A Winter Dream - By Richard Paul Evans Page 0,27

a rented racehorse.”

She laughed. “I’m glad you like Japanese food.”

“Sushi is one of my favorites,” I said. “Especially eel.”

“I didn’t discover sushi until I moved to Chicago. Now I can’t get enough. At least when I can afford it, which isn’t too often on a waitress’s budget.” She lifted a gyoza with chopsticks but dropped it. We both laughed.

“I’m not so good with these,” she said.

“It takes practice,” I said. “Here.” I lifted the dumpling to her mouth.

“Thank you,” she said, biting into the dumpling. “You know, these are a lot like pierogies.”

“I’ve never had a pierogi,” I said.

“Then you haven’t lived. That will be our next . . .” She stopped midsentence.

“. . . Next date?” I said.

“This isn’t a date,” she blurted out.

I think her reaction surprised both of us, as she looked a little embarrassed. She added softly, “. . . It’s a tour.”

I wondered if this was her way of telling me she wasn’t interested in a relationship.

“Okay,” I said, still reeling a little. “On our next ‘tour,’ I would love to try a pierogi.”

She took a deep breath. “I know this really good Polish restaurant in Logan Square. There are so many good places to eat in Chicago. There are so many different ethnic neighborhoods, you can find anything you want.”

“I was here about five years ago with a client. We went to a seafood restaurant called Joe’s. Our bill was almost eleven hundred dollars.”

“You spent a thousand dollars on one meal?”

“I didn’t, my client did. And there were five of us.”

“That’s still more than two hundred dollars a person. That’s almost what I spend on groceries for the month.” She looked shocked, or disturbed, as if she were incapable of understanding how someone could spend so much on a meal.

“Some people have money to burn,” I said.

“Or eat,” she said.

After a moment I said, “You like Chicago, don’t you?”

She nodded. “Yes. It’s so different from where I’m from.”

“What brought you here?”

“Greyhound bus,” she said.

I laughed. “I mean why?”

She looked at me for a moment. “My roommate invited me. So how was your first week at your new job?”

I recognized that she was changing the subject, but there was no point in pursuing something she didn’t want to talk about.

“My first week was a little surprising.”

“Surprising good or surprising bad?”

“Good. I saved a major account and got promoted.”

“Hello, Superman,” she said. “You’re in advertising?”

I nodded. “I’m a copywriter at the Leo Burnett agency—that building we saw this morning. Have you ever heard of it?”

She shook her head. “Not until this morning. Should I have?”

“No, people outside of advertising never know advertising firms’ names.”

“You would think they would do a better job of advertising themselves.”

“They advertise,” I said. “Just not to you. That would be wasted money. Unless you’re secretly the CEO of a big company.”

“No,” she said. “Just a waitress.”

“Then, the important thing is that you know our clients.”

“And who are your clients?”

“McDonald’s, BankOne, Nintendo, Hallmark, Coca-Cola, Samsung . . . to name a few.”

“Which of those accounts did you save?” she said, sipping her tea.

“BankOne. I came up with their new slogan.”

“Can you tell me what it is? Or is it top secret.”

“It’s top secret, but I think I can trust you with it.” I lowered my voice for emphasis. “BankOne. Bank on it.” I waited for her reaction. She just looked at me. “What do you think?”

She shrugged. “It sounds good.”

“But it doesn’t thrill you?”

“Should a bank slogan thrill me?”

“Hopefully.”

Her brows fell. “Have you ever been thrilled by a bank slogan?”

“No.”

“My point,” she said.

“But it thrilled the client.”

“That’s what matters,” she said. “Is that why you came to Chicago? To work at that advertising agency?”

“Sort of . . .” I hesitated briefly, considering whether it was too soon to tell. I decided I didn’t care. “But there’s more to the story.” I looked her in the eyes. “Do you want to know the real story of why I’m here?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether or not you’re an outlaw.”

I grinned. “I’m not. At least not yet.”

“Good. Because I don’t want to end up in court testifying against you.” She set down her tea. “So tell me the real story of Joseph Jacobson.”

“I was banished from Denver.”

“That sounds interesting. Go on.”

“Remember I told you that my father had thirteen children? Being the youngest, my younger brother and I got more attention than the others, so resentment has been building up with my stepbrothers for years. Last week my stepbrothers found a way to get rid of