Tributaries a Novel

By H. Henry Hobbes

From the author of Repose comes a comedic slice of life about Penny’s nephew, Anthony.

When a young man believes that he is contented with his life, he does something irresponsibly stupid...he taunts fate by acknowledging he is happy.

Just as an ocean is an amalgamation of innumerable droplets that combined to give it uniqueness and depth, so too is a person. As Anthony struggles through the major problems that life has dumped on him, those trickles from the people and experiences of his life, come together to make him the person he is, and to make it past the obstacles.

Can the support of his blushing bride, and help from his friends, be enough to clean up the mess the gods rained down on him for his chutzpah?

• Language: English
• Publisher: H. Henry Hobbes
• Release date: May 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005300470

H. Henry Hobbes

Born in The Bronx, New York, H. Henry lived in several upstate New York towns, before finally settling into Brunswick, where he lives with his wife and cats. When he is not working as a judge, or volunteering at an animal shelter, he spends his free time hiking, gardening, playing electric bass, going to jazz clubs, traveling the Caribbean, and completing the New York Times crossword. Pursuing degrees at SUNY Oswego, in History and Political Science, were secondary to his active involvement in all aspects of the campus media, including newspaper, television, radio, and live sports broadcasting. After having been published in a poetry collection and a law and science journal, H. Henry finally set out to publish his first novel; a deeply personal, labor of love.

Book preview

My finger hovered over the ‘enter’ key. I heard that the most damaging word to a career is, ‘send.’ Once I depressed it, there would be no turning back. There was no such thing as a secret when it came to the internet. There was no ‘unclick.’ The web has a limitless memory that never forgets. It is too simple to forward, intercept, or stumble onto a message. Any notion of digital privacy is illusory.

My mind’s eye was watching an episode of Pop-Up Video, featuring David Bowie singing, ‘Changes,’ with all of the informational balloons about me. You cannot stay static…Partnership is considered after five years… Your schedule makes things impossible …You’d probably double your salary …Do you really need all of that time off... We don’t want you to do anything unethical or illegal…That is not the reputation we want for our firm …You need to take a chance for once…Your Christmas bonus is being withheld… You don’t owe them loyalty …The gate-keeper to your tongue needs to be on duty at all times…My outfit is looking for a labor lawyer…She was most impressed with that settlement you negotiated…How many times are we going to talk to you about your behavior…Have you thought about your future at the firm…

Wait. That last one was not a thought. I could hear it. POP! The video was yanked from the player and I returned to live feed. My eyes focused on the large, balding man standing in front of me. How long had the senior partner been in my office? My finger still dangled over ‘enter.’ The email! It was still on my computer screen.

I looked at the senior partner blankly, as he repeated, Have you thought about your future at the firm?

Chapter 1

A gentle breeze carried the bedewed morning air through the copses of white birches and sugar maples. After a whirlwind week, I was finally feeling relaxed. On a rear porch of the yellow Federal-era house, I reclined in the lilac Adirondack chair. Should I instead call it a Wachusett chair, if the mountain that I was on was in Massachusetts, and not the Adirondacks? No matter. This was not a day of deep thought, or any thought for that matter. This was a day of new beginnings, and for rest and relaxation.

Employing a panel from The Far Side as a bookmark, I closed my book, setting Mrs. Frisby and her NIMH rats down on the table. Gary Larson’s cartoon depicted a devil using a pitchfork to prod a man into a door labeled, ‘People who drove too slow in the fast lane.’

The book was replaced in my hand with a tall glass of herbal tea. My palm became wet from the condensation that had developed on the glass. With rare exceptions of cocoa and lattes in the winter, I preferred that my drinks should always be cool and refreshing. It was for that reason alone I could not have survived living before the 20th century…or in England. Well that, and indoor plumbing and hard work. I was not a fan of working hard. My philosophy, if I had one, was you should never work any harder than you had to. Do not get me wrong, when I had a task to perform, or committed myself to something, I bullied through the chore with single-mindedness until it was completed. My parents had long ago instilled a work ethic that there was no play time until all of my chores were done.

Working hard did not mean working foolishly; I did not want to spend a minute more on a task than I had to. I was efficient, not lazy. Nothing bothered me more than waste, whether it be money or time. Luckily, I was usually creative enough to figure out the most expeditious path to completion. Strategically, I could focus on the essence of the task and skip over anything that was not essential.

My latest string of to-dos for the last week was completed. Not perfectly, just good enough. As my college friend, Josie, used to say, ‘Perfection is the enemy of done.’

