Page 14 of On His Mind

I put my hair up and look at the dress on the back of my chair for longer than I need to. Then I put it on. I leave my apartment on Linden Street when I know I’ll be at the Camerie fifteen minutes early.

I give my name at the front, and the hostess doesn’t check anything.

“Miss Ventura. Right this way.”

Which answers the last question I had about tonight.

The table is in the corner, and the man who stands up first is in his late fifties. Silver hair. Charcoal suit, tailored well.

“Penelope.” His hand is already out. “Richard Whitmore. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

I’ve been shaking hands like this since I was twelve. My mother taught me at the kitchen island — web to web, two pumps, don’t look at their tie.

“Thank you for making the time.”

The younger man beside him stands before I can sit. Closer to thirty than twenty. Navy suit, no tie, top button undone by exactly the amount that says he undid it on purpose. Dark hair. An expensive watch.

“Oliver Whitmore. Nice to finally put a face to the portfolio.”

“You have me at a disadvantage,” I say. “I’ve only seen the firm’s.”

He likes that. He shouldn’t — it’s the kind of line I have four or five of, and I chose this one on the walk from the door.

“Please.” Richard gestures at the chair between them. “We took the liberty with a few appetizers. I hope that’s alright.”

“Of course.”

A waiter fills my water and disappears.

I put my napkin in my lap and sit the way she taught me to sit, and I think, fine. If this is a dinner, I’m good at dinners.

For fifteen minutes, it’s an interview. Richard asks about studio, about which professors are still there, about whether the department still makes second-years do site analysis by hand. He listens to the answers, which is rarer than it should be. Oliver comes in easily and asks what put me into architecture in the first place, and I tell him the truth — I was eight, in a parking garage, and I looked up.

He laughs. Richard says something about his own first building. I’m finding it nice talking to people who do this for a living and don’t need any of it explained.

Then Richard looks at his watch and produces a sigh. “Oh — would you look at that.” He’s already reaching into his jacket for his phone. “I’ve completely lost track. I’ve got another meeting across town.” He looks between the two of us, apologetic in the way a man is apologetic when he’s never had to be. “I’m terribly sorry, Penelope. I hate to cut the evening short. This was nice. Your parents should be proud.”

“Please, don’t worry about it.”

Oliver doesn’t look up from the bread.

Richard shakes my hand again, rests his palm on Oliver’s shoulder for less than a second, and goes. He greets two people by name on his way out. Neither of them was expecting it and both of them are delighted.

When I look back, Oliver is unfolding his napkin again.

“I suppose we should order before they think we’ve both left.”

I know what this is now. I’ve known since Richard reached for his phone, and possibly since the hostess said my name before I finished giving it.

But I’m here, and the food is coming, and my mother will ask me tomorrow how it went. So I put my napkin in my lap and do what I’ve been doing at tables like this one since I was old enough to sit at them.

Oliver is easy to talk to, which I’d expected. We disagree about historic preservation — he thinks a city should protect everything it can, and I say if you landmark everything you end up living in a museum. He’s good at being disagreed with. He asks the second question instead of the first. He’s been to Florence twice, and I tell him Lake Como got to me first and Florence never had a fair shot.

He’s charming in the way people become after ten years of business dinners. Charming because it’s always worked.

Then, somewhere between my salmon and his filet, he says, “When you move back to Chicago—”

I set my fork down. “I haven’t decided I’m moving back.”