. Richard’s expression did not change, but something near his left eye tightened.

“Were you dining alone?” Thomas asked.

“With a friend.”

“Your friend looks as though she’s deciding whether to rescue you.”

Vanessa glanced toward Camille, who had turned in her chair and was watching them with an expression of mild concern. “She’s very protective.”

“Good friends are rare,” Richard said.

“So are good dinners.”

Thomas gestured toward their table. “Perhaps we could improve yours.”

Vanessa pretended to consider. “You may try.”

She led them back, not too quickly. Camille stood as they approached, smoothing the front of her black dress. Her smile was bright, intimate, and slightly surprised.

“Camille,” Vanessa said. “Richard. Thomas.”

“Pleasure,” Camille said.

Thomas pulled out a chair for her. Richard remained standing until Camille sat, then took his own seat. Vanessa noticed the arrangement immediately. Richard positioned himself with a clear view of the entrance and the mirrored wall. Thomas faced the room.

Prepared, she thought, though the word barely registered before she buried it.

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