Patricia called at eleven.
I was in the back room of the West Village location going over the May menu with Maya when my phone lit up on the desk. I saw Patricia's name and felt something shift in my stomach before I even answered — the specific premonition of a person who had been bracing for something without admitting they were bracing.
I stepped into the hallway.
"Sweetheart," she said.
That one word.
The warmth of it and the careful thing underneath the warmth — I knew. Before she said another syllable I already knew. The body understands things before the mind is ready to.
"Tell me," I said.
"Marcus and Isabelle are back together." Her voice was gentle and steady, the voice she used when she was delivering something difficult and had decided that the most loving thing she coul
