Back to the yellow shirt. Open-necked. No, the tabs didn’t look good that way. And the damn thing was already sweat-stained under the arms.

My heartbeat had kicked up, and my stomach was flipping around. This was ridiculous. What would I tell a patient in the same predicament?

Be yourself.

Whoever that was.

I reached the restaurant first, thought about waiting in the Seville and greeting Allison as she approached the door. I figured that might alarm her and went inside. The place was lit at tomb level. I sat at the bar, ordered a beer, and watched sports on TV- I can’t remember the sport- had barely gotten through the foam when Allison arrived, freeing a black tide of hair from her sweater and looking around.

I got to her just as the maître d’ looked up. When she saw me, her eyes widened. No look-over; just focusing on my face. I smiled, she smiled back.

“Well, hello.” She offered her cheek, and I pecked. The sweater was lavender cashmere, and it matched the clinging dress that sheathed her from breastbone to knee. Matching shoes with big heels. Diamond earrings, diamond tennis bracelet, a short strand of silver pearls around her white neck.

We sat down. She ordered a glass of merlot, and I asked for a Chivas. The red leather booth was roomy, and I sat far enough away to avoid intrusiveness, close enough to smell her. She smelled great.

“So,” she said, aiming those blue eyes at the empty booth next to us.

“Long day?”

Back to me. “Yes. Thankfully.”

“Know what you mean,” I said.

She played with a napkin. “What have you been up to?”

“After the Ingalls case quieted down, I took a little time off. Lately I’ve being doing court consultations.”

“Crime consultations?”

“No,” I said. “Injury cases, some child custody.”