Oh, God. “I never really thought of it that way.”

“Injured parties never do. They’ve been injured, after all. But your ex-husband still wants you back, doesn’t he?”

I sat motionless for a moment. It was true: Matt did want me back. The man’s taxicab confession outside of Fen’s had implied exactly that. But I didn’t like the way Roman asked the question, and I hadn’t forgotten bridezilla’s fitting room fit. Breanne specifically ordered Roman to find out whether or not I wanted Matt back.

Well, the food critic was a good interrogator, I had to give him that. But I was no slouch, either, so I simply replied, “Matt and I are over. He knows it as well as I do. That’s why he proposed to Breanne in the first place.”

Roman nodded, appearing pleased with that answer. “Breanne’s getting up in years. She doesn’t want to remain single for a lot of reasons. She and Matt have been linked in the public eye, and their nuptials will silence the gossips in the tabloids. I sense Matteo has his own reasons for wanting to link himself with Breanne, as well, reasons that have nothing to do with the sentimentalities to which you still subscribe.”

“Don’t be condescending, Roman. Just because I believe in the virtue of fidelity doesn’t make me a fool.”

“Forgive me, Clare. I don’t mean to be rude.”

“So what are you saying? Breanne and Matt are marrying for convenience, both of them?”

“You of all people should know why. Love is fleeting. But a partnership where two people thoroughly understand each other? Well, that can last forever.”

We sat in silence after that, and I considered Roman’s words. The train lurched suddenly and then began to move. With mixed feelings, I watched the dark tennis center fade from view. My past with Matt was fading, as well. And yet-if I wanted to admit the truth to myself-something more than friendship did still quietly burn between us.

I considered that reality as the train rolled out of Flushing Meadows Park and into Willets Point, land of auto grave-yards. Stacks of dead cars had been dumped here for years. In the evening shadows, the sprawling heaps of smashed-up chassis looked like a depressing installation of modern art.

It was hard to remember that the rusted, twisted metal had once been shiny and new. I thought about the people who’d ridden around in those vehicles: the first dates and shopping trips, Sunday drives and passionate kisses. But now every last one was junked, useful to the scrap man, maybe, but of little value to the people who’d once cherished them.

For years I’d treasured the old, applauded the preservation of the historic. Now I thought about the history between Matt and me. Up to now, I’d been treating his wedding as just another party to cater. Sure, I’d been telling myself it would be okay, but the mind and the heart were two very different organs.

I didn’t want Matt back-that wasn’t the issue. But the man had been my first lover, my passionate bridegroom, the father of my only child. Would I really be able to see him commit to another woman without feeling an emotional impact?

I had no answer to that question, and there was no more time to consider it. The train plunged us underground once more, and a short black tunnel blotted out my elevated view. A few moments later, steel wheels squealed to a halt in the station, and the conductor put the brakes on my musings.

“ Main Street, Flushing. End of the line.”

SEVENTEEN

THE subway doors opened, and the mob shuffled out. Roman took my arm and led me onto the concrete platform. The newly renovated Queens station had a high ceiling and walls overlaid with tiles of radiant white, interrupted by black mosaics spelling out Main Street.

“Okay, Roman, this whole underground restaurant thing is new to me. What do we do next?”

He waggled his black eyebrows. “Now the intrigue begins.”

“I don’t need intrigue. I just want to nail Neville Perry to the wall.”

“Come on then, sweetie. Follow me.” Roman led me to a forty-foot escalator. We boarded with the other commuters and slowly rode up.

“Don’t be nervous about the area, Clare,” Roman whispered. “Just pretend we’re on a clandestine rendezvous in an exotic foreign city. Someplace really strange. Istanbul, perhaps. Or Cleveland. And speaking of strange-”

Roman pulled a baseball cap out of his pocket and placed it over his thick black hair.

“We have to blend in with the populace,” he said when I gave him the fish eye. He pointed to my clothes. “In that Fen original, you resemble the elegant Asian businesswomen you’ll see up on the avenues. In this hat, I look like one of the wastrels who roam the side streets.”

“I doubt very much the street wastrels around here wear Abercrombie & Fitch safari jackets, powder-pink chinos, or the hot new line of Hush Puppy casuals-never mind the Yankees cap. I guess you didn’t notice: Queens is Mets country.”

Roman threw up his pudgy hands. “Mets? Yankees? What’s the difference? A bunch of sweaty men hitting little white balls with sticks. Or is that golf? Well, never mind, my wardrobe will have to suffice.”

We exited the escalator beside Macy’s Flushing store on Lippman Plaza and walked right into a fog of noxious fumes emitted by a parade of idling MTA buses. The stench was punctuated by the roar of a passenger jet descending overhead, and I remembered LaGuardia’s tarmac was only a few miles away.

We turned onto Main Street next, and I understood why Roman regarded Flushing as some sort of exotic frontier. The intersection of Roosevelt and Main, once a Dutch neighborhood, had become the city’s center for Chinese culture and small businesses. This Chinatown had a size and scope that dwarfed the Manhattan original. English was not a common language on the street. Even the billboards and neon signs that advertised American products-Verizon, Crest toothpaste, and Chase Manhattan Bank-were printed in Chinese characters.

“A few years ago, this whole area was dominated by Korean businesses,” Roman told me. “But since 2007, most of the Koreans have moved on, and Chinese concerns have taken their place.”

We strolled past shops catering to an Asian clientele, with names like Singapore Optical, Tai Pan Bakery, Hong Kong Clothing, and Lucky Bamboo Flower Shop. A dealer of ginseng and herbs displayed outdoor stalls stocked with mushrooms of every shape, size, and color. One clear cellophane bag contained black flakes identified as Fungus from the Mountains.

“Are these medicinal herbs or culinary ingredients?” I asked Roman.

“Both.”

Roman pointed down the block. “Along here, you can dine on a marvelous selection of Chinese, Japanese, Korean, or Malaysian fare, and end the night swilling warm sake in an authentic Japanese-style karaoke bar. I know, because I’ve done it, although I prefer to come to Flushing for the underground restaurants. They’re so much more interesting.”

“If these restaurants are underground, how do you even find out about them?”

“Oh, there are lots of ways. Foodie networking mostly; chefs and friends of chefs; amateur reviewers; and, of course, the local blogs. If you throw a little money around, waitstaffs will usually clue you in on their neighborhoods’ culinary secrets.”

“Is that how you got in tonight? Throwing money around?”

“Tonight’s meal is a bargain, believe me,” Roman said. “A hot young chef named Moon Pac wants to open a restaurant and needs financial backers. If he dazzles the right people, he might get his sugar daddy, so he’s been throwing this dinner once a week for the last two months. I was invited by e-mail. Other influential New York foodies and restaurateurs received the same invitation.”

We hiked past St. George’s Episcopal Church and finally reached a mixed residential block that paralleled Northern Boulevard. We stopped under the glow of an ornate, Victorian-style streetlight.