“Anyway, I’ve got stuff you can borrow.”

LYDIA GOT HOME about half an hour later and invited me to go for a run. Paranoia about being out in the open almost made me beg off, but I decided I could use the stress relief. It was the perfect time of day to go running-still light and yet cooling off. We took a couple of turns and ended up in a nearby park. There were lots of other joggers and skaters and bike riders, and somehow we avoided being bumped into by all this fitness traffic. Lydia and I took off over the grass to avoid some of the crowd on the pathways.

We reached that point where all you hear is your own breathing, the air going past your ears, and the rhythm of your feet on the ground. I started feeling all the tension leave me; I was bathed in sweat and happy as a clam. We made a wide turn in the park and headed home. We slowed to a walk without anyone saying a word, just smiling and breathing hard.

We each showered, and I put on a simple blouse and long cotton skirt, a dark-blue number that showed off my eye color. Barbara has the green-eyed, redhead Irish looks of my mother, while I have the dark brown hair and blue eyes of my father. Unless you saw us with our parents, you wouldn’t know we were related.

Lydia had a sort of romper on, with a plain blouse underneath and all the buttons but one-the bottom one-open on the romper.

“You were serious about the dishabille. Shall I tuck my skirt into my panty hose?”

“Come on, now,” she laughed, “I got this look straight out of the L.A. Times Magazine. Don’t tell Wrigley I said so. You know how he is about the T-word.”

Good Italian that she is, Lydia drove and talked with her hands at the same time, and I was fearing for my life again. I thought that it would be too ironic to die in a traffic accident after everything else that had happened. To my great relief we made it safely to the restaurant.

I’d never been to Cafй La Fleur, even though it’s not far from my house. It’s on Allen Street, which was “rediscovered” about five years ago. From dilapidated storefronts, thrift shops, and laundromats, some real estate genius had fashioned a local hot spot, now filled with art galleries, restaurants, and boutiques. Everything is in salmon pink or pistachio ice-cream green, or else it looks like Casablanca could be filmed there. La Fleur is in the pistachio mode. Glass bricks line its street-side exterior, 1930s-style.

We stepped inside. The interior of the restaurant was brightly lit, with large ceiling fans turning lazily above. Everything else was white or salmon pink. I guess they saved the green for outdoors. There were little planters with bromeliads in them between the booths. The tables were tall and circular, with backless white metal stools pulled up to them. This encouraged table-sitters to lean their elbows on the tables, and gave them all the look of being in intimate conversation.

A blackboard arrayed in colored chalk announced specials of crab soufflй and squid with asparagus pasta. A young anorexic who looked like she was wearing her father’s pajamas greeted us and asked for our names. We told her we were with Mr. Wrigley. She told us her name was Crystal and offered to show us to where he was seated in the bar.

The lighting in the bar was only slightly more subdued, but the clientele was slightly less so. As we were being seated, I thanked Crystal. “Do you eat here?” I asked.

“All the time,” she said, “I love this place.”

Wrigley was in fine fettle. He must have sworn himself to his best behavior, as he didn’t try to hug or kiss us on arrival. He bought us a round of drinks; it looked as if he had a good head start.

“Irene, dear,” he cooed as the waitress left the table, “we are all very saddened by this whole sad, sad business.”

When he’s been drinking, Wrigley tends to have redundancy problems.

“Yes,” I replied, “I know you’ll miss O’Connor.” This was pure horseshit. O’Connor had always been highly regarded by both the board of directors and the staff of the paper, and nothing Wrigley did could demean O’Connor. Wrigley had always felt threatened by him. Worse, O’Connor had annoyed Wrigley by simply ignoring him.

“Miss him!” Wrigley replied. “The man was an absolute gem. He was a jewel in the crown of the Express. And such a horrible fate! Horrible!”

I didn’t say anything. I was relieved to see the waitress coming back with our drinks.

Crystal came padding over to us just as the drinks were delivered and told us our table was ready. I fervently hoped I would not have to lean forward into Wrigley’s martini breath on one of those metal seats.

Fortunately, she took us to a booth. I sat down and Lydia immediately fielded the position next to me, forcing Wrigley to sit alone on the other side. He grabbed Crystal’s hand as she started to leave. That was more like the Wrigley I knew.

“Crystal, darling,” he hissed, “tell us what’s good tonight.”

She repeated the blackboard choices and said, “Avoid the Cajun-style red snapper.” She pulled her hand away from Wrigley and shuffled back to the door.

Wrigley stared after her departing form, then seemed to remember we were at the table. “So,” he said, “let’s pick out what we want and then we can talk. Hate to be unprepared when the waitress comes by.”

We looked over the menus. Almost everything sounded like a combination of things I would not like to find on my plate at the same time. I turned to Lydia. “What’s pancetta?”

“Bacon,” she said with a grin.

I shrugged. “At least I knew arugula.”

Wrigley was lost in space. He came to with a start when he discovered the restaurant, in its infinite wisdom, had sent us a waiter-not a waitress. Not just any waiter. This was obviously Super-Waiter. He was a hunk. He had jet black hair and blue eyes and a bod as solid as a brick shithouse. A gorgeous man. He smiled. Lydia and I smiled. Wrigley looked forlorn.

Lydia ordered the pasta carbonara, my question about pancetta apparently whetting her appetite for it. The waiter, who had introduced himself as Michael, gave a great deal of attention to Lydia’s order-salad dressing, wine choices, and bread-and gave her another big smile, as if he were proud to be of service. I ordered the Sante Fe chicken, and while he was very polite, I could tell who was going to be spoiled rotten all night. And it wasn’t Wrigley or me. In fact, when Wrigley ordered his squid and asparagus pasta, he got a “Very good, sir,” and that was that.

“This place has really gone downhill,” groused Wrigley.

Michael had our salads and wine out to us in record time. He fussed endlessly over Lydia, who gloried in the attention. This also seemed to have the effect of inhibiting Wrigley’s desire to make passes. I wondered if Michael had any interest in journalism.

“Well,” Wrigley said in a peeved tone, “now that we have a few moments to ourselves”-he shot a meaningful look at Lydia-“now that we can talk without being overheard by every Tom, Dick, and Harry with an apron on, I just wanted to ask you if certain rumors I hear are true, Irene.”

“Rumors?” I repeated with perfectly feigned innocence.

“It’s been said that you might be looking to get back into the newspaper game.”

Reflecting that for Wrigley, who had inherited a large share of stock in the paper and made himself executive editor, it was indeed nothing more than a game, I told him that rumor was true.

“Well, how exciting! How thrilling! And of course you will come back to work for us then! It couldn’t be any other way, Irene. We’re your family. Why, we practically raised you. You came to us as a mere child, and we would welcome you back. It’s only right.”

This was going to be easier than I thought. Lydia must have really done a job on the old boy if she had him this eager. Still, I had to make sure of my position.