Soaring (Magdalene #2)(84)

I found that surprising.

“Regale is funny?” I asked.

“Amy,” he said as answer and said no more, but my name on his lips was uttered with a smile.

So I queried, “That’s it? Amy?”

He looked both ways and made his turn, saying, “I’ll confirm. Regale is funny.”

“How?”

“How is anything funny? It just is,” he replied.

“I find that strange,” I murmured, not knowing if that stung or if it didn’t.

He heard that too.

I knew it when he said, “I’m not makin’ fun of you, babe. It’s just cute. Like you can be when you’re not being bull-headed and a pain in the ass.”

God.

Really?

I glared at him. “You can be bull-headed and a pain in the ass too, Mickey.”

He glanced at me and did it grinning. “See? We already got a lot in common.”

It was in that moment I realized he was teasing and further realized it was funny and sweet. It also put us into a spot where we were familiar. This wasn’t a first date to be nervous about. This was Mickey and Amy going to dinner.

That was when I felt complete relief and I was grateful to Mickey for giving me that.

I didn’t share that verbally. I just rolled my eyes and faced forward but did it smiling.

And when I did it, I saw we were on Cross Street. Mickey took us down to the end, by the wharf, and found a parking spot only two doors down from the Lobster Market. It was clearly a score since the street was busy, not only with cars at the curbs angled in their spots, but with people strolling.

I figured this was an end of summer, use it before you lose it kind of thing. Living in La Jolla we didn’t have seasons, so I’d forgotten how you learned to pack it all in before you lost daylight and warmth.

Once parked, Mickey got out and was at my door by the time I had it opened and had a foot to the runner. He helped me down, away from the door, which he slammed, and he beeped the locks as he led me to the sidewalk.

He held my hand as we walked and again, I thought that was sweet.

When we made it to the Market, he went in and the hostess smiled, saying, “Hey, Mickey. Got your table all ready.”

She gave me a smile too before she grabbed some menus.

But I was surprised that the Lobster Market took reservations (and I was surprised in a nice way at more sweet from Mickey that he took the time to make one).

Still holding my hand, as Mickey guided us behind the hostess, I took in the restaurant and something settled inside me.

Because the Lobster Market was perfectly Mickey.

And perfectly Magdalene.

And maybe perfectly me.

I’d never been there in the evening, but I saw the lights were dimmed. And as at lunch, on the tables they had the squat glass vases filled with short buds, only two or three stems each, but it brought a bit of class. They also didn’t change their blue and white checkered tablecloths for the evening. The salt and pepper shakers were glass, attractive, but not crystal.

However evening meals, I saw, did not have paper napkins like at lunch, but blue or white cloth napkins and also small, lit candles.

The view of the wharf from the big windows was amazing.

Even though it was nice, it wasn’t exactly romantic.

What it was was a place that could be for anything. A date. A family dinner. Whatever you needed it to be. It wasn’t fancy, it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t a burger joint you dropped by to grab a meal. It was a place you made special for whatever reason that might be.

It wasn’t elegant and refined, however, the fare wasn’t cheap but it was delicious.

It was just right for Mickey.

And, I decided, walking hand in hand with Mickey, for me.

The restaurant wasn’t full, though there wasn’t a lot of seating left, but the hostess led us right to a prime table at the windows so our amazing view was unadulterated.

Perfect.

Mickey seated me before he seated himself and the hostess gave us our menus. Before we could even glance at them, a busboy came with glasses of water.

After he left, I put the menu down and looked at Mickey.

“You’re the Maine man, show me how to eat at a lobster joint in Maine,” I challenged.

As I spoke, Mickey’s eyes went from his menu to me and they were smiling.

“Anything you don’t like?” he asked.

“Not really,” I replied.

“Then you’re on,” he muttered, looking back at his menu.

The waitress came and asked for our drink orders. I ordered a sauvignon blanc and Mickey ordered a beer. We received our drinks and Mickey handed the menus to the waitress after ordering us both steamers, cups of New England clam chowder, dinner salads and full lobsters with all the fixin’s.

When she left, I turned wide eyes to Mickey.

“That’s a lot of food.”

His gaze went guarded but even so, it didn’t leave mine when he replied, “Amy, you gotta eat more, baby.”

And I felt it again. That settling inside me.

This time I felt it because certain things he’d said to me, and certain ways he’d looked at me, I realized belatedly that he’d noted I’d lost weight. Not only that, but he knew why.

And he was worried about me.

“With all that was happening, I lost track—” I started to explain.