Pat arrived at the address in Lockleys that Lina had given him right on six-thirty, relieved to see her car in the driveway. It was a modest sized house with a Basket Range Sandstone facade, a style which had been popular in the 1960s. He parked behind the white BMW sedan standing in the street in front of the house, retrieved the bottle of white wine he’d been instructed to bring from the insulated wine bag he’d stowed behind his seat, and made his way to the front door.
As he waited to be admitted, he hoped he’d made the right decision agreeing to meet with Lina’s mother in her home, instead of in a Henley Square coffee shop where he’d feel more relaxed. But, he’d lost that argument when Lina had explained that cooking a meal for him was her mother’s way of doing things. She was Italian
