Kane by Steve Gannon Page B

regarding a choice of wine, I sat across from Catheryn.  Within moments an avuncular-looking waiter with silver hair and a comfortable paunch approached our table.  In one hand he carried a small wine stand, in the other a silver ice bucket containing a split of Louis Roederer “Cristal” champagne.  “Mrs. Kane, Detective,” the waiter said pleasantly, peering over half-moon glasses as he set down the wine.
    “How’s it going, José?” I asked.  “Put on a few el-bees since we last saw you, eh?”
    José nodded, patting his stomach.  “It’s difficult not to with all the wonderful desserts we offer here,” he said, placing menus before us.  Then, his face creasing in a conspiratorial smile, “Possibly we can tempt you with something for after dinner?  There are still two unclaimed pieces of warm pistachio cake.  If you want, I can hold them.  Or maybe the chocolate terrine—”
    “Thanks, but tempt us later,” I interrupted with a smile.  “Right now, let’s start with some wine.  For my wife only, though.”
    José gave me a curious look but said nothing as he poured a single glass for Catheryn.  Then, promising to return in a few minutes to take our order, he departed.
    “Places like this used to make me uncomfortable, worrying about doing something embarrassing,” I joked.  “At least since going on the wagon, I don’t have to remind myself not to drink directly from the bottle.”  After Tommy’s accident and the dark time for me that followed, I had quit drinking.  Occasionally I missed it.  Mostly, I didn’t.  Raising my water glass, I found Catheryn’s eyes with mine.
    “Here’s to you, Kate.”
    Catheryn lifted her champagne flute.  “Here’s to us,” she replied.
    “I’ll drink to that,” I said.  Still holding her gaze, I touched the rim of her glass with mine.
    With a surge of regret, I realized both of us were nervous.  Over the years we had occasionally eaten at Patina, usually celebrating some special event.  Happier times.  Now a current of tension ran between us, an atmosphere of distrust remaining from the night before.  We had things to discuss before Catheryn’s departure for Europe, but at the moment neither of us wanted to reopen recent wounds.  Instead, for the next several minutes we perused our menus in silence.  Catheryn decided to start with an appetizer of Ahi tuna; I chose the lobster bisque.  For her main selection Catheryn ordered roasted halibut with sweet-potato puree and wild mushrooms.  I fell back on my usual—loin of venison with porcini-foie gras polenta and quince chutney.  After giving our dinner selections to José, we talked for several minutes with a waiter who was crisscrossing the room with a cart laden with a tantalizing variety of expensive cheeses.
    When our appetizers arrived, Catheryn started on her Ahi.  “You drove to the cemetery this morning?” she noted after several bites, regarding me across the table.  “The kids said they saw you there.”
    “Right,” I nodded, diving into my bisque.  “I thought they were trying to duck out of going to church.”
    “They went later.”
    “Good.  A little religion never hurt anybody.”
    “That go for you, too?”
    I hadn’t been to Mass since Tom’s funeral.  “Maybe,” I said, concentrating on my soup.  Then, pointedly changing the subject, “Sounded as though rehearsal went well.  Ready for your trip?”
    “About as ready as one can ever be for a tour of this length.”
    “Six weeks is a long time.”
    “Five and a half, not counting travel days,” Catheryn corrected, glancing over to judge my mood.  Among other things, her projected absence had come up in our recent argument.  Throughout she’d maintained that the trip wasn’t her idea, pointing out that she, like most members of the orchestra, had objected to the tour’s length—well past the usual twenty-eight-day limit allowed for traveling engagements.  Nonetheless, the Philharmonic