Cook the Books by Jessica Conant-Park, Susan Conant Page A

I’d expected.
    At seven o’clock on that same Friday night, I took the T and went to meet Kyle at the Italian restaurant he’d chosen, Contadino’s. It was so cold out that I was glad I’d worn my puffy down parka, but why I’d bought a white parka was beyond me. I should’ve known that it would have a one-in-six-million chance of staying white for long. But the cute fake-fur collar had suckered me in. Standing outside the restaurant, I crossed my arms to stay warm and stared in the window at a neon sign that beckoned me to come in and try the Al YOU CAN EAT P ST . SO the sign was missing a few letters. That was okay. And the dirty windows could be cleaned. Despite the frumpy exterior, the place deserved a shot; it was exactly the kind of hole-in-the-wall that might serve up fantastic fare. The door squeaked loudly as I entered what honesty forces me to call the ratty restaurant. I cringed at the worn carpet and red pleather booths. Plastic leather would’ve been bad enough. But pleather with rips? I joined Kyle, who was already seated at one of the booths. Except for Kyle and one table of rowdy, drunk college kids, the place was empty.
    Kyle stood to greet me. I had dressed casually tonight, but Kyle was wearing one of his requisite suits, this one dark brown with a red patterned tie.
    “Hi, Kyle,” I said as I slid into the booth. “Have you been waiting long?”
    “Nope, I just got here myself,” he said.
    A waitress walked by and tossed menus onto the table without pausing to see whether we wanted drinks. I eyed her suspiciously and picked up one of the laminated menus. It took only a quick skim to see that the dishes were typical of many old-school Italian restaurants: lots of pasta with a few sauce and meat options, piccata this, Parmesan that. Still, I resolved not to judge the food until it was served. After all, this unpromising dump could be the source of the most flavorful red sauce in Boston. I did, however, decide not to risk ordering seafood. The odds felt good that the kitchen was hideously unsanitary, and I didn’t happen to have a craving for rotten mussels. Our disgruntled waitress eventually stooped to taking our order, but she managed to act positively put out by our presence and annoyed at us for wanting something to eat—in a restaurant, of all places.
    “So how is your friend Adrianna doing?” Kyle asked as he moved to take a drink from his water glass. “Have you two been friends for a long time?”
    “Don’t drink that,” I said, touching his wrist. “The glass is dirty.”
    Kyle peered at his water and frowned. “Indeed it is.” A large glob of some dark substance clung to the inside of the glass. He set it down and pushed it to the center of the table.
    “Adrianna is doing well. I’ve hardly seen her this week, though, since I’ve been so busy with school and the cookbook work. But we’ve known each other since high school, so we each understand when the other gets bogged down with life. The poor girl has been so tired, of course, because of Patrick. I don’t think she was prepared for how stressful being a parent is.”
    Kyle nodded. “Well, she doesn’t show it. Does her husband, Owen, help out much?”
    “Sure. It’s a rough time for him with work, though. He gets up at about four thirty in the morning to get the seafood orders for his restaurants, and then he isn’t home again until five or so. Sometimes later if people call because they ran out of tuna or forgot to order scallops or something. And his income is dependent on the market, of course. He determines the price for what he sells, and there’s only so much he can raise the cost of fish. Sometimes he makes only pennies per pound on some items. Oh, and he pays for his gas, too. It’s a rough business, but some weeks are better than others. And his schedule is really good. He’s at home with Ade and Patrick every night.”
    “He must be exhausted, though, when he comes home.”
    “True, but at least