Be careful out there.

More than a few women turned their heads to follow Martinez’s progress through the Dairy Queen. After a pit stop to wash up in the men’s room, he was wending his way to my table. One girl even put down her plastic spoon and turned around backwards in her booth. She was drooling over the view from the rear, much to her boyfriend’s displeasure.

Martinez might have been a brooding model off the pages of GQ magazine. His filthy loafers and muck-splattered slacks detracted a bit from the effect, though.

“I see that smirk. What’s so funny?’’ He slid across from me onto a seat made of orange molded plastic. Not waiting for an answer, he launched in. “What did you mean about Emma Jean? And why the hell did you turn off your cell phone?’’

“That phone’s been giving me trouble. It died just as we were talking.’’ I was glad the phone was in Pam’s glove box, where he couldn’t check the full battery indicator. “According to Donnie Bailey’s mom, Emma Jean was running around on her fiancé. We don’t know yet who the other man was. Ice cream now; more details after.’’

He waved his hand like he was dismissing the idea of ice cream.

“C’mon, my treat.’’ I stood up. “What can I get you?’’

“I don’t know. I’ve never been to a Dairy Queen.’’

I grabbed hold of the top of the booth for balance, staggering in the face of the incomprehensible. “Never? Not even once?’’

He shook his head, taking a small pad from his top pocket. He extracted a pen, and lined it up on the table, perfectly parallel to the pad’s right side.

“Are you going to take my confession? I’ll admit it: I eat too much ice cream.’’

There was a tiny shift in his frown. It might have been the start of a smile. Hard to tell.

I returned with two small hot fudge sundaes—no sense in spoiling dinner with large ones—and plenty of napkins. He was studying framed posters of frozen treats on the wall above our booth. Meanwhile, his real-life sundae was starting to melt.

“You need to get started on that.’’ I spoke around a mouthful of sundae. “The hot fudge will moosh up the ice cream and make a mess.’’

He looked at the towering creation like he didn’t know where to start. “Did you intentionally ask them to empty the whole can of whipped cream onto the top?’’

“Worried about your figure?’’

He ran a hand over his flat stomach. My fingers tingled as I imagined my own hand resting there. I clutched the sundae spoon tighter.

“Actually, I’ve lost weight since I came here,’’ Martinez said. “I miss Abuela’s cooking.’’

“Was Abuela your girlfriend?’’

He laughed and settled for plucking the cherry off the top of the sundae. “It means ‘Grandmother’ in Spanish. She’s eighty-nine and still going strong; stands at the stove for hours every day.’’ He got a dreamy look on his face as he chewed on the cherry. “Picadillo to die for. Arroz con pollo. Plátanos.’’

“Say what?’’

“Some of my abuela’s specialties: Ground-up beef; rice with chicken; plantains, which look like bananas.’’ He put his fingers to his lips and kissed them. “You’ve never had Cuban food? You’ve really led a sheltered life, haven’t you?’’

“No more so than you. How could you have missed all this?’’ I spread my arms, encompassing the brown tiled floor, the plastic trays, and the tinny voices of customers in the drive-thru microphone as they tried to decide what they wanted.

“Right. I’ve been deprived,’’ he said. “On Calle Ocho, there are a lot more Cuban coffee stands than Dairy Queens. That’s something else I miss: Eighth Street in Little Havana and café Cubano, Cuban coffee.’’

“You mean sweet tea isn’t cutting it?’’

“Caffeine is meant to be consumed hot, in tiny sips of a syrupy sweet, super-concentrated concoction. Watered down in weak tea with a bunch of ice cubes? No, gracias.’’

I used my red plastic spoon to scrape the dregs from my bowl. He’d had only a few bites.

“Cuban coffee is just as sweet and almost as thick as that hot fudge sauce you just scarfed down.’’ Without making a big deal, he leaned over with his napkin and wiped at a dab of chocolate on my lip. He flashed a real smile this time. I returned it, hoping chocolate wasn’t coating my teeth.

“Maybe I’ll make you a cup sometime,’’ he said. “I have to warn you though, café Cubano is addictive. We call it Cuban crack.’’

He was more animated than I’d ever seen him.

“It sounds like there’s a lot you miss about Miami. Why’d you move here?’’

Headlights from a car in the drive-thru flashed through the plate glass window, illuminating his eyes. I saw real pain, and immediately regretted putting it there.

“I didn’t mean to pry,’’ I said quickly. “I never know when to quit with the questions.’’

“So I’ve noticed.’’ A half-smile returned to his lips. “No, it’s all right. I need to be able to talk about it.’’

He pushed his half-eaten sundae to the side, folded his hands, and rested them at the edge of the table. And then he told me about Patricia, the pregnant wife who was murdered.

“I’ve heard a little about it,’’ I said, not wanting to reveal I’d already read the details of his personal tragedy on the Internet, from the archives of the Miami Herald. “Something awful happened in Miami, that’s about as much as people here say.’’

“Do they say I failed to protect my own wife?’’ His voice was raw.

I put my hand over his folded ones. I figured that was what my sister Marty would do. “No, they do not. And I don’t think anyone would ever say such a thing. You lost your wife in a horrible crime. How could you possibly have prevented that?’’

His hands felt warm beneath mine. I was new at this, comforting someone. But it felt right. When he still hadn’t answered, I patted twice and then put my own hands in my lap.

Leaning in, I lowered my voice so only he could hear. “I don’t think your wife would want you to keep punishing yourself. Imagine if the situation were reversed. You were at home; Patricia had to go to work. A sweet-looking old woman comes to your door, needing help. Imagine it had been you who tried to help her, only to be shot and killed for your kindness. Would you want your wife blaming herself; carrying all that guilt on top of such awful grief?’’

He shook his head, staring silently at his hands on the table. I had no idea what I’d do if he lost control and started sobbing. Maybe I’d start crying, too, causing a scene at the Dairy Queen.