There was Thursday’s repeated shuttling, between the airport and the hotel, to welcome our relatives to Albany. This rather menial duty was complicated by the Northeast Blackout of 2003. A lack of a cellular network added a level of complexity to the coordination. Wolf Road is hard enough to navigate when those blasted traffic lights are working. Forget about it when they are all flashing green and red, like it was Christmas in August.

On Friday, I felt like I was a firefighter stomping out brush fires all day. Absence of an electrical grid for a day really wreaked havoc on our plans for the big welcoming dinner, and altered our plans for Saturday’s momentous event. As busy as Saturday was, it went off relatively smoothly, thanks to all the hard work and planning Izzy and I had put into it. Actually, it was all relative and did go off with a hitch, but, more about that later.

A summer Sunday in Lake George sounded relaxing, and it was for the dozen out-of-town guests that we had to entertain. It made me realize that the most unrealistic aspect to the Love Boat was just how easy Julie McCoy’s job seemed to be.

As for Monday, Oy Vey! Like any New Yorker born into an Italian Roman-Catholic family, I knew enough Yiddish and Jewish customs to get by in Brooklyn. So, it was a surprise to me when I learned that cremated ashes may not be interred in a Jewish cemetery, unless the cremation was done against the will of the deceased. Who knew? That question never came up when I beat my family at Trivial Pursuit.

Of course, we did not let that stop us, when we drove from Albany to New Jersey, a state which I refer to as Hell, in order to bury Ruth’s ashes with her late husband, Harry. Everything went as planned. Izzy’s parents, Morris and Ann, dug a small hole in Harry’s grave; Izzy secreted Ruth’s remains in the hole; and Rabbi David, the Orthodox leader who had presided over Morris and Ann’s nuptials forty years earlier, blessed the unorthodox burial.

I was not much of a rule breaker, but I got a charge out of this covert operation. Even to this goy, who long ago gave up religion, this act of blasphemy was exhilarating. What was even more exhilarating was imagining my wife dressed in tight-fitting leather, like Emma Peel, as she played her part in this heretic act. Izzy had the long dark hair like that Avenger, with sexier curves that would better fill out the catsuit. Mental note to self, buy Izzy one of those sleek outfits.

Putting on my glasses, I gazed beyond the deck rail, over the endless rows of maples, and into the distance. They say on a clear day you can see all the way into Boston from the eastern side of Mount Wachusett.

Today was one such day. Today was a good day. Today was the first day in the rest of my new life. With all of the happenings of these last seven days, I did not feel like my married life started until Izzy and I woke up together this morning alone, and without any familial obligations. We had arrived at the bed & breakfast last evening, but it was not until waking up today, four mornings after our wedding, we were finally allowed to start our honeymoon.

A black capped chickadee darted in, chirped at the band of blue jays, grabbed a sunflower seed from the hopper, and then flitted off. Even against those bigger, bullying birds, the frenetic chickadee was fearless. Who needed cable TV when a bird feeder provided endless live entertainment? Certainly not I.

This was idyllic. Even the clouds were cooperating. There were just enough white cotton balls floating high above to give my imagination something to ponder. A dragon was preparing to pounce on Darth Vader’s Imperial Star Destroyer. Am I the only one who sees dragons, dinosaurs, or turtles when they look up at the clouds?

My Aunt Penny would have told me that the two yellow finches that landed on the railing were a good sign, symbolizing joy, happiness, and freedom. I took a sip of the iced tea. Yep, today was the beginning of something great.

Izzy just made every day of my life better. She was ideal. Though, I did have to question her sanity, what with her agreeing to marry a schmuck like me. Maybe the fact that I was a younger man had something to do with it. Okay, by only eighteen months, but younger none-the-less. She certainly did not marry me for my lack of money.

My runaway train of thought jumped the rails and kept on rolling. I recently had caught a hint that the law firm was talking about expanding the partnership. January would mark not only my sixth year with them, but my sixth year since I was admitted to the New York State bar. Even with the troubles I seemed to keep getting into, losing my temper with the judges and opposing attorneys, the firm’s partners had to be happy with me. My clients loved me and I was always picking up the slack for those associates who slacked off. Sadly, the reward for falling behind in your work was to have it reassigned away from you, and the reward for being on top of your assignments was to get piled under tasks of those who were less diligent.

Having the security that came with partnership would mean more to me than any step up in compensation or control in the firm’s affairs. More money is always welcomed, but I would surely trade financial rewards for surety of continued employment. Once Izzy finished her masters and landed a tenure-track teaching position, we would have the stability that I sought. Then, we could buy the condo we were renting and start creating equity.

None of us are truly in control of our lives, but removing the specters of eviction and termination would provide me a modicum of relief.

