From Whence I Came

Here's the next chapter as promised!

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Crown Vic to a Parallel World: From Whence I Came The second installment of the ongoing adventures of Church Philips

22

An Anticlimactic Meeting & A Climactic Meal

Joe's plain, silver, four-door, German import was much smaller than the Town Car, a trait I took advantage of while driving into Philly. Its handling was nimble and precise. Diving in and out of lanes wasn't even challenging. The ride was another matter. It was appalling, like a horse-drawn cinderblock. I looked forward to never driving the thing again.

As conversation fodder as we rode along, Shawn brought up the subject of whatever we'd experienced on the yard swing that morning. I explained how Bem was feeling anxious and down, but I didn't say why. I told Shawn how I'd activated my magic and let it gather all over my body, the same way I'd done the night before. I explained, as best as I could, what I felt when Bem's magic equalized with mine.

That's what I assumed had happened anyway. I couldn't come up with any other reason for the magic to stop its one-way flow and to become two-way. I knew that Bem's capacity hadn't increased to match mine, but I assumed I'd filled his capacity and that's why the magic drifted between us instead of just moving from me to Bem.

Shawn cupped his right cheek in his right hand and leaned into his palm. "It felt incredible, like I was sharing all of you and all of Bem at the same time. I'd like to do it just with you to see what that would be like."

"Maybe tonight." I offered.

"Maybe." Shawn hedged. "I still worry sometimes about what making all that magic might be costing you."

"I thought we settled all that."

"We found out your magic doesn't hurt people around you, but we never confirmed that it's not harming you, not definitively."

I patted my right hand on the steering wheel and passed a slow-moving truck on the right. I felt Shawn's anxiety spike up as I jumped in front of the truck and accelerated away from it. I glanced at my husband and felt bad for scaring him. I told myself not to drive like a nut, then I stopped to pay the bridge toll and came out of the booth hard on the throttle like I usually would. I apologized to Shawn but didn't adjust my driving style.

"As far as my magic goes," I said as an add-on to the end of my apology, "there isn't anything I can do about it, so I'm not going to worry. This magic saved your world and..."

"Our world." Shawn corrected.

"Our world." I agreed. "And it helps Bem and it helped Joe and it helps you. Even if it is costing me something, I would rather pay that cost than to not be able to help the people I love."

"I just want you to be careful." Shawn explained. "I love you and I want to keep you."

"I know."

"Do you?" Shawn challenged.

"What?"

"Do you know that I love you?"

"Of course."

Shawn retreated into his thoughts for the rest of the drive to the Market Street address. I wondered what was behind his asking me if I was certain that he loved me. I didn't wonder for very long though because I didn't have time. Soon, we'd arrived.

When we got to the Market Street high-rise that housed Abbey Associates Wealth Management, we were greeted by a valet who relieved us of the car and a very attractive woman in a close-fitting business suit who introduced herself as the `head administrator.' My mind immediately dropped into the gutter when she told us her title. I'll confess that I sniggered like an adolescent who'd remembered a limerick as the woman escorted us to the fourteenth floor. I had it under control by the time we entered the executive conference room where the partners of the firm waited.

The conference room was ultra-modern. The exterior walls were floor-to-ceiling glass in a weird parallel to the transparent walls in Ars' office on Solum, but these walls had seams. Inside, the style was very standard `Earth corporate.' The room had low-pile commercial carpet in beige, a glass and chrome conference table, and black leather swivel chairs. The walls were covered with maroon paneling that was streaked with vertical black lines. The ceiling was a standard, white acoustic drop ceiling and there was a ceiling-mounted projector and retractable screen for presentations.

There were three partners, all roughly middle age, all overweight, and all dressed in conservative blue suits. Nicholas Abbey was the youngest and least portly, Robert Newman (the associate, I assumed) was in the middle of size and age, and William Abbey was the eldest and largest man. Robert took the lead in the review of the portfolio and provided advice while the Abbeys looked on and made sounds of approval from time to time.

After some initial confusion over whether it was me or Shawn that was the subject of the meeting, the wealth managers addressed all their attention to Shawn. I was glad of that. It was his portfolio, after all. I was there as little more than an escort. Once we all shook hands and I clarified the relationship, the Abbeys and Call-Me-Bob Newman paid me no attention beyond what was required for common courtesy.

