The Scarf Was an Excuse

"You did what?"

Lena stopped with her yogurt halfway to her mouth.

"Keep your voice down."

"You climbed into Dominic Moretti's car, and you want me to be quiet?"

Three days had passed. I had slept, worked another shift, and convinced myself Kevin had exaggerated. Lena's expression was dismantling that theory.

"He was perfectly polite."

"My cousin works at Bellini's. A man once screamed at the manager over a table. Moretti walked downstairs, spoke to him for about thirty seconds, and the man apologized to the dishwasher on his way out."

"That sounds like excellent management."

"Emma."

I put down my coffee. "I know what people say."

I'd searched his name. The results alternated between charitable donations, waterfront properties, and careful articles using words like alleged and connections. No photograph explained the man who had waited for my phone to restart.

"Then remember it," Lena said. "Handsome men have ruined perfectly good common sense before."

"You married one."

"And I maintain a strict supervision program."

My pager sounded before I could answer.

An hour later, I walked out of a patient's room and found Dominic Moretti standing beside the nurses' station.

He wore a charcoal coat over a black suit. The man from the curb stood several feet away, speaking quietly with hospital security.

Dominic looked up.

"Emma Reed."

My pulse gave an embarrassing little leap.

"You remember my name."

His gaze touched my badge. "You were wearing it."

"I was hoping you'd forgotten the entire incident."

"That would be difficult."

"Please don't tell me you've been entertaining people with it."

"Only my mother. She enjoyed it enormously."

As if summoned, a woman's voice came from Room 612.

"Dominic, if you're frightening the nurses, come back in here."

He closed his eyes briefly.

I smiled before I could help myself.

"That will be your mother."

"Unfortunately, she remembers my name too."

Clara Moretti sat upright in bed, silver-blond hair brushed neatly back, looking profoundly offended by her lunch. She had been admitted after chest discomfort, and her assigned nurse had asked me to cover while she took a break.

Clara studied me as I introduced myself.

"You're the girl from the car."

"I'm beginning to think that will be on my gravestone."

"I hope not. It would make my son look very bad."

Dominic pulled a chair closer to her bed. "You could try not helping."

"I could also try eating this chicken. Some things are beyond me."

I checked her wristband and explained what I was doing before taking her blood pressure. Dominic watched her face when the cuff tightened, his own expression sharpening at the smallest wince.

"She's all right," I told him.

"I know."

"Then unclench your hand. You're making me nervous."

His fingers relaxed against his knee.

Clara looked delighted.

While I adjusted her blanket, she complained that her son had canceled an entire morning of meetings over indigestion.

"You called it pressure in your chest," he said.

"And now I'm calling it indigestion. People are permitted to learn things."

"Then learn to call me before you spend two hours hoping it goes away."

The sharpness in his voice surprised us both. Clara reached for his hand, and he took hers without hesitation.

I busied myself with the equipment, giving them a moment.

When I left, Dominic followed me into the corridor.

"Thank you for being patient with her."

"She's easier than the man who threw a pudding at me yesterday."

"Did you throw it back?"

"I have professional standards. I thought about it privately."

His smile came slowly. I felt it in a place that had no business reacting in a hospital corridor.

"I believe I have something of yours," he said.

"My scarf."

"It's in my car."

"I thought I'd lost it for good. My grandmother gave it to me."

Something moved across his face, too quickly for me to name.

"Then I'm glad I kept it."

"Could you leave it at reception? I can't get away right now."

"Of course."

He didn't try to stretch the conversation. That should have been a relief.

Instead, I heard myself say, "Unless you're leaving later. I could meet you downstairs."

His attention settled fully on me.

"What time do you finish?"

"Eight, if the universe is feeling generous."

"Dinner at eight-thirty? Bellini's is across the street."

I hesitated.

He reached into his coat and offered me a card. His name and a number were printed beneath the restaurant's address.

"You can say no," he said. "I'll return the scarf either way."

"It's an elaborate invitation for a piece of knitwear."

"The scarf is an excuse. I would like to have dinner with you."

There it was. No mysterious observation. No polished escape hatch.

I looked at the man whose name had made Kevin stop talking, standing in a corridor waiting for a nurse in worn-out sneakers to decide whether she wanted pasta.

"Eight-thirty," I said. "And I choose my own food."

"Has someone told you I object to that?"

"You look like a man who's accustomed to ordering things."

His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth.

"I can adapt."

After he returned to his mother's room, I entered his number into my phone. Then I sent him a message so he'd have mine.

This is Emma. Please tell your mother her nurse says she has to stop bargaining for salt.

The reply arrived before I reached the supply room.

She wants to know whether that means pepper is negotiable.

I laughed aloud.

At eight-fifteen, Lena found me changing into a clean sweater.

"You're going on a date."

"I'm collecting my scarf."

"You're wearing lipstick to collect your scarf."

I looked at my reflection, then at her.

"It's a very important scarf."