Despite my continual weight gain, most recently, presumably attributable to the joys of a happy relationship, I felt as fit as a fiddle. Or, more appropriate for my size, disease-less as a double stand-up bass. That size forty-eight tuxedo jacket I had bought in my first year with the firm, so I could attend the annual bar association gala, no longer fit me. I found that out when I went to get dressed the morning of our wedding. Oops, perhaps I should have listened to Izzy one of the dozens of times she suggested that I try on the tuxedo at some point before the big day.

I ran through the rest of the checklist. Good love life? Check. Good health? Check. Good work life? Check. Yep, things were flying high for…THUMP.

Oh no! Poor birdie, I chirped expressing my compassion for the little guy.

Izzy hurried out of the bedroom. What was that?

A bird just flew into the window. I rushed to check it out. It was that brash chickadee. He lay still on the wooden deck.

That can’t be good.

You’re telling me. That is ominous. Using the morning paper, I scooped up the bird. I could see the faintest of movement in his chest. He seems to be alive.

Izzy huddled over my shoulder, wrapping her arm around my waist. Ominous of what?

A bird striking a window can portend bad tidings. Like an obstacle just dropped in our path, or a rough transition, or the end of a relationship. The newspaper bed was placed on the table. Don’t you know any Italian folklore?

Sensing her insecurity, I kissed Izzy on the forehead three times. It was another thing that I had picked up from Aunt Penny.

The little guy popped up onto his feet. His head flickered in every direction. He peered at us, gave out a chirp, as if to thank us, and he was off into the air.

One tough chickadee. He is like the Timex of birds, I said excitedly.

Izzy cheered him with encouragement, Fly away little birdie. You’ll be alright. She was typically everyone’s biggest supporter.

We both held such empathy for the creatures, big and small. Such sadness was felt by us at the deer carcasses on the highway, or a butterfly with a damaged wing.

Chickadee back in flight, things are all right. Right?

Izzy’s silky hair danced in the light wind. Her smooth thigh peeked out from the white, terrycloth robe. Yeah, things are all right. Just because I am a sensitive man, does not mean I am not turned on by the slightest bit of leg.

Wanna get ready for breakfast? Although Izzy had left Texas fifteen years earlier to pursue her dream of becoming a dancer, she still had a slight hint of her native San Antonio accent. This became more apparent when she got together with her childhood best friend, Cass.

I was hoping to get a few more pictures of the hummingbirds before we ate.

On cue, a hummingbird zipped in and hovered above the red glass feeder, before dipping its nose into the nectar. Until this day, I had never seen a hummingbird. They were exotic birds that existed only as stickers on my sister’s high school Trapper Keeper.

The camera Izzy brought along on our honeymoon was far superior to the last one that I had; a 110-film camera I had gotten for my twelfth birthday. It was only fitting that she had a good camera. Her father had once worked in the photography industry, before transitioning to a caricaturist working at Renaissance Fairs and setting up a booth at the San Antonio Riverwalk. Morris’ favorite sales pitch to a couple was, ‘It’s always more fun doing it together.’

One of the private jokes Izzy and I shared was that we were living a scripted life on a hidden movie set. We could be walking in a park and note that we had not seen a single squirrel and poof, a dozen squirrels would appear, as if the set designer realized she forgot that prop. When driving, we would often see the same unique vehicle several times, like it was part of a movie’s background loop. I often tested the script writers by blurting out, ‘My lottery numbers have not come up yet.’ Apparently, the script writers were leaving that storyline for the big ratings week.

I snapped a few more frames of those elusive birds, hoping to capture the flitting of their wings. If we can ever afford a house, I want a backyard filled with birds of every sort.

You got what you needed? You already used half a roll of film. I need my coffee. Izzy had a lot of patience for me, which was a good thing because I could be trying on one’s patience.

Our wedding officiant, aka Izzy’s best friend Marilyn, told us that love means putting up with the quirks and irritations of another, who will also put up with yours. If that is the case, then Izzy must love me to the moon and back. Our other wedding officiant, aka my best friend Randolph, imparted upon us the importance of making your partner number one on the speed dial of your life. It was extra special that they had both gotten ordained by some internet gods so they could perform our ceremony.

Freshly showered and dressed for the day, we arrived in the main dining room where we were greeted by our innkeepers, Carla and Eric, who had laid out a scrumptious breakfast. Seated with us were Buddy and Anne, a pleasant couple celebrating their 45th anniversary. He had retired from a career as a train engineer, and she was a retired school nurse. They were good, solid careers that let us comfortably retire while we were still young enough to travel, Buddy extolled.

