No, the restaurant was better than nice. It was beautiful. Wood this, leather that, lit crystal above, silver and honest-to-god china all around on table coverings looking better than her bed linens. Imagine, a tablecloth you"d want to sleep on. The her? She was Vicki Robbins. She had come, on purpose, without an invitation yet it was just then dawning on her that she didn"t belong in that fancy restaurant. It showed. Her red-lipsticked mouth hung open.
“Good evening, Madame,” the la-de-da guy at the reservation podium said. “May I help you?”
He looked like a waiter only more important. Vicki knew he was the mate-er-dee (though she wasn"t sure of the pronunciation and couldn"t spell it). “Oh, I don"t know,” she said, stumbling out of the gate. “I think so, maybe. Eh, can you tell me, is
