The sign beneath the green awning promised Belgian/French cuisine, and announced a Sunday Brunch, from ten until two. McTavish guided Olivia through the double doors. The floors were dark hardwood, polished to a shine. A chalk board of features was propped on an easel in front of the bar, which was on the right, quietly elegant, with high wood tables, a granite top, two big screen TVs, and a head spinning assortment of interesting bottles and Belgian beer on tap. A hostess led them to the dining room on the left, settling them at a table/booth combination, comfortably tucked in the far corner of the room. In Europe, a brasserie meant a working man’s price, but Olivia knew it would be just the opposite in the USA. She and Hugh had eaten at countless restaurants like this, but the last two years of financial pressure made Olivia dread opening the menu, even though McTavish was paying and seemed comfortable in his wallet. McTavish reached across the table, touching her hand. ‘You okay?’ There was a range of dress in the restaurant, jeans to Ralph Lauren, and McTavish looked good in the starched white shirt and black sweater.
