HARRY SAID. I unwound my scarf; it was a bitterly cold, windy day, and the scarf wasn’t entirely to make a fashion statement. This restaurant wasn’t the sort of place I normally came to, full of tanned people wearing ski-lift labels on their expensive jackets. The décor was vaguely Zen, a few fountains with trickling water and large rocks, orchids and ferns, a slate floor and much dark polished wood. Harry examined his menu. “They make omelettes to order here—they’re very good. Fancy a mimosa?” After we’d ordered and were waiting for our food, Harry got down to business. “You have been a naughty girl, Jo. Record-breakingly naughty. How was your Thanksgiving?” “Fine other than Ivan showing up, as you probably know.” “That boy certainly has a talent for mischief.” He sipped his mimosa. “He told me your Irish boarder got quite bent out of shape.” “He isn’t— Oh, never mind.” “You obviously haven’t bothered to read your handbook.” Since my handbook—that large, intimidating folder—was still in my locker, I shrugged.