Also joining us for breakfast were Amol and Manjula, grad students, originally from Mumbai, who were studying at MIT. They were experts in computer engineering and in Boston hot spots.

If you are going to be near Fenway, then you have to go to our favorite dining experience. It’s on Brookline, Amol offered helpfully.

I noticed that he did not say restaurant or meal, but chose the words, ‘dining experience.’

Trust me, Manjula seemed deeply passionate about everything she said, You’ll love the place. It’s a two-person operation, just George, the chef, and Lori, the waitress.

Whatever you do, do NOT talk to George, Amol interjected. He was dead serious, like he was telling me to not jump into the shark tank at the aquarium that we were certain to be visiting during our Boston excursion.

Right, don’t talk to the chef. He is grumpy, but he makes the most delectable sauces.

Is Manjula salivating just from talking about this place?

I asked the inspirational couple, who spoke their shared thoughts from two voices, What is it called?

River Street Café.

I was confused. But, it’s not on River Street?

Right. It’s on Brookline Ave, Amol reminded me.

That is not even close to the river, is it?

Manjula cheerfully added, No. It’s just one of the charming quirks. Her smile was radiant.

I tucked their dinner recommendation away and we headed out for a long day trip.

The parking suggestion from our breakfast companions was spot on; it was free and convenient to the green and orange lines, allowing us to hit our top destinations. Thanks to that tip, we were able to arrive at our duck boat tour early enough to get to the front of the line.

I do not like looking like a tourist; it makes me feel uncomfortably foolish. I do not usually enjoy cheesy activities. They really do not interest me. Maybe it is because I had never really vacationed before, or because I do not like looking ordinary. Yet, being on a real vacation for the first time in my thirty-one years of life, I was actually looking forward to trying new things and getting out of my comforting element. If you asked Randolph, he would say that because I was finally open to a loving relationship, I was finally open to experiencing life.

Checking her purse frantically, Izzy blurted, Did you bring Peter? He’s not in here.

Peering out from the top of the urban pack strapped to my back was Peter the Duck. Yep. He is comfy in his aerie. It was only fitting that our plush, multi-colored duck was going for a ride on the rainbow painted Duck Boat. Do you think they will let Peter drive?

Oh my goodness. That would make such a great picture.

I loved when Izzy got as excited for silly things as I did. When we officially coupled, the mayor of Sapsville was able to increase by two the size of the population listed on the roadway sign welcoming those to that imaginary happy place.

From the boat emerged a thin Southeastern Asian man, wearing a navy blue suit with a vibrant yellow top hat and an oversized tie. He was energetic with his words. Welcome. I’m Feng Shui Park, captain of the River Rainbow.

His jocularity was infectious.

Howdy, Captain. Do you think our boy, Peter, could drive the boat? That is, once we are in the water.

Feng looked around and saw only the two of us. I pulled off the backpack and removed the Beanie Baby from his perch, holding him out for Feng Shui to see. This is Peter. Surprisingly, he is not much of a swimmer. He is more of a bobber.

He cackled. I love it. Peter was plucked from my hand. What’s his story?

I let Izzy begin the tale. I got him for Anthony last fall after we ‘adopted’ a real duck for a day in Cooperstown. It was our first weekend away together.

Interjecting, without interrupting her, We spent time feeding the ducks and other fowl at a pond behind the Fly Creek Cider Mill.

There was one duck, who we took extra care in trying to feed, and he started to follow us.

He was getting bullied by the other ducks. No matter the situation, I hated bullies.

That’s what inspired me to get this little guy. Peter has gone everywhere with us since then, Izzy added.

Trying to make it sound so normal, We like to take pictures of him in creative ways, commemorating interesting things we encounter.

Is there anyone more interesting than me? Feng raised his leg, placing his white, platform boot on the boat’s bumper.

Feng leaned forward at the waist, puckered up, and pecked Peter on the bill. I knew I had snapped the perfect picture. A stuffed duck was so much easier to capture than those real, flying birds.

Feng Shui Park, I was completely out of harmony pronouncing that name, making it sound like Feenga Shoe-E.

Just call me Jay.

Appreciating the save from embarrassment without any irritation on his part, Thanks, Jay. My wife gets motion sickness. Can she sit in the front seat?

Surely. Take the passenger side, you will get a better view. Moving past us to the latest arrivals, he excused himself.

We were able to get pictures of Peter wearing a life vest and sitting in the driver’s seat, before the boat became too crowded and the tour started. I am okay being a Potsie, when the mood strikes me, but, at times, I felt self-conscious about it and hid Peter away.

Ninety minutes, and ninety corny jokes from Jay later, we got off the tour like we were water off the duck boat’s back.

Did you have a good time? Izzy asked.

