He almost laughed out loud.

I t was Friday afternoon before I heard from Nick DeMarco. As luck would have it, when my cell phone rang, I was standing just inside the open door of the Sutton Place apartment, saying good-bye to Mom.

Elliott had just arrived to take her to Teterboro Airport, where she would join the Clarences to fly on their private jet to Corfu, in the Greek islands, where their yacht was anchored.

Elliott’s chauffeur had carried the luggage down the hall and was pressing for the elevator. In another thirty seconds they all would have been gone, but I flipped open the phone automatically. I could have bitten off my tongue after I said, “Hello, Nick.” Instantly alert, there was no question that both Mom and Elliott guessed it was Nick DeMarco. The statement he gave at a news conference, expressing his deep regret that Leesey Andrews may have met a predator at his club, had been broadcast and rebroadcast in the forty-eight hours since he had made it late Wednesday afternoon.

“Carolyn, I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner,” Nick said. “As you can understand it’s been pretty hectic these past few days. What’s your schedule? Are you free to get together this evening or sometime tomorrow?”

I turned slightly away, taking a step back toward the living room. “This evening would be fine,” I said quickly, aware that Elliott and Mom were staring at me. They reminded me of the game “Statues” that we used to play when I was about ten years old. Whoever was the leader swung the others around by the hand, and after she let go, you had to stay frozen in exactly the position you were in when you stopped spinning. The one who could last the longest without twitching a muscle was the winner.

Mom’s body was rigid, her hand on the doorknob, and Elliott, holding Mom’s carry-on bag, was standing statuelike in the vestibule. I wanted to tell Nick I’d call him back but was afraid to let the chance pass to confirm a meeting with him.

“Where will you be?”

“The Sutton Place apartment,” I told him.

“I’ll pick you up there. Seven o’clock, okay?”

“Fine.” We both clicked off.

Mom had a worried frown on her face. “Was that Nick DeMarco? Why on earth is he calling you, Carolyn?”

“I called him on Wednesday.”

“Why would you do that?” Elliott asked, his tone puzzled. “You haven’t had any contact with him since your father’s funeral, have you?”

I combined a couple of truths and twisted them into an untruth. “I had a serious crush on Nick years ago. Maybe it’s still lingering a bit. When I saw him on TV, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to phone him and express my concern that Leesey Andrews disappeared after leaving his club. Result-he phoned!”

I saw an expression of cautious relief on my mother’s face. “I always enjoyed Nick when he came to dinner with Mack. And I know he’s been very successful.”

“He certainly seems to have done very well these past ten years,” Elliott agreed. “As I remember, his parents had some sort of storefront restaurant. But I must say I don’t envy him the publicity he’s getting now.” Then he touched my mother’s arm. “Olivia, we must get started. As it is, we’re going to hit all the rush hour traffic, and the Lincoln Tunnel will be a nightmare.”

My mother is famous for leaving at the last minute and counting on all the traffic lights to be turning green to make smooth her path. At this moment, I found myself comparing Elliott’s gentle reminder with my father’s reaction, if he had been here.

“Liv, for God’s sake, we’re getting a free ride to Greece. Let’s not miss it!” would have been his way of hurrying her out.

With a final flurry of farewell kisses and admonitions, Mom got into the elevator with Elliott, her final words, “Call me if you need anything, Carolyn,” muffled by the closing door.

I’ll admit that I was flustered about this date with Nick, if you can call it a date. I put on fresh makeup, brushed my hair, decided to leave it loose, then, at the last minute, I put on a new Escada suit my mother had insisted on buying for me. Both jacket and slacks were a pale shade of green, and I knew they brought out the red tones in my brown hair.

Why bother? Because after ten years I was still embarrassed by Mack’s candid statement that it was obvious I had a crush on Nick. I’m not dolling up for him, I told myself; I’m satisfying myself that I don’t look like a gawky adolescent fainting over her idol. But when the concierge phoned from the lobby to tell me that Mr. DeMarco was here, I have to admit that for a nanosecond, I did feel like the sixteen-year-old who had been foolish enough to wear her heart on her sleeve.

Then, when I opened the door for him, what struck me immediately was that the boyish, seemingly carefree Nick I remembered was gone.

When I saw him on television, I had noticed that his jawline had tightened and that at thirty-two, he already had strands of gray in his dark hair. But face-to-face, there was more. His dark brown eyes had always had a teasing, flirtatious look, but now the expression in them was serious. Even so, his smile, when he took my hand, was the one I remembered, and he seemed genuinely pleased to see me. He gave me a social peck on the cheek but spared me the “little Carolyn, all grown up” routine.

Instead he said, “Carolyn MacKenzie, Juris Doctoris! I heard somewhere that you had passed the bar and were clerking for a judge. I meant to call to congratulate you but never quite got around to it. I’m sorry.”

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” I said matter-of-factly. “Or at least that’s what Sister Patricia told us in the fifth grade.”

“And Brother Murphy told us in the seventh grade, ‘Never put off till tomorrow what you can do today.’”

I laughed. “They were both right,” I said. “But clearly you didn’t listen.” We grinned at each other. It was the kind of banter we used to exchange at the dinner table. I picked up my shoulder bag. “I’m all set,” I told him.

“Fine. My car is downstairs.” He glanced around. From where he was standing, he could see a corner of the dining room. “I have such good memories of coming here,” he said. “When I went home for an occasional weekend, my mother wanted to know every detail of what we ate, and I had to describe the color of the tablecloth and napkins, and what kind of flowers your mother used in the centerpiece.”

“I assure you we didn’t do that every night,” I said, as I fished my key from my bag. “Mom enjoyed fussing when you and Mack were coming home.”

“Mack didn’t mind showing off this place to his friends,” Nick commented. “But I reciprocated, you know? I took him to our place in Astoria for the best pizza and pasta in the universe.”

Was there an edge in Nick DeMarco’s voice, as though he still resented the comparison? Maybe not, but I wasn’t sure. In the elevator on the way down, he noticed that Manuel, the elevator operator, was wearing a class ring and asked about it. Manuel proudly told him that he had just graduated from John Jay College and was scheduled to start at the police academy. “I can’t wait to become a cop,” he said.

Of course I haven’t really lived at home since I started Duke Law, but even so, Manuel and I often exchanged pleasantries. He’s worked in our building for at least three years, yet in seconds Nick knew more about him than I ever did. I realized that Nick had the ability to make people open up to him immediately and that that might be why he is so successful in the restaurant business.

Nick’s black Mercedes-Benz was parked in front of the building. I was surprised to see a chauffeur jump out to hold the back door open for us. I don’t know why, but I never would have visualized Nick as having a chauffeur. This one was a big, heavyset man in his midfifties with the face of a retired prizefighter. His broad nose seemed to have lost most of the cartilage, and there was a scar along his jaw.