The wealth managers laid out several options of how to handle the portfolio but advised Shawn that each option had its own benefits and downsides. They counseled that one plan that involved the formation of an LLC corporation to hold the portfolio, had the largest benefits and the least detractions. It was that plan which Shawn eventually agreed to.

The LLC would be called `Summas and Summas Investments' and Shawn and his uncle would be equal partners. This gave the most flexibility. While Ars was alive, he could continue to manage the funds as he had been. When he died, everything would automatically transfer to the remaining partner, Shawn.

What this meant in practice was that, once Ars' Earth identity grew too old to be usable, Ars would simply continue to manage the portfolio in Shawn's name. For the price of a modest annual retainer, the firm would facilitate the reinvestment of dividends, handle changes in the fund allocation, and see to any disbursements. Shawn signed the necessary forms for both him and his uncle. As he had come prepared with Ars' power of attorney, he was able to handle all the business on his own authority.

Bob explained that the process of starting the LLC, and gathering the portfolio into it, would take a week or less. With all the electronic accounting in use, much of what needed to be done was simple data entry. They also said that if Shawn wanted access to the funds, a transfer of any size was as easy as filling in a form. The wealth managers confirmed that they would be in touch with Shawn later in the week with a progress update.

The other thing the meeting accomplished was to put Shawn on record as one of the lawful partners in the LLC with an identity that was confirmed by the Abbey Associates notary. The administrators of the firm copied Shawn's identification for the files and for a certified affidavit that further confirmed his identity for the Securities and Exchange commission. Thus, Shawn and his uncle had complied with the requirements of the new law before it was even in force.

"I can't believe it was that easy." I said as we got the car back from the valet. "Usually, your uncle sends us to do the impossible. That meeting was anticlimactic to say the least."

"I know." Shawn agreed as he settled into the passenger seat and buckled his belt. "I feel like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. By the way, what had you laughing when we met that woman?"

I snickered at the memory. "She's the `head administrator.' Get it? She administers the head." Shawn didn't get it and I had to explain it. Instead of a laugh, I got an eye roll for being a child.

We left the Abbey Associates garage and I drove us toward the river, to Penn's Landing where we had reservations at a restaurant for lunch. Penn's Landing was an area of the city on the Delaware River waterfront that had been reclaimed from the industry that had once occupied it. Instead of its former atmosphere of heavy industry and shipping, it was a cluster of yuppie apartment towers, high class restaurants, and overpriced shopping.

The name of the area referred to William Penn, who was the colonial founder of the state of Pennsylvania. I didn't know the historical significance of the name `Penn's Landing,' but I assumed that William Penn had landed something there at some point in the distant past. Perhaps he'd landed himself there. I didn't know, and like most Philadelphia residents, both past and present, I never bothered to find out.

The senior Abbey had recommended the restaurant we were destined for and had made a quick call to get us a table on short notice. The restaurant's name was a number, 1890, and it was located in a small, converted factory. We pulled up to the square brick building with its foundation of local stone and parked in front of a brass sign mounted on a black enameled post that said `VALET' in black enamel letters. The restaurant was a block back from the river and was the only building within view that boasted any historical significance. Everything around it was built of glass and steel and appeared to be no more than a few years old.

We got out of the car through doors held by a pair of immaculately dressed, red-suited valets. One of these men took the car while the other handed us off to a traditionally uniformed doorman. The doorman bowed and showed us into the restaurant through twin doors of brass-bound oak. Inside, we were met by a deferential host with silver-hair. He was dressed in a black, jazz-age tuxedo complete with single button dinner jacket with tails. He guided us in and explained the restaurant as we went.

No trace of the building's former purpose or the character of its construction remained. I quickly understood the establishment's name was also its theme. The inside was a recreation of fine dining at the dawn of the twentieth century. The dress and dŽcor weren't completely faithful to a year, more the idea of the era. The interior was a large rectangular dining room that somehow muted all sound. It didn't even smell like a restaurant; there was a hint of food in the air but that's all.

The floor of the room was a shining parquetry wood. On it stood a cluster of high-walled booths that could have been office cubicles if they'd had such a thing in Victorian England. The cubicles walls were thin varnished oak supported with round stiles and decorated with fine hand-painted paneling. Inside each was a heavy table of oak with space for four. "For the commoners," our host breathed disdainfully, "mere executives and vice presidents."

