table’s edge as I pushed my chair back and half rose, my eyes glancing toward the maître d’s station across the room.
” Please ,” he said quickly, both hands lifting, palms open above the linen. “One minute. Just one. Then I’ll leave if you want me to. I won’t make a scene, and I won’t follow you, Eleanor.”
It was the quiet in his voice that did it, not pleading, just certainty.
I lowered myself back into the chair, but I didn’t let go of the table.
For a moment, the
