They make small talk through the rest of lunch. He asks her about boyfriends.

“Nobody special,” she says. “Besides, I’m not going to have time for med school and a love life.”

Classic Jill, he thinks. The kid has always had a good head on her shoulders.

“Dessert?” he asks when they finish the entree.

“I don’t want anything,” she says, looking fixedly at his belly. “And neither should you.”

“It’s my age,” he tells her.

“It’s your diet,” she says. “It’s all the cannoli.”

“I’m in the restaurant business.”

“What businessaren’t you in?”

“The tofu business,” he says, gesturing for the check. And you should be glad I’m in all those businesses. It’s all those businesses that paid for your college and are going to find a way to pay for your med school.

I just have to figure out how.

He walks her out to her little Toyota Camry. He bought it for her when she started college-safe, good mileage, reasonable insurance. It’s still in perfect shape because she maintains it. The future oncologist knows to how to check the oil and change spark plugs, and God help the mechanic who tries to pull a fast one on Jill Machianno.

Now she’s looking at him real seriously. Those sharp brown eyes can be remarkably warm sometimes. Not often, but when they are…

“What?” he asks.

She hesitates, then says, “You’ve been a good father. And I’m sorry if I-”

“Sorries are for yesterday,” Frank says. “All God gives us is today, sweetie. And you’re a wonderful daughter and I couldn’t be prouder of you.”

They hug tightly for a minute.

Then she’s in her car and gone.

With her whole life in front of her, Frank thinks. What that kid is going to do…

He’s barely back in the van when the cell phone rings. He glances at the screen. “Hello, Patty.”