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wall that drew my gaze.
    “Now that’s different,” I said, staring at the long wall, which was covered completely
     in rough slabs of brown and black slate. Thin streams of water trickled and bubbled
     from the ceiling down the jagged slate surface, finally collecting in a narrow, shiny
     copper pool that ran the length of the wall. It was so cool and unique, I was mesmerized.
     I had to force myself to look away in order to follow the hostess to our table.
    Despite the many visual distractions, Baxter’s main room was elegant and sophisticated
     with its vaulted ceiling and soft lighting.
    “Brooklyn! You made it!”
    I thought it might be Savannah calling to me, but when I turned, I saw a familiar
     dark-haired beauty speed-walking around the tangle of tables in order to greet me.
    Did you ever meet someone and instantly want to be their friend? That’s how it was
     for me when I first met Kevin Moore in Paris. She was smart and funny and self-deprecating
     and so warm and generous I wanted to move to Paris just to hang out with her. That
     never happened, of course. She had visited Savannah a few times over the years, so
     I’d seen her every so often. But she owned a restaurant in London now, so unless I
     was willing to relocate, we would never be as close as I’d once hoped.
    “Oh, Kevin,” I said, as I was pulled into her enthusiastic embrace. “It’s great to
     see you.”
    She held me at arm’s length. “Good lord, how long has it been? You look freaking fantastic.
     I hate you for that. What happened to your hair? I love it.”
    I fluffed my hair. “Same as it always was.”
    “No, no, it used to be short and feathery. Now it’s longer and—oh, never mind. You
     blondes just piss me off.”
    She laughed and gave me another exuberant hug before I could say one more word. Her
     voice was exactly as I remembered: posh British accent dripping with dry wit. But
     in other ways she’d changed dramatically. She’d been little more than a gangly teenager
     in Paris, a string bean, all legs and arms. Now she was lovely and lithe and all grown-up.
    “You look beautiful,” I said, and meant it.
    “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “I’m stained and sweaty.”
    Her white chef’s coat was indeed a mélange of nasty splotches and mysterious smears.
    I gave her an innocent smile. “But it looks great on you.”
    “And you’re full of it,” she said with a grin.
    I’d once asked Kevin how she got her boyish name and shetold me her parents had met while waiting at the same bus stop on Kevin Street in
     Dublin. It wasn’t far from the National Archives, where her father had been giving
     a lecture. They fell in love at first sight and vowed to name their first child Kevin.
    “They were probably counting on a boy,” Kevin had quipped.
    If she’d had my wacky parents, who’d named all of us kids after the city in which
     we were conceived or born, poor Kevin would’ve ended up with the name Dublin. I liked
     Kevin better. It had a poetic charm that suited her.
    Savannah had told me later that Kevin’s father had been a famous English writer who’d
     given up his worldly goods to become a missionary in Africa.
    Kevin’s dark ponytail swished back and forth as she scanned her stained jacket. “This
     is all Baxter’s fault. Your sister is supposed to be in charge tonight, but he’s the
     one ruling the roost. He’s run me ragged and we’ve only just started the second seating.
     I’m cooking tomorrow night, so I’m concerned, but I’m hoping he’ll back off once he
     sees that we all know what we’re doing.”
    “I hope so, too.” I tugged Derek forward and introduced him to Kevin.
    “He’s a Brit? You hooked a Brit?” Kevin stared at me. “How in the world did you manage
     it from all the way over here in the States?”
    “I have no idea,” I said, speaking the truth. “Just lucky, I guess.”
    Derek grabbed my hand and kissed it. “I’m the lucky one. Can’t believe I