Okay, I have to admit, I did.

Good, I know you were skeptical about the tour.

I was. They are so corny and so, um, touristy.

You looked like you were having fun with those, what did you call them, ‘schmaltzy tourists.’ I saw you laughing.

Jay was entertaining. I dare say he was very funny.

At least with the tour getting cut short a little, it gives us more time to spend with the penguins, Izzy said excitedly.

Since we chose the New England Aquarium as our departure point for the tour, we should have at least an hour to visit with the Fairy Penguins.

That hour's visit to the penguin exhibit went longer than expected. You would have to be an ice sculpture if you did not get a thrill watching those silly, beautiful aquatic birds play.

It was just after noon when we left the aquarium. We had enough time to walk the three miles to Fenway Park before the start of the mid-afternoon game, with stops along the way. I always found it funny that walking a hundred feet at home seemed onerous, but, put me in a big city and I would walk for miles at a time.

A Boston Streetwise map unfolded in her hands, Izzy followed me like joined penguins on a march.

What do you make of those two six foot grey rabbits? I asked with suspicion.

She was stuck inside the map. My bizarre question did not register with her, or she must have thought it was just one of my random comments in an attempt to amuse her.

If we follow this road to the end, we then go left on Spruce and right on Beacon Street. Cheers should be a few blocks up on the right.

My eyes were trained on the commotion ahead. I tried again. Is it normal for six foot hares to be out during daylight, or does that mean they are rabid?

Still no reaction from Izzy, even though she would never pass on laughing at a pun.

Are those three-foot carrots in their hands?

That got her to look up.

What do you mean? Her eyes now pried from the map, she scanned the area.

Not stopping, I continued walking without even a hesitation at the intersection, not even when the pale, emaciated kid with the curly mop hair was yelling, ‘Non.’ I did not understand either the word coming out of his mouth, or the word, ‘Arrêtez,’ that was printed on the neon yellow vest that he wore. He put his arms out to stop me, and I put my arms out to push him away. I am not going to let some foreign geek tell me what to do.

Maybe I should have. I stepped off the sidewalk and was a couple of feet into the street when the whole world around us exploded into chaos.

Squeals from rubber tires under extreme stress screamed through the air, as a white Plymouth convertible from the 70s raced towards us. I froze. I was not certain what to do. The top of the muscle car was down and someone was standing up in the backseat with a shotgun that looked like it was aimed right at me. None of us ever make a contingency plan for what we would do when a car is barreling towards you with a gun targeting you. Reflexively, my body went into preservation mode. I pushed Izzy hard to the side, out of the car’s direction, as I leapt forward towards the curb.

Wrong move. That put me closer to the gigantic hares. These were not Easter bunnies carrying baskets of candy. They were homicidal herbivores toting machine guns hidden within their humongous carrots. As a child, I had shot a .22 caliber rifle at a Salesian Day Camp, but those cap guns did not prepare me for the ear-splitting bangs I heard at that moment. Fire splattered out from the tips of their carrot sticks at the approaching vehicle. The man in the convertible returned fire. The car swerved, and then rounded the corner on two tires, crashing into a stack of garbage cans. Trash flew into the air.

Chasing after the car were the two murderous rabbits. They went hippity hoppity on their way. They jumped into the back of the convertible, and were soon joined by the kid in the neon vest and another scrawny young man, who was carrying a camcorder. I could see him waving the driver on, as he barked commands at him in French. The car took off up the street and out of sight.

Rushing to Izzy, where she remained stunned on the pavement, I panted, Are you all right?

What just happened? She was visibly shaken.

I think we just stepped into an unauthorized independent movie shoot.

I then felt a little woozy. The world wobbled like I was a Weeble. I placed my hand on Izzy’s shoulder to stop the movement.

It was her turn to ask about my well-being. Are YOU okay?

Yeah, fine. Just an adrenaline rush from the excitement.

She did not push further, though the look that she gave me told me that she was not buying my explanation.

Cement firm under my feet, we continued on our trek. Those wild rabbits were not enough to stomp out the joy of our day. We were making good time on foot. I would often have trouble keeping up with Izzy, which was not humiliating, considering she had spent the year before we started dating training for a three-day, sixty-mile fundraising walk. A shame that the event was cancelled the first day in, due to dangerously cold rain storms. But, on the bright side, it opened up a hole in her Columbus Day weekend that year, giving us a chance for a getaway to Cooperstown for that memorable trip to the Fly Creek Cider Mill, only three weeks into our dating life.

Hours later, I hooted, Ohmigosh, that was a great game! as we exited the stadium.

I’m glad we got to Fenway Park before the first pitch. And, thanks for staying for the last out.

