The Sea Mist dated back to the 1930's. The success of the restaurant rested more on out-of-date memories than the current excellence of its bill of fare. Not that the place was without merit. The food was passable, the price reasonable and the volume excessive, but none of these things were worth the constant hassle of fighting the warm weather throngs that habitually crowded the entrance, impatiently awaiting their chance to dine in "The shore's largest dispenser of the banquet of the sea."
Dean glanced at his watch and threaded his way through the crowd to the bar, hoping Cynthia had not given up. The room, obligatorily draped in fishnet and seashells, was packed to the gunnels with as many standing as occupying the tightly clustered seats jammed into the smoky room. Cynthia was there, seated alone in a cramped corner, looking beautiful in something summery, short and yellow, unsmiling but nodding in acknowledgment of his greeting.
"I'm sorry," he said, elbowing past an overweight man with a Budweiser bottle in each hand. "The traffic was the pits."
She gave a perfunctory little smile of dismissal. "That's all right. I thought afterwards seven was too early and changed the reservation to eight."
Dean felt awkward standing above her and leaned forward in order to carry on any semblance of a conversation above the din of the crowded room. "Why did you ever pick this cattle corral?" he asked. "There must be somewhere that doesn't cater to half the eastern seaboard."
"I didn't want to meet in a romantic little intimate place with you," she said, still unsmiling. The words sent a chill down his back like an ice cold shower. He couldn't think of an appropriate comeback and found himself staring down at her drink. "Ginger Ale," she said, as if reading his mind. He wanted something a hell of a lot stronger-a double bourbon and leave the bottle but he knew the return trip to Parkside lay before him. Besides, he had the distinct impression he'd best keep his wits about him. As it turned out, there was no decision to make. No waitress ever came near them.
They remained in place for 20 minutes, occasionally exchanging a shouted comment, but mostly looking up or down at each other, self-consciously. It was well past the rescheduled reservation time when a mispronounced version of Cynthia's name was called and they were led through a babble of conversation and a clatter of silverware to a corner table, remarkably, one with a view of the now-darkened bay. They both ordered ginger ales. Cynthia wasted no more time before getting down to business. She opened her pocketbook and pulled out a white envelope and thrust it at Dean. Biting her lip, she turned away from him and stared out the window. The letterhead was from Rosewater and Atherton and was handwritten. The message was signed by Arthur Atherton but it read as if written by a ten-year-old.