She seems surprised.
“I live in a city of twenty-year-old sylphs and people spending all their money attempting to pass for twenty-year-old sylphs,” she says. “I’m an old maid comparatively.”
“Then maybe you should leave that devil city,” I say. “Go somewhere where your good looks are appreciated.”
“Where, like Chicago?”
I blush at the realization she thought I was suggesting she move to my city. (Not that I would mind if she did.)
“Nothing wrong with Chicago,” I say. “You could be near Dezzie.”
She smiles. “It would be nice to be near Dezzie. And closer to Alyssa. I sometimes feel very far away on the West Coast.”
“Would you really move?”
“Well, now that everything’s gone virtual it would be easier. But I do like LA. I’ve been there so long that it feels like home.”
This is completely understandable, but I won’t lie that I wish she was itching to move.
“Would you ever leave Chicago?” she asks.
“Maybe. If I had a good reason. I’m a member of the New York State bar. And I guess it wouldn’t be that hard to qualify somewhere else.” Like California, I don’t add.
“Wouldn’t it be difficult to leave your firm?”
Suddenly I wonder if we are talking about us, without directly talking about it. The potential viability of our relationship. So I give it serious thought.
“I have a good reputation as an attorney in Chicago, and that brings in a lot of business. But I’ve been thinking lately that I might want a change. I could make a lateral move and build up a practice somewhere else, or maybe start my own firm. People get divorced all across the globe.”
“Yeah, at an alarming rate. Makes me wonder why anyone gets married.”
“Because getting married is romantic when you’re in love,” I say.
She’s quiet for a moment.
“Huh,” she says. “I’ve genuinely never thought about it like that. I think I almost agree with you.”
Good.
I pull into the parking lot of Roberta’s. It’s a little out of the way, a few miles down the island from the public beaches, in an older, 1960s-era building with wall-to-wall glass windows. My parents used to take me and Dave here for birthday brunches. And when Molly first agreed to go out with me in high school, I wanted to take her somewhere special. This, to my teenage boy’s mind, was as special as it got.
As we walk in, I’m tempted to put my hand on Molly’s back, but I don’t. All the attraction and intensity of our conversation last night feels distant, because I’m so nervous about the conversation I want to have with her now.
The maître d’ is wearing a three-piece suit, and the tables are decked out in stuffy white cloths and crystal wineglasses. The room is populated primarily with groups of older couples drinking mimosas, and families with hyper children running around with plates of Mickey Mouse–shaped pancakes heaped with chocolate sauce and whipped cream.
It’s a little like a retirement home, and it’s making me question my choices.
At least we get a table near the windows, with a view of the lagoon behind the restaurant. If you’re going to dine in an assisted-living facility, you should be able to do it while looking at swans.
“This place is insane,” Molly whispers as soon as the maître d’ is gone. “Like, I remember it had the elaborate buffet and the omelet and pancake stations. But were there always ice sculptures?”
“No. And I think the chocolate fountain is new.”
Our server comes to take our drink orders—an oat milk cappuccino for her and a lemon ginger tea for me. (I’m too jittery with nerves for caffeine.)
“We don’t have oat milk,” the server says apologetically.
“Oh. Almond milk?” Molly asks.
“We only have, you know, milk milk,” the girl says.
“Right. Okay, milk milk it is.”
We opt to order off the à la carte menu rather than risking the buffet. “I don’t want to catch Covid from a sausage link,” Molly says.
Once ordering is out of the way, there is nothing to do but … talk.
I’m so nervous I could throw up.
And so I just plunge in.
“Well, thank you for agreeing to come here with me today,” I say. I immediately cringe at this bizarrely formal choice of words.
Molly nods gravely. “Why, it’s my pleasure, sir. Thank you for your kind invitation.”
Her mockery actually puts me a bit more at ease. Gentle ridicule has always been her way of expressing affection.
“I wanted to apologize that I haven’t been in touch this past year.”
