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something?” Dhara asked.
    Our waiter arrived with the first course: char roe with parsnip cream, licorice foam, and ginger. The roe, we were told, had been retrieved from the Arctic by a friend of the chef, flown in overnight, and removed from the char in the Alchemia kitchen.
    Ordinarily I couldn’t stand the first three ingredients, yet together the taste was miraculous, like a whole fish distilled into a single pearly bite. I realized I’d forgotten to raise a toast. “To the best year of my life,” I said.
    Dhara narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure about that?”
    â€œI’ve never been happier.” I lifted my glass higher.
    Dhara’s glass didn’t leave the table. She tipped it in my direction. I lowered my glass to clink hers. “You look gorgeous,” I said.
    And she was pretty, even with a scowl dulling her diamond face. And smart and quick, and she knew what she wanted and nobody got one past her. I didn’t deserve Dhara, and worried sometimes she’d wake up one morning and realize she could do better.
    â€œIt took you long enough,” she said. “I’ve been wearing this dress for hours.”
    â€œI’m sorry. I was distracted.” And I left it at that, though I was wondering again about my father, telling myself not to ruin this, of all nights, when I found the next course—tips of white asparagus, which the waiter said took two years to grow—arranged on a plate in front of me like a side street in a city diorama.
    Then we were halfway into dinner, and the meal was so transcendent that thoughts of my father and the stridor of the businessmen had fallen away. Each plate was custom-made to fit the course it was serving. Atop a stand the size of a chess piece sat a tidy square of pork belly. Along a plate in the shape of a winding river, sprigs of ice fish, horseradish, and parsley seemed to move as if swept in a current. Each glass of wine had a story. We’re going to take you now to the coast of Italy, outside the village of Praiano, where the vines grow on seaside walls and harvesters descend the cliffs on ropes, suspended high over the crashing surf, to pick the grapes .
    Our waiter placed pillows in front of us and explained that they’d been filled with lavender-scented air. Atop each he rested a plate of slow-poached duck, wine-braised turnips, and mango puree. As we lifted each bite from the plate, the air slowly escaped the pillows, infusing the space around us with a soft lavender aroma. It was in the middle of this, the best course of the night, that Dhara said, out of nowhere, “Lucy called.”
    I hadn’t heard from Lucy since graduate school. Last I knew she was still in Boston working for a big publishing house, climbing the rickety editorial ladder. She had e-mailed to say she’d begun to acquire books and I should keep her in mind when the time came to look for an editor. I knew she’d be disappointed to hear that I hadn’t written a word since my MFA and was working for the company that had become the bane of all print publishers. Still, I was curious to hear what she was up to.
    â€œDid she say what she wants?” I asked.
    â€œShe left a message on the home phone.” Dhara lifted her napkin, folded it, and returned it to her lap.
    â€œThat’s strange. I’m sure she’s looking for someone’s number. We have friends in common.”
    â€œHow did she know where to reach you?”
    â€œShe probably assumed I’m still in Chicago and called directory assistance.”
    â€œSo you haven’t been in touch with her?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI thought we agreed we wouldn’t keep our exes hanging around.”
    â€œ She called me . I haven’t spoken with her in years. She was my high-school girlfriend, Dhara.”
    Two waiters, one at each end of our table, nimbly removed our plates and pillows and were gone too fast to cause a timely