Chapter 10 Dinner for Two (Doris Vale POV)
I've been at Bean & Bone since noon, laptop open, spreadsheets filling the screen. The Boston client file is finally making sense, numbers falling into place. Claire's refilled my latte twice without asking, and the café has cycled through its afternoon crowd—retirees, students, a woman with twin toddlers who knocked over a display of mugs.
By six, my eyes are burning. I save my work, close the laptop, and stretch. Outside, the sky is turning purple, the streetlights flickering on. I pack up my things, shouldering my bag.
"Heading out, Dora?" Claire calls from behind the counter.
"Yeah. My eyes need a break."
"See you tomorrow?"
"Probably."
I push through the door, the bell chiming. The air is cool, carrying the smell of rain that hasn't fallen yet. I'm halfway down the block when I hear my name.
"Dora!"
I turn. Donald is jogging toward me, still in his work clothes—dark slacks, a button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, his badge clipped to his belt. He's slightly out of breath when he reaches me.
"Hey," he says, hands on his hips. "Caught you."
"Were you following me?"
"No, I was..." He stops, grinning. "Okay, maybe a little. I saw you through the window and figured I'd catch you before you disappeared."
"Why?"
"Dinner?" He says it quickly, like he's been working up the nerve. "You eat dinner, right?"
I laugh. "Occasionally."
"Good. Come on, there's a place down the street. Italian. You said you like pasta."
I hesitate, my bag heavy on my shoulder. I should say no. I should go home, keep my distance, remember why I'm here. But his eyes are warm, hopeful, and I hear myself say, "Okay."
His grin widens. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
We walk together, the town quiet around us. The restaurant is called Nonna's, a small place with checkered tablecloths and candles in wine bottles. A bell jingles when we step inside, and a woman with gray hair and an apron waves from behind the counter.
"Donnie! You finally brought a date!"
Donald's ears turn red. "Hi, Mrs. Capello."
"Sit, sit!" She gestures to a corner booth. "I'll bring you the good stuff."
We slide into the booth, the vinyl seats creaking. A single candle flickers between us, casting shadows across his face. He shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the back of the seat.
"Sorry about her," he says. "She's known me since I was a kid. Thinks she's my grandmother."
"She seems sweet."
"She's a menace." But there's affection in his voice.
Mrs. Capello appears with a basket of bread and a bottle of wine. "On the house. You kids enjoy."
"Thanks, Mrs. C."
She pats his shoulder and disappears into the kitchen. Donald pours the wine, handing me a glass.
"To… what are we toasting to?" he asks.
"Good pasta?"
"Works for me." He taps his glass against mine, and we drink.
The wine is smooth, rich, better than anything I expected from a small-town Italian place. I tear off a piece of bread, the crust warm and crispy.
"So," Donald says, leaning back. "You worked at the café all day?"
"Most of it. Had a deadline."
"You always work that hard?"
"When I need to. Keeps me busy."
"Yeah, I get that." He takes a sip of wine. "I used to believe in this job, you know? Thought I could make a difference, change things. Now it's just… paperwork. Reports, bureaucracy, endless meetings where nothing gets decided."
"Sounds thrilling."
"It's soul-crushing." He laughs, but there's an edge to it. "Sometimes I wonder if I should've done something else. Opened a bar, learned to fish, anything but this."
"Why don't you?"
He shrugs. "Same reason anyone stays in a job they hate. Bills, routine, fear of the unknown. Plus, I'm good at it. Even if it kills me slowly."
"That's depressing."
"I'm full of depressing truths tonight." He grins. "Your turn. Tell me something about consulting. Make it sound more exciting than it is."
I laugh. "It's not. It's spreadsheets and conference calls and clients who don't listen to your advice."
"See? We're both miserable."
"Cheers to that."
We clink glasses again, and Mrs. Capello returns with steaming plates of pasta. Mine is carbonara, his is bolognese. The smell alone makes my mouth water.
"Eat, eat!" Mrs. Capello insists, then disappears again.
We dig in, the silence comfortable as we eat. The pasta is perfect—creamy, rich, exactly what I needed. Donald eats like he hasn't seen food in days, and I can't help but smile.
"What?" he asks, mouth half-full.
"Nothing. You just really like pasta."
"It's good pasta." He swallows, taking a sip of wine. "So, London. What was that like? You miss it?"
"Sometimes. It was gray and cold, but it was… safe, I guess. Predictable."
"And America isn't?"
I pause, twirling pasta on my fork. "America's complicated."
"Fair. What made you leave in the first place?"
"Family stuff," I say vaguely. "Needed distance."
He nods, not pushing. "And now you're back."
"Now I'm back."
We finish eating, the plates scraped clean. Mrs. Capello brings dessert—tiramisu—and refuses to let us pay. Donald slips cash under the candle anyway when she's not looking.
Outside, the air has cooled further, and the first drops of rain begin to fall. We walk slowly, no destination in mind. My hand slips through his arm without thinking, and he doesn't pull away. We fit together easily, his stride matching mine.
"You do this a lot?" I ask. "Random dinners with strangers?"
"You're not a stranger anymore."
"You barely know me."
"I know enough." He glances down at me. "You like coffee, pasta, and sketching. You're running from something but won't say what. And you're terrible at lying."
My stomach drops. "What?"
"Your name," he says gently. "It's not really Dora, is it?"
I stop walking, my hand falling from his arm. "Why would you say that?"
"Because every time I say it, you hesitate. Just for a second, but it's there."
My heart pounds. "I..."
"It's okay," he says quickly. "You don't have to tell me. I get it. Sometimes people need to be someone else for a while."
I stare at him, searching his face. There's no judgment there, just understanding. "It's close," I say finally. "My real name. But not exact."
"That's all I need to know."
We start walking again, the rain picking up. By the time we reach my building, it's coming down steady. We stand under the awning, his hair damp, my jacket spotted with droplets.
He looks at me, his eyes dark in the dim light. "I had a good time tonight."
"Me too."
He steps closer, his hand brushing mine. "Can I..."
I kiss him before he finishes. It's hesitant at first, tentative, testing. Then his hand cups my jaw, and the kiss deepens, becoming real. His lips are warm, tasting of wine and tiramisu, and I feel something crack open inside me.
When we pull apart, we're both breathing hard. Rain drips from his hair, and I reach up, brushing a strand from his forehead.
"I don't usually do this," I whisper.
"Neither do I."
I take his hand, pulling him toward the door. "Come upstairs."
He follows without hesitation.