Henry got up and brushed the sand from the seat of his pants. It was a little after eleven and time to return to Fiorello’s. He whispered a little prayer to himself and set off.
In front of the restaurant, the chef he had seen at the stove on his last visit passed him. Henry sucked in a breath. The guy was a big, gorgeous giant. Henry tried to make eye contact with him so he could at least say hi, but the man brushed by him as if he wasn’t there and ducked inside the restaurant. He left in his wake the scent of fresh-baked bread and something sour and spicy, like chopped garlic. Henry watched him, and there was something about him that gave Henry a chill, in spite of the heat and humidity.
Henry waited a few minutes for the chef to get inside. And then, once again like an actor stepping