Smacking myself on the forehead, I just got it. Feng Shui Park, finally pronouncing it the way it was intended so that it rhymed with the stadium.

In the subtle Texas way to tell someone that they did something below their intelligence level, Izzy chided me with a smirk and a, Yer so pretty.

Once we made our way out of the stadium crowds, Izzy asked, What cross street did Manjula say that the Thai restaurant was located on? as she dug out the map from the urban backpack.

I think she said Fulton.

Searching the map, Fuller Street?

That could be it. Anticipating her next question before she could ask it, We are on Brookline.

Isn’t that place with the crazy chef located on Brookline?

That sounds about right. Why?

Well, Fuller is like a mile away, and we are already on Brookline. I know you’re excited to try Thai food for the first time…

…and, you are thinking we should cancel that reservation and take the easier choice?

Izzy gave a hopeful look.

Perfect. You just combined my aversion to trying new foods with my preference to avoid extra work. Giving her a kiss, I did not think I could love you even more than I already did. The River Café, it is.

River Street Café, she corrected.

With obvious playfulness, That one, too.

We nearly passed the restaurant. There was no sign, just the eatery’s name painted on the window. Peering in, we could see a tall thin man with black wavy hair under a chef’s hat, toiling away in a small kitchen at the front. Entering, I whispered, That must be the guy Amol warned us about.

Do we say anything?

Like what?

Like, can we get a table?

I gave an emphatic, but quiet, No. Wait for him to greet us.

Nervously, we stepped fully into the establishment and just waited. The chef threw a handful of onions into a pan to their sizzling demise. They let out a collective hiss as they hit the hot oil. He tossed them simply with a flick of the wrist.

Pans and pots dangled from above. I imagined an annoyed George grabbing one to brandish as a weapon, upon offense from an ill-received generic comment.

Watching him cook was like watching Eddie Van Halen play guitar. Most anyone could sauté onions, but there were subtle movements that went into what he did, turning him from a cook into a master chef. I felt a little uncomfortably underdressed in my oversized pink polo shirt and khaki cargo shorts. Izzy looked more presentable in a sleek black tank top and jeans. The flower designs sewn into the denim made them look more stylish. Heck, she looked good no matter what she wore.

Even if I was not staring agape, I would not have been prepared for what came next. Cordially, he said, Welcome to the River Street Café. Lori will be with you shortly.

Is this that Crazy George? Do I respond? Izzy and I exchanged bewildered looks.

Choosing my words very carefully, lest I draw his ire, I was told that I was not supposed to talk to you.

Seriously? That was my selected statement? I could not have said, ‘Looking forward to a wonderful meal,’ or, ‘I have heard such great things about your place.’

My Aunt Penny’s words ringing through my head, ‘Boy, for a lawyer, you sure say some stupid stuff.’

Izzy’s glare conveyed the same thoughts in my direction. I would not bet on it, but I was fairly certain I heard her think the sarcastic, ‘Yer so pretty.’

George chuckled briefly as he added some stock to the sauté pan. A plume of steam jetted up.

Food takes precision. His smile turned more dire, like he was a doctor telling me I had an incurable diagnosis. Years back, I was browning butter. A customer was persistent in engaging me in conversation. I turned my back to the stove for just seconds, and in that moment, the butter burnt, ruining the sauce.

Uh huh, nodding my head to feign understanding, like when the mechanic tells me why ‘my car won’t go.’

A fit redhead, dressed in all black, arrived from the staircase carrying a medium-sized cork tray. One escargot and a zuppa di pesce. She retrieved a bread basket that George had placed on the counter as she asked us, Do you have a reservation?

Izzy and I looked at one another dumbfounded.

Um, no.

Lori hid her exasperation, Just the two of you?

Yep.

No worry. It’s always slower on weekday nights. She turned away and commanded, Follow me.

A short narrow passage and a sharp U-turn, we followed Lori as we all climbed the steep rickety stairs. Framed pictures of yesteryear, in sepia tones and black & whites, hung haphazardly on the wall. I held back the urge to straighten them and restore order.

Reaching the top, we stepped into a small dining room that had six tables. The walls were stained oak. Ancient bronze lamps dangled from the ceiling, their yellow casings dulling the escaping light. It was a shame that it was too warm to light the comforting stone fireplace that was set in the center of the room. Leaded glass, with wooden muntins that segregated panes into tiny squares, spanned the length of the room. Seated at the table in front of the window overlooking Brookline were a couple of familiar faces.

Buddy and Anne, seems you, too, took Amol and Manjula’s tip.

