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here in his aerie, but Leo flipped over an invoice with a decisive thwack, said, “They’re nuts if they think we’ll pay four hundred a case for that Oregon plonk,” and ignored him until Britt headed back downstairs.
    WHEN CAMILLE APPEARED A COUPLE OF hours later, the night was in full swing . T he bar was three deep and Alan was neglecting his patrons in order to mix an elaborate nineteenth-century cocktail under the direction of a guest who was obviously making it up as he went along . T he newest backwaiter was zooming around with a generally hunted aspect, and Helene was striding between the tables, pouring water, whisking away soiled napkins and crumbed plates, and calming people by virtue of her faint scent of laundered linen and her very presence. Britt delivered a cognac and glanced up to see Camille through the scrum near the door: a swirl of brown hair, the white flash of an incisor. He made his way back to the maître d’ station, where Camille, color in her cheeks from the chill outside, was shrugging off her coat. He was looking forward to seeing what peculiar assortment she had collected this evening and—galvanized by Leo’s prediction—whether it would be easy to extricate her from them for dessert, for champagne, for some late-night wandering.
    She waved, and Britt smiled and extended a hand as he neared, because the opened hand could do anything, really—it could become a kiss on the cheek, it could be a simple clasping of her hand, but either way it was a clear invitation and yet a thoroughly appropriate welcome, an approach he had perfected long ago . A nd so it was all the more disconcerting when she did in fact lean into him for the briefest and silkiest of cheek brushes, and even more so when this motion revealed behind her Britt’s brother Harry.
    Britt nodded at Harry, who could be counted on to understand a delayed greeting when a woman was there, and returned his attention to Camille. “It’s been too long,” he said.
    “I know,” she said. “I tried out that Italian place on Sommers, which I probably shouldn’t tell you.”
    “Not at all,” said Britt. “How was it?”
    “Prefab.” Camille glanced behind her.
    “This is my younger brother, Harry,” Britt said, and Harry and Camille both laughed.
    “I know,” she said. “We’re having dinner.”
    “Oh,” Britt said. “Well. I didn’t know you knew each other.”
    Britt was rather warm inside his suit now. Was this development helpful or not? Out of his work boots and paint-splattered jeans, Harry was looking altogether presentable. He had trimmed his beard, appeared to have gotten a haircut, and had finally found a decent suit long enough in the limbs.
    As the three of them made their way to a table by the front window, Britt heard his own voice saying various things, but he had no idea what any of them were. He seemed to be recommending the pasta . W hen Harry and Camille were seated, Britt stood for a moment gazing down at them in the avuncular way in which he often regarded Harry, which was, catastrophically, now directed at Camille as well . T hen he told them to enjoy and departed for the kitchen to inform Thea that his brother was in the house.
    Thea was expediting, standing with her feet planted well apart, hands braced on the stainless steel counter before her, observing the line cooks at work. She wore houndstooth pants, a white chef’s jacket that tied like a robe instead of being buttoned or double-breasted, and the surgeon’s cap she preferred to the house baseball cap with the restaurant’s logo on it. She believed the surgeon’s caps were more effective, and they did somehow contain the untamable headdress of dark brown curls that was the bane of her existence. People touched her hair compulsively, unable to believe the spirals weren’t formed of metal filings or some resinous material; when they reached up for her hair, Thea would go as still as a cat and endure it. She was sturdy and long-limbed,