12 Bliss Street by Martha Conway Page B

over.
    “You’re not a lawyer,” he said.
    “No,” she agreed.
    “Is Scott all right?”
    “He’s either asleep on a floor or asleep on a bus.”
    At that Lou smiled. He was not what she had expected. His skin was very clear and this combined with his white shirt and clean shave made him look like a boy in a Catholic high school. His face was serious but not threatening, the face of a student. He didn’t look like the kind of guy someone owed money to, but except for bad skin she didn’t really know what that kind of guy would look like.
    Nicola watched him flip close his notebook. She hoped he wasn’t going to show her his sketches now or any time in the future, and she practiced the line about tampons in her head.
    “Are you hungry?” he asked. “Have you had breakfast? There’s a café right here.”
    Nicola knew it—a divey student-run kind of place with great food and a fantastic view of the bay. A bank of windows took up one wall and Alcatraz lay directly outside, for once displayed in its natural context: a tiny rock dwarfed by the huge green state park, Angel Island, which lay behind it.
    “Let me suggest one of their muffins,” said Lou as they went into the building. “This place specializes in homey baked goods, still warm from the oven.”
    Homey baked goods? Nicola glanced at him, but he had an absolutely deadpan expression. Who was this guy? He was still wearing his nametag. The café was self-serve with a counter facing the short-order cook, and since it was early they were the only ones there. A chalkboard on the counter claimed there were banana muffins and cranberry-orange; Lou asked for banana but when Nicola wanted that too he changed to the cranberry.
    “These are the best lattes in town,” he said. “Whole milk, organic, no hormones, no milk machines.” Lou turned back to the cook. “Are the coffee beans from shade plants or sun?” he asked.
    Clearly this was a man who breakfasted seriously. Nicola, who had planned to ask for a latte, ordered a large coffee instead.
    “Guatemalan or Aged Sumatra?” the clerk asked.
    “Whatever’s closest.”
    Lou seemed not to have heard but she thought he was listening. He can’t help himself, Nicola thought, he’s going to tell me which is better. But he just settled his latte on his tray and looked at the fry range. He was moderately built and handled objects attentively, not like Scooter, who moved fast and was always on the verge of spilling something or dropping something else. Lou, on the other hand, seemed—Nicola searched for the word—comfortable. He seemed comfortable.
    “That bacon smells excellent,” Lou said to the cook, a young man wearing a tie-dyed scarf around his head.
    “Smoked and peppered,” the cook said, and handed him a piece. “Taste.”
    As they walked to a table Lou said, “Extremely friendly student staff.”
    Nicola glanced at him. “You sound like a restaurant critic,” she said.
    He looked at her sharply. “Really? In what way?”
    “The baked goods comment, the comment about the staff.”
    They put their trays down on a long trestle table overlooking the bay. Below them, ferries carried people to Oakland or Sausalito, while huge dirty sailboats tacked up and down the bay for pleasure. Lou was watching Nicola with his serious dark eyes.
    “I’ve gone out to eat with a lot of clients,” he said. “No one has ever said that before.”
    “Oh, well.” Nicola was dismissive. She began pouring some half-and-half into her coffee.
    “I mean,” Lou continued. “I’m just very surprised you picked up on that. Because you’re right.”
    “You’re a restaurant critic?”
    “Or more generally food.”
    “Really? A food critic?” She couldn’t tell if she was being put on or not. “I thought you loaned money, then charged exorbitant rates of interest.”
    “Not exorbitant, never exorbitant,” Lou protested. “And, anyway, that’s just my profession; food is my hobby.”
    “How many reviews