Along the two side walls were private booths adorned with beautifully carved oak pillars, deeply fluted and darkly varnished. These supported heavy burgundy damask curtains that were operated by a matching decorative rope. One or two of the booths was unoccupied. I looked in to see heavy oak tables, similar to the ones in the main room, but these were dressed up with rows of polished brass nails and brown leather tops.

The dividing walls of the booths were ornamented with more fine hand-painted panels that depicted nature scenes. The ones I saw were birds flying across the blue sky, some deer standing in a clearing, and a mirror flat lake with ducks and a heron. Our host waved a dismissive hand at the curtained booths. "CEOs, company presidents, and board members."

Shawn and I were led to the rear of the room, to a row of stained-glass panels bound with heavy oak stiles. Our host selected one of the panels and opened it to reveal a very private booth. The stained-glass paneled door slid on a track with just the barely audible whisper of well-lubricated bearings. The benches in these booths were made of mahogany inlaid with bone and topped with red velvet cushions. A single piece of heavily burled mahogany veneer made up the visible portion of the tabletop. Vertically milled paneling of brown maple graced the walls, and a single piece of genuine-looking art hung at the back of the booth.

The art was framed with carved wood, painted gold and polished. The scene was an idyllic picnic from long ago. Men in high collared shirts and dark suits stood to drink tea, while women in pastel bonnets and dresses made of oceans of material sat on small folding chairs and picked at cucumber sandwiches. "For you, gentleman, our exclusive section." The host said as he gestured us to sit. "Heads of Fortune 100 companies, major conglomerates, and people of your means and discernment ONLY."

Our host didn't say, filthy rich,' but it was implied. Shawn and I sat. The host bid us a clichŽ bon appetit,' and slid the panel closed with a slight bow. I glanced around our private room and noticed that there were no menus. I supposed our server would bring them.

Barely a minute passed when the panel slid open, and our waiter introduced himself. His name was Franklin and he promised to see to our every whim. He was a trim, medium height man. I guessed he was about forty. He had curly black hair cut short, a thin moustache, frameless glasses, and intense dark eyes. He dressed in a pair of black slacks, a spotless white, collared shirt, a black bow tie, and black suspenders.

"What would you gentleman like for lunch?" Franklin asked in a quiet, breathy voice.

I asked what I thought was an obvious question. "Could we see a menu?"

"Sir," Franklin smiled indulgently, "we cater to a very exacting clientele. Our reputation is based on being able to offer our diners, especially our private room diners, anything they desire. Let your imagination guide you. Anything you choose, we will provide. Please, your wish is our command."

I thought about that statement for a second. I could get what I usually ordered, a steak and baked potato, but where would the fun be in that? Instead, I accepted Franklin's challenge and rattled off an order that I assumed would be impossible to fill. "Split pea soup with ham to start please, then turkey with gravy, white meat only, herb stuffing with onions and sage, roasted carrots and green beans, smashed yellow skin potatoes, and corn on the cob. For dessert, crumb top apple pie and one scoop of vanilla ice cream. I'd like white wine with the meal, black, dark roast coffee with desert, and Armagnac to finish. The wine selection I leave to your judgement."

Franklin's face remained placid, and he took no notes during my speech. He was either very good, or simply didn't care if he missed a detail. I bet he was very good. He turned his questioning gaze to Shawn who inclined his head in our waiter's direction and placed his own order.

"Butternut squash soup to start, truffle ravioli in white wine cream sauce, spinach risotto balls in marinara, and for dessert, crme brule with whatever berries are in season. I'll have wine with the entrŽe, your choice, coffee with cream only with dessert, and Armagnac at the end."

"Very good gentleman." Franklin responded with an air of confidence. "I will be back shortly with your soups. If you require anything in the interim, please press the button directly below the painting and I will respond immediately." Franklin bowed and silently retreated from the cubicle.

"How in the hell is he going to pull that off?" I asked when the door slid shut.

"I don't know, turkey takes hours." Shawn nodded at me. "You were very specific."

"He challenged us, and I took him up on it. You didn't do so bad yourself."

"Well," Shawn fought to hide a grin, that he didn't need to hide, because I could feel his amusement through our link, "if you were going all the way, I figured I'd join you. By the way, what is Armagnac?"

"I have no idea." I chuckled. "A character in a book I read once talked about it. I think it's some kind of French brandy. It sounds fancy and we're supposed to be rich, so I threw it out."

"You're something." Shawn laughed at me.

