She had not expected to have dinner with Mr. Shandling. It had started out as coffee yesterday evening. He felt so bad at having upset her, and she was too topsyturvy to resist. So he took her to one of South Street 's little cafes, plied her with cappuccino, and told her stories until the tears dried on her cheeks and she began to smile.

She stopped looking at his side so much. She started listening to his words more. Tales of travel to Ireland, England, Austria. Scuba diving off the coral reefs of Australia, shopping for precious gems in Hong Kong. He had a rich baritone voice, perfect for spinning fabulous tales and in the end, while she wasn't sure if one man could have really done all those things, she found that she didn't care. She liked listening to him talk. She liked watching the corner of his sparkling blue eyes crinkle every time he grinned. She liked the way he looked at her, as if his sole purpose in life was to make her happy.

He'd asked her to dinner the very next night. She hemmed and hawed. It was moving so fast, she really didn't know…

He was only in town for a week. Surely one dinner couldn't hurt… She'd caved in with a yes. He'd chosen Zanzibar Blue, a renowned jazz club and one of her favorite restaurants. She'd promised to meet him there.

Bethie was not a complete neophyte to dating; she read Cosmo. On a first date, always arrive on your own, therefore you can leave anytime you choose. Don't give out too much personal information, such as your home address, right away. Get to know the person first. Just because a man was well dressed and charming didn't mean he was safe. Just ask her ex-husband, Pierce.

Bethie flagged down a taxi, and took the short ride up to Zanzibar 's.

Tristan Shandling was waiting for her outside the club. Tonight he wore black pleated slacks with a plum-colored shirt and strikingly patterned silver and turquoise tie. In deference to the hot, muggy weather, he'd eschewed a jacket. With his hands tucked comfortably into his pockets, one foot crossed over the other, he looked dignified, handsome, and totally in control. Bethie took one look at him and promptly wished she'd gone with the little black dress. This man shouldn't be dating some middle-aged mother. A man like him should be meeting some bubble-gum blonde, some little bit of arm candy.

She got out of the cab, self-consciously fingering her matronly skirt. Tristan turned, spotted her, and promptly beamed. " Elizabeth! I'm so happy you made it."

For the life of her, she couldn't think of a thing to say. She stood there silently, clutching her small black purse while his eyes crinkled and he held out his arm to her. Her breath had caught in her chest.

He was still smiling, his blue eyes patient and kind. He knew, she realized abruptly. He understood that she was nervous and by grinning so effusively, he was trying to make things easier for her.

"I'm sorry I'm late," she managed.

He waved away her apology, taking her hand and tucking it into the crook of his elbow. He patted her fingers, which she knew must feel like ice. "Jazz is my favorite," he told her amiably as he escorted her to the doors and the first notes of bluesy horns washed over them. "I hope you don't mind."

"I love jazz," she volunteered. "It's always been my favorite as well."

"Really? Davis or Coltrane?"

" Davis."

"' 'Round Midnight' or 'Kind of Blue?"

"' 'Round Midnight,' of course."

"Ahh, I knew from the first moment I saw you that you were a woman of impeccable taste. Of course, then you agreed to go out with me and cast my whole theory in doubt." He winked.

She found herself finally smiling back. "Well, there's no rule that says you can't enjoy water as well as wine," she said more gamely.

"Dear heavens, have I just been insulted?"

"I don't know. Depends if you're water or wine. I guess I have the whole evening to find out."

" Elizabeth," he said heartily, "we are going to have a smashing good evening!"

And she said with the first real emotion she'd felt in months, "Honestly, I would like that."

Later, over plates of steaming mussels and vegetarian pasta, and a bottle of a very fine Bordeaux, she asked the question that was burning in her mind.

"Does it hurt?" Her eyes drifted to his right side. She didn't have to say more for him to understand.

Slowly, he nodded. "Not as bad as it did, though. Just no more jumping jacks for a while."

"But you're feeling better?"

He smiled at her. "I was born with two bad kidneys, love. The first one failed when I was eighteen. The second one started going last year. I spent sixteen long months on dialysis. That felt bad. Now, as far as I am concerned, things can only feel good."

"Is there… is there still a chance of rejection?"

"In life, love, and organ transplants. But I take my truckload of meds like a good dooby and say my prayers at night. I don't know why God gives second chances to old rascals like me, but as long as I have one, I hate to complain."

"Your family must be very relieved."

He smiled again, but this time she caught a trace of sorrow in his gaze. "I don't have much family, Bethie. One older brother. He went away a long time ago and I haven't seen him since. There was a woman once. She said she carried my child. I was young though, and I'm afraid I didn't take it too well. When I learned I needed a kidney – well, that hardly seemed the time to call. I don't have patience for fair-weather friends, let alone fair-weather fathers."

"I'm sorry," she said honestly. "I didn't mean to dredge up bad times."

"Not to worry. I've made my mistakes and taken my licks and I still think a quiet life is overrated. I'm going to die with my boots on." He grimaced. "Probably once again hooked to a dialysis machine."

"Don't say that. You've come this far. Besides, you still have plenty of things to do. Like finding your child."

"You think I'm going to find my long-lost child?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because you brought it up in a conversation with a woman you've just met, so obviously you've been thinking about it."

He grew silent. His fingers thrummed the curve of his wineglass. He said seriously, "You're an extremely astute woman, Elizabeth Quincy."

"No, I'm just a parent, too."

"Ah, I don't know…" He backed off from the conversation, picking up his glass and taking a sip. "I don't even know if the child is a boy or girl, let alone if it's mine. And even at my age… I'm running around the world most of the time. Hardly father-of-the-year material."

"What is it you do?"

"I specialize in doohickeys."

"Doohickeys?"

"Doohickeys," he chuckled. "I scour the globe for the cute, the strange, the interesting, and most of all, the cheap. Wooden boxes from Thailand, black lacquer from Singapore, paper kites from China. You go into a gift shop, fall in love with some hopelessly overpriced, crudely carved figurine, and that's me, Bethie. I found that just for you. At a hundred percent markup, of course."

She shook her head in mock protest. "And you can make a living at this?"

"I make a very fine living at this. Bring things in by the container loads. Volume is the key."

"You must have a fine eye."

"No, just lots of experience as an impulse shopper." He grinned at her. "And yourself?"

He'd meant the question kindly. He had just volunteered more than a little about himself. Still she flinched, and the instant she did, the smile faded from his face.

"I apologize," he said immediately. "I'm sorry, Bethie. I have this habit of speaking before thinking. I swear I've been meaning to quit – "

"No, no. It's a logical question and you've been very generous about sharing your life – "

"But things are difficult for you, now. I know and I shouldn't have pried."