The restaurant was called Auberge.Emily knew it the way she knew most things in Manhattan's upper echelon of dining — by reputation rather than experience, which was to say she knew its waiting list was eight weeks, its prix fixe was four hundred dollars before wine, and its clientele was the specific subset of New York wealth that treated exclusivity as oxygen, something they required to breathe properly.Nate had booked a private room.She found this out when the maître d' collected her at the entrance with the particular deference reserved for guests whose hosts had arranged things in advance — a deference that communicated, without stating, that her arrival had been anticipated and accommodated and that everything from this point forward had been arranged by someone else.She noted this. Filed it.The private room was small and deliberate — a table for two set near a window that looked onto a garden courtyard where nothing was growing in October, just clean lines of dormant hedge