I had a bit of my own laugh and we both settled. With the silliness out of the way, I took a minute to admire Shawn and our surroundings. "This is nice. We haven't had any alone time since we got to Earth."

"What would you call Sunday night if not alone time?" Shawn challenged.

"That doesn't count." I shook my head but savored the memory. "A marathon of sweaty sex is not alone time. I mean time to be ourselves, time to talk and remember who we are when we're not surrounded by conflict."

"I don't know that we're exactly `surrounded by conflict.'"

I feared for my husband's sanity for just a second after he made that statement. I didn't feel any teasing or intentional falsehood from him, which meant he believed what he'd said. If he believed what he said, I reasoned that he'd lost his mind.

"OK, Shawn, let's review." I counted my points off on the fingers of my left hand. "There was my sister and her towering religious rage that switched abruptly to complete understanding and the desire to break one of her faith's cardinal rules by divorcing her gambling, whoring husband who gets violent when he's exposed as a thief and a sinner. There's my brother and what I'm guessing will be his refusal to come back with us, his constant questions and moral judgements about our relationship and very healthy sex life, and his teenage son who just came out of the closet by virtue of my brother's newly-activated magic power."

I took a breath and continued, the speed of my words and their volume increased as I went. "If that doesn't sound completely insane, brace yourself. Did you know he asked me what sex with you is like? That one hit me out of nowhere. At no time in my wildest imagination did I ever think I'd be asked to explain man-sex to my straight brother. I've dodged him, but he's bound to ask again. Then there's Burned-out-Bem who is alternately horny, funny, silly, violent, and calculating. He is also, at this very moment, getting a lecture on the Catholic faith from my brother, who is still very devout and doesn't understand how we live without God on Solum. We are not just surrounded by conflict; we're routed by it."

I dropped my head in my hands and stared at the table. I'd been feeling more and more uneasy as the consequences of our arrival on Earth piled up. Having just listed them all at once, the problems seemed overwhelming. My brain chose that moment to remind me that Joe and I still had to see Zeke before the day was out. I dreaded that meeting. What would he say?' I wondered. Does he know that Bem beat the crap out of him, or does he think it was a bad dream?'

"Hey, hey." Shawn pulled my hands from my face and held them across the table. "It'll be OK, Church. It will. You'll see. I promise it will all work out. When it's done, hopefully in another week, we'll get in your car and go home. Once we're there, we might never leave again."

I apologized again for my family and myself. "I'm sorry, it's been wearing on me. I haven't been at ease since your uncle told us we had to come here. I really need it all to work out and settle down so we can go home. You've been very stabilizing. If you weren't with me, I think I would've come unglued long before this."

"I'm glad I could help." Shawn said, and I sensed that he genuinely was. "I know this has been difficult for you. I don't know what I would do if I suddenly had to wade into all my family's issues and try to solve them."

I was tired of my family and fed up with Joe's bullshit. I decided to talk about anything but that and abruptly changed the subject. "What do you want to do?" I asked and I teased the knuckles on the back of Shawn's hands with my thumbs as we held each other across the table. "When we get home, I mean. We have to figure out what to do. We don't need to work for the money, but we need something to do, especially if we won't be traveling the globe like we have been. What do you want?"

Shawn embraced the new topic and warmed to it. "I've been thinking about that. I think I want to open a practice, be a real doctor. Get up in the morning and go to work at the same place and same hour every day. I'll wear a green lab coat and see patients. I want to help people." Shawn seemed to look through me as he spoke, into the future, like he could already see his office and waiting room full of appreciative patients.

"That sounds perfect." I agreed. "I can be your sexy nurse. I'll get a set of those orange scrubs two sizes too small and follow you around dropping things so I can bend at the waist to pick them up." I felt Shawn's amusement as he imagined what I'd said, and we both got to laugh a little.

Franklin showed up with our soups before we could imagine any farther. He brought them, and some sparkling water on a little silver cart. Each dish on the cart was covered with one of those silver domes that I'd only ever seen in Depression era movies that depicted the ultra-rich. Franklin served the soup with a flourish and was gone.

Each bowl was perfect in temperature, texture, and flavor. We offered each other tastes of soup as we ate. Shawn refused me because my soup had ham in it, and I refused him because I didn't know what a butternut squash was. We paused the `what do you want to be when you grow up' conversation to savor the first course of our meal. When the bowls were empty and spirited away by Franklin, we picked back up.