We approached their table at their invitation. The wide-plank floorboards creaked with every footfall. Thoughts filled my head of the individuals through the generations that had trod on these very same boards. Stepping across the room was like stepping across centuries.

A look passed between the elder couple and then a subtle agreement. In a pleasant voice, Wwwe just sat. Won’t you jjjoin us for dinner? Anne stuttered.

Izzy and I echoed the silent discussion. She responded, We’d love to. Pulling out her chair, This table has such a lovely view.

Lori was sharp. I can ask George to hold on your appetizers, if you would like to give your companions a chance to catch up?

I never wanted to interfere, nor interrupt. If you give us just a sec, we can scan the menu.

Perusing the firm, yellowed paper, The Thai chicken sounds delicious.

From Lori’s reaction, I could tell I made a good choice. They have a crispy exterior, while maintaining a juicy center. The sweet and sour glaze is delectable. And for you ma’am?

Mmmm, gazpacho.

Did you come in just for dinner? I took a warm ciabatta from the proffered basket.

Ooour son Robbie lives nnnnear by. Anne had a soothing voice that was interrupted by a hard stutter.

Buddy had a smooth head and a rough face, which could be the way I would also describe his voice. We met him and his partner today. Ricardo is a professor at Northeastern. He was able to get me a backstage tour of their new train exhibit.

Robbie and I skipped that tour and ssssspent the day aaat the Museum of Fine Arts.

They had an original car from the Boston Elevated Railway Company. Did you know it was the first subway line in the United States? It bested New York by seven years. The never-ending feud between the two cities ran deeper than just a subway tunnel.

Anne dished out a mild scolding. Buddy, these young Nnnnew Yorkers don’t want ttto hear about any ttttrain talk.

No, it is fine. I find this stuff interesting. I surprised even myself when I realized I meant it.

Whipped garlic butter melted on the bread. I lifted it to my nose for a sniff, before biting into the crispy crust. Mmmm. What was that word, delectable?

Taking his wife’s cue, he switched topics. Did you make it to the U.S.S. Constitution?

We had to avoid the whole area. A bomb threat at the Constitution had the museum closed, and an incoming oil tanker had the waterway blocked.

Between his stint in the navy and career as a train engineer, it was not hard to discern Buddy’s interests. He had plenty of interesting stories from both endeavors. Anne and Izzy shared a history of having been trained in modern dance, while Anne and I had a love of crosswords in common. It was enjoyable to find a couple where we could interact with either partner.

Socializing as coupled adults was different than socializing as a single teen. Besides having to schedule play dates in advance, the bigger concern was finding a couple where all four individuals got along well. Too often, these conversations reverted to the same old gender lines, with the husbands having their separate conversations, sitting beside the wives who had their own. These mutual couples, ‘Muples,’ as my college friend, Lilia called them, were a rare find and were treasured.

The Thai chicken Lori delivered was scrumptious. How is the gazpacho?

It’s like a summer garden in a bowl! Izzy’s face was filled with contentment.

Weren’t you also going to the baseball game?

Yep. We were lucky to get good seats. Buddy, you know how I told you I arranged to have our wedding announcement on the scoreboard?

They didn’t show it?

They did. Twice.

Izzy and I chuckled.

During the middle of the fourth, they displayed the message, ‘Congratulations to Anthony and Izzy on their wedding – 8/16/03.’ I thought they got the message wrong. I wanted them to display, ‘Happiness to newlyweds Izzy and Anthony – August 16,’ which is what came up on the screen moments later.

Izzy picked up the story from there. That first one was the message I paid to have displayed. The very next message was Anthony’s.

The Jimmy Fund got two donations out of us for those displays.

Lori, now acting as the bartender, brought Izzy a Manhattan and me a Negroni. Our new friends quickly followed suit, as we lifted our glasses in a toast.

To your forty-five years, and to our one week, and to many more for us all, Izzy said.

Tttto new frriends.

Buddy added a simple, Cheers.

I responded with my favorite play on that television show, MASH.

Hands crossed the table, clinking each one’s glass with the others.

Someone once said that ‘every love story is beautiful, but ours is my favorite.’ Couples who are happy, always love to tell their origins story. I brought the conversation back to our dinner companions.

Anne, how did you and Buddy get together?

Wwwwwe were set up on a bbblind ddate. I knew I nnneeded to ttttrust a man in order to be with hhhim. We had a nice dddinner, but it wwwas not until after that I I I learned I could trust Buddy.

And, I learned that I needed to be patient with and listen to Anne. Buddy spooned his fish soup. I was driving Anne home. There was a busy intersection I had to make a left turn onto. I had to keep my attention to the left. Anne was going to tell me when it was clear from the right.

