At least she hoped it had. Because as she sat here, still waiting for Quigg Brevard to join her, the headwaiter lit the candles on her table and swooshed a linen napkin onto her lap while, with a grand flourish, the sommelier uncorked a bottle of wine and poured a half-inch of viscous red liquid into a gigantic crystal wine goblet for her approval.

All this for me? Quigg’s certainly given orders to pull out all the stops.

“The wine is to your liking, madame?” asked the sommelier, who was poised expectantly with the wine bottle.

Carmela took a small sip. The wine was rich and robust, slightly oaky and redolent with the scent of berries.

“This is amazing,” Carmela told him. And it was-like drinking ambrosia.

“I knew you’d enjoy that particular wine.”

Carmela looked up into the deeply tanned face of Quigg Brevard as he slipped into the chair across from her, then gazed at her with a mixture of curiosity and focused intent. “It comes from a small château in Bordeaux,” he told her. “Very limited production. Still, Château Veronique has been turning out fine wines since about seventeen ninety-eight. Napoleon Bonaparte was one of its most ardent fans. So was General George Patton.” Quigg’s smile turned into a somewhat sheepish grin. “Now you know my little secret. I’m an oenophile and a military buff. Weird combination, huh?”

Carmela raised an eyebrow. “This wine must have set you back a hundred dollars a bottle.”

“A hundred fifty,” said Quigg. “But only if I were paying retail.” He gestured for the sommelier to fill his glass, too. “Tonight you dine for my pleasure, madame.”

“Something tells me I’ll be dining very well,” said Carmela. This is awfully cozy and nice. A girl could get used to this kind of treatment.

Quigg smiled one of his toothy, fleeting smiles. “So we’ll eat first, drink a couple glasses of wine, and enjoy ourselves. Get to know each other. Then, if we’re still of a mind, we’ll talk business.”

“Terrific,” said Carmela. She gave a sidelong glance around the table, still not finding a menu at her place.

Quigg caught her glance. “I hope you don’t mind, I’ve already ordered for us. Chef Ricardo will be preparing a couple dishes that aren’t on the menu. Not yet anyway.”

“So I’m your guinea pig,” laughed Carmela.

“Think of tonight as a taste test,” offered Quigg. “And, seriously, I really do want your honest opinion.”

The “couple dishes” Chef Ricardo prepared especially for them turned out to be very special indeed. Their appetizer consisted of a grilled duck liver salad. The segundo, or second course, brought tears of joy to Carmela’s eyes. Asparagus risotto with freshly shaved Parmesan. The arborio rice was creamy and rich, the asparagus bright green and cooked al dente, and the Parmesan cheese imparted a lovely salty, almost nutty taste.

Their surprise entree turned out to be a pair of perfectly pink veal chops stuffed with Gorgonzola cheese and toasted walnuts.

While none of the servings were particularly large or looked like they would be at all filling, the flavors were so sublime, the ingredients so sinfully rich, that Carmela had to launch a vehement protest when Quigg Brevard beckoned for another small veal chop to be brought out from the kitchen.

“Enough,” groaned Carmela. “I never eat this much.”

“Nothing wrong with a woman who demonstrates a healthy appetite,” Quigg told her.

“That’s the problem,” said Carmela. “Eating this much is unhealthy.”

“Then have another glass of wine,” said Quigg as he hopped up from his chair, “to assist in digestion. And I’m going to sound the alert to Chef Ricardo and have him fire up his chafing dish. Dessert will be prepared tableside tonight.”

“Dessert,” moaned Carmela. “Oh no.”

Carmela and Quigg did end up talking business. And as the brown sugar and brandy sizzled in the brass chafing dish, Quigg explained to Carmela what he had in mind.

“As you well know, dining is a transient experience. People come here for a couple hours, hopefully enjoy their elegant and beautifully prepared dinner, then go home. End of story. Bon Tiempe only remains top of mind for a few hours at best. Or, if our customers had a really enjoyable time, they might mention their dinner the next day to their friends.” Quigg assumed a contemplative gaze. “How on earth do you capture such a short-lived, almost ephemeral experience? And make it promotable to others?”

Carmela understood exactly where Quigg was headed.

“But if Bon Tiempe had a scrapbook,” he continued, “we could capture some of the happy faces of the couples and groups who were celebrating, all the fond memories, and use it to our advantage.”

Quigg picked up the bottle of Château Veronique and offered the last inch of wine to Carmela. When she declined, he emptied the few drops into his own wineglass.

“Downstairs we have a lovely party room,” continued Quigg. “Decorated in a very contemporary fashion.” He pointed across the dining room. “Out those double doors you’ll find our patio. Circular fountain, mood lighting, small but lush garden. Both areas will accommodate gatherings that range in size from a dozen to seventy-five people. Think of it,” he said excitedly, “we’re set up for Mardi Gras parties, wedding receptions, anniversaries, birthdays, office parties, you name it!” He paused, waited as Carmela jotted a few notes.

“Now if we had a nicely designed scrapbook,” continued Quigg, “we could better communicate our atmosphere and our offerings.” He paused. “What do you think?”

“You don’t have to sell me,” laughed Carmela. “But what you might want to consider is having two scrapbooks.”

Quigg rocked back in his chair, an amused smile lighting his face. “Why two?” he asked.

“Make the first scrapbook a straight-ahead promotional book using the group and event photos you have right now. I’m assuming you have some of those?”

“A shoebox full,” said Quigg emphatically.

“Good,” said Carmela. “Then make the second scrap book a sort of romantic-looking guest book. Pass that book around at lunch or in the evening, allow your guests to write in it. Trust me, people love to leave little notes about a special meal they enjoyed or the occasion they’re celebrating.”

“Okay…,” said Quigg.

“But on, say, every other page of that book, we’ll put a beauty shot of a dinner entree or a dessert or something,” added Carmela. “And we’ll also intersperse some of the nicer photos of groups out on the patio or enjoying the party room. And we’ll add captions, too.”

“So as folks are signing the so-called guest book, we also make the point that Bon Tiempe is available for special events,” said Quigg.

“Exactly,” said Carmela. “The guest book, or memory book if you will, plants the seeds.”

“And when customers come back to actually plan their event, we pull out the straight-ahead event scrapbook,” said Quigg. “I love it.”

“Really?” asked Carmela. She’d been so busy formulating and putting across her ideas, she wasn’t sure he’d actually heard her.

“So you’ll put them together for us?” Quigg asked. “The scrapbooks, I mean?”

“Of course,” said Carmela, thinking, Honey, you don’t have to twist my arm.

“Outstanding,” said Quigg, smiling at her.

And as Carmela gazed at his handsome face, a tiny little point of pain ignited deep within her heart. Shamus used to look at me like that, she told herself. Shamus used to take me out for romantic dinners that lasted for hours. Shamus would debate over the merits of a Bordeaux or a Burgundy, just to make me happy.

Carmela blinked, tried to yank herself back to the here and now.

Shamus isn’t in my life anymore, she told herself firmly. Not because I don’t want him, but because he doesn’t seem to want me. Grow up, girl. Wake up and smell the gumbo. March yourself into a lawyer’s office and file for that divorce so you can start living your life again. And start dating nice men like this.