Not a Date

I dried my hands before replying. Then I dried them again, because apparently I had forgotten how towels worked.

Saturday afternoon. Somewhere public. Mia comes with me.

His answer arrived almost immediately.

I did invite her. I am relieved she remains available.

I smiled despite myself.

This isn't a date, Adrian.

I understand. I will postpone being charming until formally authorized.

I put the phone facedown. Then picked it up again.

At work the next morning, he reviewed our campaign budget without once mentioning lunch. That should have reassured me. Instead, every time he turned a page, I remembered his messages and watched the movement of his hands.

When the meeting ended, he waited until the others had left.

"Does she have any allergies?"

I blinked. "She doesn't."

"And you?"

"I have a complicated reaction to being embarrassed in executive corridors."

His mouth curved. "I will notify the restaurant."

Saturday brought pale sunshine and a wind that turned the corners sharply. Mia insisted on her yellow dress, thick tights, and glittering sneakers. I changed my sweater twice before she asked whether the restaurant had a rule about necklines.

I wore the first sweater.

Adrian waited outside a café near Bryant Park in dark jeans, a black coat, and a charcoal sweater that made me understand why some people made terrible decisions for purely visual reasons.

His security chief stood several yards away.

"You own jeans," Mia said, stopping in front of him.

"I have been concealing them from the public."

"I thought you slept in your suits."

"Only during exceptionally dull meetings."

She giggled and offered him her hand. He looked at it for a moment before closing his fingers around hers.

The care of that gesture caught beneath my ribs.

Inside, he let Mia choose the table. When she selected the one by the window, his security chief moved to another position without being asked.

"Does your friend get lunch?" she whispered.

"Thomas can order whatever he likes."

"He looks like he eats people who don't finish their broccoli."

Thomas heard. His mouth twitched.

"Only on Thursdays," Adrian said.

Mia checked with me before laughing. I nodded, and she relaxed.

Over grilled cheese and tomato soup, she explained Gerald's complicated medical history. One ear had come loose in the washing machine; the repair had required three stitches and a considerable recovery period.

Adrian listened as though she were briefing him on an acquisition.

Then she stole a French fry from his plate.

He looked down at the empty place.

"Was that negotiated?"

"You had more than me."

"That is an alarming economic principle."

"You can have one of mine now."

She held out a small, cold fry with magnificent generosity.

He accepted it.

I laughed, and his eyes moved to my mouth. The glance lasted barely a second. My pulse behaved as though he had touched me.

After lunch, Mia pulled us toward the carousel. Adrian bought her a ticket, then looked at me while she debated between two horses.

"You were excellent on Thursday."

"You questioned three of my assumptions."

"Two needed questioning. The third gave you a chance to make Reed look unimaginative."

"You did that deliberately?"

"You seemed to enjoy answering."

I looked at him. "I did."

His smile was small and intensely private.

Mia called us over. Adrian lifted her onto a white horse, supporting her waist until she settled. His hands lingered a moment before he stepped back.

We stood beyond the railing as music drifted through the trees.

"You don't have to entertain her," I said.

"I am beginning to suspect she is entertaining me."

"She does that."

"So do you."

I looked away too late to conceal my reaction.

On her next circuit, Mia waved both arms. Adrian raised his hand, and then his expression altered. His smile disappeared without the usual coolness replacing it.

He looked suddenly far away.

"What is it?" I asked.

"An old memory."

The answer closed something. I let it.

When the ride ended, Mia ran toward us. Adrian caught the loose end of her scarf before it dragged through a puddle and tucked it into her coat.

A man approached from the path behind him.

Thomas moved first. The change was so quick I felt it before I understood it: his shoulder between the stranger and Mia, Adrian shifting us behind him, the air tightening.

"Not today, Bellini," Adrian said.

The stranger smiled without warmth. "Your uncle would appreciate a conversation."

"Then he knows how to request one."

The man's eyes flicked toward me. Adrian took one quiet step forward.

"Keep looking at me," he said.

The stranger did.

Moments later, he was gone. Thomas remained close while Adrian turned back. Nothing in his face invited questions.

Mia frowned. "Was that a work meeting?"

"It was a man with poor timing."

"You should tell him about email."

Adrian exhaled, almost laughing. "An excellent suggestion."

At the subway entrance, Mia hugged him. He bent over her, one hand spreading carefully across her back.

"You came," she said into his coat.

"You sound surprised."

"Sometimes grown-ups say Saturday and then mean another Saturday."

His eyes met mine above her head.

"I meant this one," he told her.

On Monday, I could still remember the pressure of his hand at my lower back when he had guided us away from Bellini. I had slept badly, caught between the sweetness of lunch and the ease with which danger had found him.

I brought revised figures to his office at eleven.

A photograph stood on the bookcase behind him. I had never seen it there before. A younger Adrian held a laughing little girl on his shoulders beside a lake. She wore a red life jacket and had both hands tangled in his hair.

The frame said LILY, OUR SUMMER.

Adrian ended his call and followed my gaze.

For a moment his face hardened. Then he looked at the photograph again.

"I didn't mean to pry," I said.

"You were looking at something I put in plain sight."

He picked it up, his thumb resting against the corner.

I remembered the carousel. The expression he had tried to hide.

"Who is she?"

He took so long to answer that I wondered whether I should withdraw the question.

Then his eyes lifted to mine.

"She's my daughter, Claire."

I stared at the laughing child, then at the man holding her photograph as though it could hurt him.

"Her name is Lily," he said. "She doesn't come here anymore."