She didn’t take the butter, but poured a bit of olive oil onto a small plate, sprinkled some cheese in it, and dipped her bread. We both added chees... to our pasta.“What’s with the olive oil and cheese?”“It’s the Italian way. You should try it sometime.”She picked up her wine glass and held it up, “To us. To whatever this day brings.”“«Salute»!” I answered.She smiled, “Grandfather is rubbing off on you.”We ate in silence, the candle burning between us. The food was simple, but awesome. When we. He wasn't taking notes, but I figured he didn't have to; he was attentive all the way, even for having been got abruptly out of bed—I assumed that was the case based on his slightly disheveled appearance—in the middle of the night."Thank you, Mr. Costain," he said when I'd finished."Larry." I corrected."Larry," he concurred. "I'm Jim. Not James, please; and not Jimmy either, if you don't mind. Is that it?" No. There's a possibility, and that's all I can say, a possibility that it was somebody. More

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