He glanced over at Stef surreptitiously .as they crossed Occidental Pant. He was wearing his greatcoat with the huge collar turned up and his heavy wool scarf with the fringed ends trailing behind, and as he limped along with the and of his heavy walking staff, he looked a little like a modern-day Gandalf. Stefanie matched her pace to his, all sleek and smooth and flawless with her shimmering black hair and long limbs. She seemed entirely out of place amid the jumble of old buildings, antique street lamps, and funky people. She looked odd walking past the trolley that was stopped at the little island across from The Paper Cat, as if she had gotten off at the wrong stop on her way to the glass and steel towers of the high-rent district uptown. You might have thought she was slumming amid the homeless men who were clustered together next to the carved wooden totems and on the benches and under the mushroom-shaped pavilion across the way.
But you would have been wrong. IF there was one thing Ross had learned about Stefanie Winslow, it was that notwithstanding how she looked and dressed, she was right at home anywhere. You might think you could tell something about her 6y just looking at her, but you couldn’t. She was comfortable with herself in a way that astonished him. Stef was one of those rare people who could walk into any situation, anyplace, anytime, and find a way to deal with it. It was a combination of presence and attitude and inteIligence. It was the reason Simon Lawrence had hired her. And subsequently hired him, for that matter. Stefanie made you feel she was indispensable. She made you believe she was up to anything. It was, in large part, he knew, why he was in love with her.
They rounded the corner at Elliott Bay Book Company and walked down First Avenue to King Street, then turned into the door of Umberto’s Ristorante. The hostess checked off their names, smiled warmly at Stef, and said that their table was ready. She led them down several steps to the dining area, past the salad island toward the neon sign that said IL PICCOLO, which was the tiny corner bar, then turned right down a hallway cowered with posters of upcoming Seattle arts events. Ross looked at Stef in surprise. The dining room was behind them now; where were they going? Stef gave him a wink.
At the end of the hallway was the wine cellar, a small room closed away behind an iron gate in which a single table had been set for dinner. The hostess opened the wrought-iron door and seated them inside. A white tablecloth, green napkins, and silver and china seemed to glow in soft candlelight amid the racks of wines surrounding them.
“How did you manage this?” Ross asked in genuine amazement as the hostess left them alone.
Stef tossed back her hair, reached for his hand, and said, “I told them it was far you.”
He had been back from Wales far almost a month when he met her. He had returned defeated in spirit and bereft of hope. He had failed in his effort to speak with the Lady or return the staff of power. His parents were dead, and his childhood home sold. He had lost contact with his few relatives years earlier. He had nowhere to go and no one to go to. For lack of a better idea, he went up from New fork to Boston College, where he had studied years earlier, and began auditing classes while he worked out his future. He was offered a position in the graduate-studies program in English literature, but he asked far time to think about it, uncertain if he wanted to go back into academia. What he really wanted was to do something that would allow him to make a difference in people’s lives, to take a job working with people he could help. He needed human contact again. He needed validation of his existence. He worked hard at thinking of himself as something other than a Knight of the Word. He struggled bravely to develop a new identity.