"Where?"
"Harper's Diner."
Nora recognized the name.
It had existed when they were children.
Back then, it sold milkshakes and enormous plates of pancakes.
She smiled.
"Does it still have the red booths?"
"Some of them."
"And the jukebox?"
"Doesn't work anymore."
"That's disappointing."
Daniel laughed.
"Well, perhaps you can fix it."
She smiled.
"I wouldn't know where to begin."
"Then we're even."
They agreed on seven o'clock.
After ending the call, Nora stood in the middle of the kitchen for several seconds.
Then she began laughing.
Not because anything was funny.
Because she had spent decades attending glamorous dinners where people wore expensive suits and discussed market forecasts, political developments, and art collections.
Now she was nervous about eating hamburgers in a roadside diner with a mechanic.
And she could not remember feeling happier about an invitation.
Daniel arrived in the blue shirt Lucy recommended.
He had also polished his shoes.
Trimmed his beard.
And allowed Ethan to convince him that a small bottle of cologne was not an unnecessary extravagance.
Nora was already waiting.
She wore a simple black dress beneath a white jacket, her glossy hair held back by a narrow headband.
When she saw him, she smiled.
Daniel stopped beside the table.
For one moment, he forgot the careful speech he had prepared.
"You look beautiful."
Nora's cheeks warmed.
"Thank you."
He sat opposite her.
The diner smelled of coffee, grilled onions, and warm bread.
A waitress brought menus.
They ordered sandwiches and lemonade.
Then sat looking at each other.
Nora laughed nervously.
"This feels strange."
Daniel smiled.
"Good strange or bad strange?"
"Good."
He nodded.
"Me too."
For a while, they talked about ordinary things.
Lucy's school project.
Arthur's complaints about modern engines.
The weather.
Nora's attempts to learn how to bake.
Daniel's recovery.
Then the conversation deepened.
Nora asked what he loved most about being a father.
He considered the question.
"Watching Lucy become herself."
She smiled.
"What does that mean?"
He leaned back.
"Well, when she was little, I thought my job was to teach her everything."
Nora listened.
"Then she got older, and I realized half the time I was trying to keep up."
He smiled.
"She has opinions about art, music, politics, photography, and things I didn't even know existed when I was twelve."
Nora laughed.
Daniel continued.
"I love seeing her discover what matters to her."
He looked toward his hands.
"And I like knowing she feels safe enough to disagree with me."
Nora's expression softened.
"That sounds important to you."
"It is."
For a moment, he remembered his father.
The arguments.
The fear.
The way silence sometimes seemed safer than honesty.
He looked toward Nora.