The restaurant Theo chose overlooked the Denver skyline from the top floor of a historic building downtown. Soft jazz played in the background, and the waitstaff moved with the kind of quiet efficiency that comes from years of serving people who expect excellence.
“I probably should have asked first,” Theo said as we were seated at a table by the window with a breathtaking view of the city. “Are you hungry? Or would you prefer just to talk?”
I laughed, surprising myself with how genuine it sounded. “I don’t think I could have eaten another bite of those pretentious canapés anyway. They were beautiful but utterly tasteless.”
The waiter appeared, clearly recognizing Theo. “Mr. Blackwood, wonderful to see you again. Your usual table. Shall I bring the wine list?”
“Please. And Dominic, could we have some of those mushrooms Eleanor used to love? The ones stuffed with crab and herbs?”
I stared at him in amazement. “You remember what I ordered fifty years ago?”
“I remember everything about you,” he said simply, meeting my eyes with an intensity that made my breath catch. “The way you laughed at your own jokes before the punchline. How you got that little wrinkle between your eyebrows when you were concentrating on something difficult. The fact that you always stole the olives from my Caesar salad and thought I didn’t notice.”
Tears pricked at my eyes unexpectedly. When had anyone last paid attention to me that way? When had anyone cared enough to remember the small details that made me who I was?
“Tell me about your life,” Theo said gently. “Not the headlines or the basic facts. Tell me about the parts that mattered to you, the moments that shaped who you became.”
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