Rrright. I tried to help, she looked lovingly at her husband.

When Anne said that it was clear, I made the turn… He paused for the briefest of moments. ..right into the path of a tractor-trailer.

But, you did not let me ffffinish. I wwwas telling him that iiit was clear, aaaafter this tttttruck.

We each learned a valuable lesson that night. Anne learned to trust my driving, and I learned to listen patiently to her.

They shared a smile that was a sign of any contented couple. The four of us dived into the complimentary cold noodles in cilantro-lime sauce that Lori brought in surprise. Izzy and I then related our origin story.

We had been dating for only three months before we got engaged, I began.

Izzy was plating the tasty treat from George as she spoke. Our first date was a wedding the last weekend of September, and our second was the next weekend at a funeral for Anthony’s uncle Dutch. The third was a weekend away in Cooperstown, after my charity walk got rained out.

MLK weekend, we were sorta bored and stopped at a few wedding venues. Izzy insisted that we actually get engaged before we started planning a wedding…

…I’m not a traditional woman, but it didn’t feel right planning a wedding before we were engaged. I told Anthony that we could go to Macy’s and just buy a twenty-five dollar ring. I didn’t care. I just wanted to be engaged first.

So we did. We went to Macy’s and found a cute, cheap ring that was marked twenty-five dollars. I kid you not, after coupons, and sales, and discounts for using a Macy’s card, and whatever else they applied, the ring rung up, with tax, at six bucks, twenty-five cents.

Anne reached for Izzy’s finger. She admired the platinum band with the five channel-set diamonds.

Every woman, even one as modest as Izzy, loves showing off their engagement ring. This isn’t it. The one we bought was simple, with a twist, and a solitary fake diamond.

That evening, we went out for a good dinner at Paolo Lombardi’s. It was where I went with my parents after I graduated law school. They seated us on the mezzanine, overlooking the main dining room.

There is a spiral staircase that takes you up. It was so cozy, romantic. Only one other couple sat with us up there.

Before dessert arrived, I dropped to one knee, and proposed with the six dollar ring.

Lori the waitress had re-emerged with another couple in tow, whom she seated at the table besides ours. Until that point, the four of us had been the only diners.

Anthony had, earlier that day, already asked my father for permission. We’re untraditionally traditional.

I knew Izzy’s answer before I asked. Duh, we had just bought the ring together and were booking a venue, yet I was still nervous.

When food is on the horizon, I become quite impatient. Telling our story was helping to pass the time, but it was with great anticipation that I waited on my entrée. I took the last bit of bread from the basket. There was no self-control for me when it came to bread, or open bags of chips, or a plate of fries.

I told Izzy that she should tell everyone that she was wearing the starter ring, and that the real ring was being made. The plan was to go to the diamond district in Manhattan a few weeks later to buy the real ring.

Anthony proposed to me for the second time on Groundhog’s Day, with the real ring that he had made for me.

Well, I did not actually make it, I had it made, I quipped. The day before MLK, when we had our engagement talk, my friend, Colette, took me to her personal jeweler to pick out a ring. When it comes to jewelry, she’s got a guy. I ended up buying an estate piece for its exquisite diamonds, having the added benefit of avoiding the ethical dilemma over diamond-sourcing, and then I had the jeweler set them in a platinum band.

It was exactly what I wanted. I’m not the kind of girl who wanted a traditional gaudy princess cut, or anything. And, I wanted the diamonds flush, so the ring didn’t catch on anything.

From the staircase, a large tray loaded with plates arose above Lori’s strained-arms. The torturous wait was over. All conversation stopped, as our focus was turned solely on our meals.

Family-style bowls of goat cheese mashed potatoes and garlic string beans were placed at the center. Mine was the last plate delivered from her tray.

As she placed my steak in front of me, she softly said, George was not happy about leaving off the mushrooms, but I explained your allergy to him.

But, I am not allergic to them. I just detest their taste and feel. To me, more important than the flavor of food is the texture of food. Scent, obviously, and, even appearance, was more important to me than flavor. Mushrooms smelled disgusting, but it was their leech look and slimy feel that made me cringe.

George does not believe in food preferences. He is the chef and he knows what makes food the best. He ignores all menu changes, unless I tell him the diner has an allergy. She gave me a playful wink.

I am sooo stealing that idea. I love it. From then forward, I developed a sudden allergy to all seafood, mushrooms, and liver. Because, really, who actually likes liver?

Eagerly, I cut into the beef. It was divine. The brown butter sauce was exquisite. Easily the best cut of steak I ever had, edging out the New York strip at Spoto’s in Dunedin, Florida. That guy purportedly placed his steaks in