They started down the street, and a few steps later—surprising herself as much as Miles—she took one hand from her pocket and looped it through his arm. “So,” she said, “let me tell you about my mother.”
? ? ?
At their table a few minutes later, Miles couldn’t stifle a laugh. “She sounds great.”
“Easy for you to say. She’s not your mother.”
“It’s just her way of showing you that she loves you.”
“I know. But it would be easier if she didn’t always worry so much. Sometimes I think she does it on purpose just to drive me crazy.”
Despite her obvious exasperation, Sarah looked positively luminous in the flickering candlelight, Miles decided.
The Harvey Mansion was one of the better restaurants in town. Originally a home dating from the 1790s, it was a popular romantic getaway. When it was being redesigned for its current use, the owners decided to retain most of the floor plan. Miles and Sarah were led up a curving set of stairs and were seated in what was once a library. Dimly lit, it was a medium-size room with red-oak flooring and an intricately designed tin ceiling. Along two walls were mahogany shelves, lined with hundreds of books; along the third wall, the fireplace cast an ethereal glow. Sarah and Miles were seated in the corner near the window. There were only five other tables, and though all were occupied, people talked in low murmurs.
“Mmm . . . I think you’re right,” Miles said. “Your mother probably lies awake at night thinking of new ways to torment you.”
“I thought you said you’d never met her.”
Miles chuckled. “Well, at least she’s around. Like I told you when we first met, I hardly even talk to my father anymore.”