"What do you want to do?" Shawn asked as he took my hand across the table again. Early in our relationship, Shawn realized how insecure I was, and that physical contact tended to ground me. Whenever he sensed that my emotions were getting out of control, he would take my hand or made some other contact with me. He did it for a long time before he ever told me why.

What had started as a way to calm me whenever I felt overwhelmed, became a habit between us. Whenever we were alone, or when it felt like the world was spinning too fast, Shawn would reach out with his calming touch. As the sensitivity of my hands increased, as the callouses faded, my end of the handholding grew more active. The tactile sensation of Shawn's skin, the feeling that was uniquely his, made the simple gesture much more intimate.

"I don't know." I admitted. I would have rubbed my neck as I thought about it, except it would have meant letting go of one of Shawn's hands. "I never had a hobby, not one that could be turned into an occupation. I'm not educated in anything that's useful on Solum. In a world made mostly of stone, glass, and plastic, a welder is pretty useless. Maybe I'll use some of my vast fortune and invest in a crazy idea, like in `Brewster's Millions.'" I grinned as Shawn found the memory of the film and chuckled.

"Actually," I said to prime an idea I'd had that morning when everyone was gushing over how Shawn and I looked in our Andy-selected suits, "assuming Joe and Andy come with us, I'd like to start a fashion company with Andy. He's incredible. Look at us. I look great, and I can hardly look at you. I never saw clothing more self-destructive than that suit."

"What do you mean, self-destructive?" Shawn asked and looked down at his front.

"Every time I look at you, I want to tear it off!"

Shawn smiled and tortured me with that tantalizing up-from-under look. "You're pretty distracting yourself dressed like that. It's when you walk away from me, the way the jacket traces the line of your back and hugs those broad shoulders, it makes me want to pounce."

I felt a wave of heat flood my body. My own lust was hard enough to ignore. When I felt Shawn's, my control almost failed. "I think we should change the subject," I prompted, "mainly because that sliding door doesn't have a lock on it and Franklin will be back long before we could get truly started, let alone finish."

"Uh...fashion company? That sounds fun." Shawn said as he walled off his emotions so I could get control of mine.

"Yeah, Andy could adapt to Solum fashion, maybe even bring some Earth influence. He could really be great with the right backing." In my mind I already saw Andy rubbing elbows with celebrities and outfitting all the high rollers. Is that an Andy Philips?' people would ask each other. I never wear anything else.' they would reply. "Maybe I could take some business classes while he went to design school."

Shawn leaned back and let go of my left hand so he could use his right to cup his cheek. He felt curious and it showed on his face. "I didn't think you cared about clothes at all. You never have any opinion of what Rubi picks out for you. The last time you didn't even go to the shop. Why didn't you, by the way?"

I used the left hand Shawn had released to rub my neck so I could answer that one. "Yeah, well, since I built my new body, Rubi has been much more forward about wanting a tumble. I swear the robe she puts me in gets smaller every time I visit, and she is an attractive woman. I'm not made of stone."

I glanced up. The grin Shawn wore would have rivaled one of Bem's for its maliciousness. He loved it when people propositioned me. The more forward they were, the more he enjoyed it. It's not that he wanted to add bedmates. He liked it when other people told me I was attractive. I wasn't as gracious when the shoe was on the other foot. Shawn still didn't realize how hot he was. I liked when outsiders admired him, but I'll admit that I get very possessive when the other person is too forward.

I remembered Shawn's original question and went on with my reply. "I don't care about clothes, not in the least. I care about Andy. He's fun and quick. He flatters me by listening when I talk. Andy's also had a rough time the last few years, being gay and hiding that, his father getting sick. He's a sensitive, thin-skinned guy and I don't think he should suffer for that. I don't want him to have to grow a thick leather hide like I did. I want him to think that life is wonderful."

Shawn leaned forward then back before he said anything. The motion reminded me a little of his uncle Ars. "It's a nice thought, but you can't build a wall around him. He has to experience life and know what it's all about. He should think life is wonderful. Life is wonderful, but you can't make it all sunshine. Everyone needs some rain to make the sunshine sweet." He reasoned correctly and knocked some wind out of my sails.

"I know," I sulked, "I just think it would be nice if all he needed was an umbrella and not a rowboat."

