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    “She’s…” Opening the dishwasher, he set the used cup on the upper rack. “I haven’t actually met her yet,” he admitted. “I set up a lunch interview with her today. She’s been living in New York, but she’s from a small town in Indiana. She came east to study Education at Catholic University. So far we’ve only spoken on the phone.”
    He’d called Miss Gray at home three nights ago. What had started as a screening had carried into a conversation lasting almost an hour. A TV on in the background had prompted him to ask what movies she liked. As it turned out, they were both crazy about classic films. North by Northwest was one of her favorites, too. She considered Cary Grant the George Clooney of his day and Eva Marie Saint was “simply stunning.” Colorizing original black-and-white films to make them more modern was “almost immoral.” Ross had agreed wholeheartedly.
    Before he’d known it, he was no longer leading an interview. He was engaging in a genuine conversation—and enjoying the hell out of himself. Sure, she’d been nervous at first, but the longer they’d talked the more she’d seemed to relax, revealing glimpses of warmth and intelligence and even humor.
    His mother’s voice drew him back to the moment. “You can tell a lot about a person’s character over the phone. Not everything, but a lot. It’s not always what they say but what they don’t say that’s the most telling,” she added pointedly.
    Closing the dishwasher door with his hip, Ross swallowed hard. Among the things he wasn’t saying was that Sam was seeing a psychologist. Her regular weekly session was scheduled for that morning.
    Sam chose that moment to stomp into the kitchen, a half-finished glass of orange juice in hand. Wearing a too-tight tank top and torn-at-the-knees low-rise jeans, she looked like she belonged on the back of a Hell’s Angels hog, not in the exclusive private school where he’d enrolled her.
    Memo to me: next time pick a school that requires students to wear uniforms.
    She pushed past him to the sink and sloshed the leftover juice down the drain as though it cost pennies and not hard-earned dollars. Catching his eye, she said, “Chill, Daddy, I’ll be ready to get my head shrunk in a few.”
    Ross covered a hand over the cell, hopefully in time to keep his mother from overhearing.
    “Is that my darlin’ grandbaby?” his mom asked, well knowing it was.
    Shit . “Yes, ma’am, it is.” Ross shot Sam a warning look and added, “Unfortunately, she can’t talk right now. She has to go change… immediately .” With his free hand he waved Sam out of the kitchen. “Listen, Mom, I…we’ve gotta run. I’ll call you later, promise.”
    “All right, but you never did tell me her name.”
    “Her…?” Distracted by Sam, Ross took a moment before answering. “Oh, right, sorry. Martha Jane Gray.”
    “Martha Jane,” his mother repeated, as if testing it out. “You don’t hear old-fashioned names like that much anymore. I like the sound of it. I like the sound of her. I have a real good feeling about this young lady.”
    For the first time that morning, Ross felt himself smile. “Me, too, Mom.”
    …
    The Northeast DC restaurant the Dubliner was on North Capitol Street, a few blocks from Union Station. The landmark Irish pub was operating at a low roar when Macie stepped inside, the wood-paneled bar looking very much as it had when she’d come with her college friends to hang out over pitchers of Guinness and bottles of Harp. A quick look around confirmed the lunchtime crowd consisted of the usual suspects, politicians and government workers from nearby Capitol Hill, the men dressed in the DC “uniform” of dark suits or navy blazers and khakis, the women in neutral-colored suits or tailored separates. Similarly dressed in a tailored silk blouse and knee-length knit skirt, Macie walked up to the harried-looking young woman standing behind the hostess stand.
    “Hi,