The Night, The Day by Andrew Kane Page A

she said, already half-unconscious.

    Martin Rosen watched Cheryl Manning come through the door of the restaurant, and was hit with a sudden moment of clarity. He had been waiting at the bar about five minutes, nursing his Glenlivet, contemplating what he was getting into. And now he understood that he was exactly where he wanted to be. Their eyes connected, and he watched her move through the crowd, his jitters intensifying as she drew nearer.
    “Hi,” she said, offering her hand.
    “Hello,” he reacted, reaching out. It felt good to make contact.
    “I’m glad you called.”
    “So am I.”
    The room was noisy, another typical night at Millie’s Place, but somehow their voices managed to resonate above the fanfare.
    Dutiful bartender, Steve, appeared. “What’ll it be for the lady?” he asked.
    Martin looked at her. “Merlot?” he asked.
    She nodded.
    Martin gave the order to Steve, who seemed unable to hide his amusement.
    “Good of you to remember,” Cheryl said, while Steve shuffled off to prepare the drink.
    Martin smiled.
    “What?” she asked.
    “Nothing, really.”
    “Oh, come now. That little smirk of yours surely means something.”
    “It’s nothing, I assure you.”
    “So we’re going to keep secrets?” she asked.
    “I hope not.”
    “Then what were you thinking?”
    “Okay,” he said, seeming a bit embarrassed. “It’s the way you speak.”
    Her eyes asked for clarification.
    “The British thing.”
    “What about the British thing ?”
    He sensed himself ambushed. Her breath smelled delicious, as did whatever fragrance she was wearing, and her smile was about as dangerous as they come. “When you say certain things, like, ‘Good of you to remember,’ it sounds sort of… nice.”
    “Nice? You mean you like the British thing ?”
    “Yes, I like it.” Hesitation. “I like it a lot.”
    “See now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” she asked.
    “No.”
    “It was a first.”
    He looked at her, not quite getting her point.
    “Your first compliment,” she explained.
    “I suppose it was.”
    “I hope there will be more.”
    “I’m sure there will be.”
    Steve brought her drink and the hostess came to show them to their table. Martin had requested the back room, the most private section of the restaurant. The hostess seated them, handed them menus and offered the usual salutations, though neither of them paid much attention. Their minds were fixated on each other.
    “You really like this place,” Cheryl said, looking around.
    “I’m used to it.”
    “You like things that you’re used to?”
    “Familiarity has its benefits.”
    “And its disadvantages.”
    “Those too.”
    The busboy placed a basket of goodies on the table – flatbreads, mini corn, bran muffins, pumpernickel, onion rolls – and filled their glasses with ice water. Martin noticed that the fellow couldn’t stop looking at Cheryl, but it didn’t bother him. He figured that most of the men in the place were probably doing the same.
    He opened his menu, feeling a bit anxious about the flow of things. “So, what will it be?”
    “What do you suggest?” she asked, her menu still closed.
    “The night we met, I had the veal Marsala, it was quite good.”
    “Then veal Marsala it is,” she said.
    “Are you usually this easy?” His better sense had already told him that she probably wasn’t.
    “That depends on what it is we’re talking about.”
    “I’ll bet it does.”
    The waiter approached, rambled through a list of specials, and took their orders.
    “He didn’t know you,” Cheryl said, regarding the waiter.
    “Not everybody does.”
    “But this is your place.”
    “He must be new.”
    “I’ll bet, aside from this place, that a lot of people know you.”
    “What makes you think so?”
    She pondered before answering. “I have a confession to make.”
    His eyes suggested she continue.
    “I checked up on you.”
    He’d expected something like this. She knew what he did, where he worked