Although we are not appropriately dressed—I’m in shorts, and Jobe is dressed like a cowboy—for the Italian restaurant, La Torte, the Nora Roberts look-alike hostess seats us in the back among the shadows, perhaps hiding us from the other patrons. We drink a strong red one, nibble on breadsticks, and place our orders.
Jobe cannot make up his mind what he wants. “I don’t see steak and potatoes on the menu. Does this city even sell beef?”
I chuckle and tell him, “I’ve got this.” I peruse the menu for a minute and eventually ask Lucia, “Can we can share an Italian platter?”
“Of course,” she replies and vanishes away from our twosome.
Jobe asks me for my right hand, which he takes within his own. He touches one of my fingers, the next one, and another one. He stares at me across the table a