On that statement the panel slid open, and Franklin was back with our main courses. He'd swapped his silver cart for a large wooden one with brass trim. He again removed several silver lids and served up exactly what we'd ordered with a flourish and perhaps a little smugness. He laid the food, waited for our acknowledgement, then left.

I was amazed at what he'd brought us. The meal set before me was perfect in every way, even in portion size. Shawn and I ate in near silence. The flavor was so exquisite, I actually felt sad as I cleaned my plate, because I knew that each bite brought me closer to the meal's end. Even Franklin's wine selections were perfect, the right compliment to the incredible meal.

Franklin returned as we finished the last morsel of food and cleared the plates like they were naughty children who were up passed their bedtime. Shawn and I complimented the meal to each other before we returned to the topic. "Don't take this the wrong way," Shawn began, as he tried to chart a careful course around my fragile feelings, "but maybe you should try to develop your own interests. I know you love helping, it's part of what makes you who you are, but you can't live for other people."

Shawn's statement struck me like a slap in the face. I didn't realize that all I'd been talking about was making other people's dreams come true. The truth of what he said, set me back on my heels. "I don't know what interests me."

Shawn hurried to reinforce me, like he always did. "You've got time to figure it out. When we get back, we'll have to get Mary and Joe settled in, then I'll need to find an office to rent or buy. There will be lots to do for at least half a year. After that, though...I really want you to have something that makes you happy. I'm not just talking about a project to pass the time; I mean a real passion. It needs to be something that makes you want to get out of bed in the morning."

I crossed my arms and sat back. I'd gone on the defensive without realizing I'd done it. "You're making some major assumptions, but I like the confidence. Find my passion, huh. That's a tall order. I'll think about it."

I fell silent and rolled what Shawn had said around inside my mind. Before either of us spoke again, there was a quick rap on the partition and the panel slid open to admit Franklin and our desserts. He'd brought my pie hot and the ice cream in a separate chilled bowl so it could be added to the plate right before he set it on the table. He also had a little silver torch to crisp Shawn's crme brule. The desserts continued the pattern of excellence that marked the entire meal. Even the coffee was a dream.

"Can we eat all our meals here?" I asked around a mouthful of pie.

"I think that would get expensive, especially when we showed up with the whole gang."

"I don't care where they eat."

Shawn snickered. "That might be the first selfish thing I've ever heard you say. This place is incredible. I've never been anywhere like this."

I embraced the silliness with an idea of my own. "Maybe we can just adopt Franklin."

"I think that might be one too many in the Vic, unless he sits on your lap."

"That might work, he's in pretty good shape." I looked away from Shawn like I was picturing Franklin and his shape.

"You really need to find another passion." Shawn laughed.

In the next instant, Franklin was back to whisk the dessert plates away and to deliver our Armagnac in large pot-belly glasses. "Gentleman, it's been a pleasure serving you. Please enjoy your liqueur at your own pace. When you are ready to leave, press the buzzer twice and the host will show you out."

"What about the check?" I asked.

Franklin dismissed my concern. "I have been instructed to forward the invoice to Abbey Associates. They are one of our premier clients."

I worried about the tip. "What about you? Have you been taken care of?"

"Abbey Associates always provides a generous gratuity. Please do not trouble yourself about me. Once again, gentleman, a pleasure." Franklin gave a small bow and noiselessly disappeared for the last time.

"That's surprising." Shawn said when the partition was closed.

"Not really." I countered. My natural cynicism knew the score. "We just put them in charge of a massive fortune. Them buying lunch was nice, but they'll get it back many times over."

"That's true."

I sipped some of the amber liquid and rolled it across my tongue. It tasted like good brandy and was the perfect cap to an exquisite meal. Shawn and I lingered for a while over our drinks but as all things must, the meal had come to an end. I pressed the buzzer below the painting and the host in the tuxedo appeared. He escorted us to the door and bid us a fine afternoon. As he shook my hand the final time, he passed a small card to me that I dropped in my pocket.

The host handed us over to the red uniformed doorman, who performed his function, and ushered us into the blinking sunshine. As my vision adjusted to the light, the valet came into focus. He was holding the door open to Joe's status sedan. I climbed in and he shut the door with a click. The whole thing was like a well-rehearsed performance.

It was only when I saw the analogue clock on the car's dashboard that I realized how long Shawn and I had been at lunch. It was a quarter-after-two as I drove us away from the restaurant and a little after three when we pulled into the driveway at Joe's.