Do You Promise Not to Tell? by Mary Jane Clark

two. As Pat took her seat, she noticed that most of the other tables were meant for two as well. The restaurant was smaller and more intimate than she had imagined it would be.
    “Pat, would you like some champagne?”
    “Mmm. Perfect.”
    As the waiter, also attired in a navy blazer with the Petrossian insignia on his breast pocket, went to fetch the Charles Heidsieck 1985, Pat enjoyed the loveliness of the surroundings and the allure of her dinner companion. How delicious to be sitting there with a man she was drawn to. God, how she had missed it—the chemistry, the attraction.
    “How did you come to love all things Russian?” she asked.
    Tim thought a moment before answering. “I guess it was when I read
Nicholas and Alexandra
in high school. The whole thing about the Imperial family and the czarevitch’s hemophilia and Rasputin and the overthrow and murder of the Romanovs intrigued me. Also, about the same time, I saw the old Ingrid Bergman and Yul Brynner movie
Anastasia
, about the woman who claimed she was the youngest daughter of the czar and had escaped her executioners. After that, I was hooked.”
    Pat smiled. “You remind me of Peter. Once he started hearing stories from Olga, an elderly Russian woman who has become a surrogate grandmother for him, he couldn’t get enough.”
    The couple sampled Sevruga, Ossetra, and Beluga caviar, as Tim explained the differences between the Caspian Sea sturgeons that produced the tiny eggs. Pat selected a salmon with lobster sauce as her main course, while Tim chose a sea-scallop soufflé served with truffles and a pressed-caviar sauce. They sampledeach other’s dishes, both declaring that dinner was fabulous.
    Over coffee, Tim reached for Pat’s hand.
    “I really enjoyed myself tonight, Pat.”
    “I did, too. The food, the surroundings. . .” She paused. “The company.”
    Tim smiled. “I hope there will be more evenings like this.”
    “Me, too.”

Chapter 37
    Farrell and Peter both ordered the juicy cheeseburgers for which the Iron Horse was famous, and sat back with their drinks.
    “I watched you and your mother today, Peter, and I admired you. I guess I should admit it, I’m envious.”
    “You—envious of
us
?” Peter laughed incredulously. “I can’t believe it.”
    “It’s true. You guys have a solid life. Your mom makes a living doing something she likes to do and she does it well. She’s raised a good son, and on her own, too. That’s a lot to be proud of.”
    Peter took a drink of his Coke.
    “Well, what about you, Farrell? You’ve accomplished a lot—you’re a television news producer.”
    Farrell looked at the train prints that were scattered along the wall over their table, trying to decide if she felt comfortable taking in so young a confidant. What would it hurt for the kid to hear a little about how the real world worked? “Peter, I think it
sounds
more impressive than it really is. It’s a job—or, at least, it has become a job. I don’t seem to have the enthusiasm I once did for it. Besides, it doesn’t look like I’m going to have a place at KEY News for much longer.”
    Peter listened intently while Farrell told him the story of what had been going on with her career.
    “The Fabergé story was just the final straw. It hadbeen coming for a long time. I just hate to go out on such a defeated note.” Farrell finished off her wine and then turned philosophical. “Hey, look at the bright side. At least I ran into you and your mother again at that auction. It was worth going for that.”
    The burgers arrived. As Peter poured ketchup over his railroad fries, he decided to tell Farrell about the story of Olga’s Moon Egg. He’d known that something had to be done with the information. Maybe it was meant to be, that he entrust Farrell with the story. KEY News could investigate as well as the police. That way he didn’t have to drag his mother into it.
    Farrell listened to the story Peter told. Could she actually be getting a