“Thank you. It’s your special night. I had to look good.”
“Yeah? I’m not convinced it’s for me alone.”
“What can I do? Why are you so pale?”
“Nothing. It’s just nerves. Everything we’re serving is prepped, wines are open, and Sadie can bartend too if we need it. I just—”
“Stop worrying. The place looks phenomenal. It’s amazing what lighting can do.”
He had dimmed house lights, leaving only the bar and the solo spot—now permanently mounted on the wall above the beach picture—as prominent electrical illumination. Everything else was candlelit, creating a warm blend of casual and classy with the blue gingham tablecloths, traditional white linen napkins, and luminaries of blue-tinted mercury glass.
The door jingled. Jack entered with Wilson and Tommy. Rachel followed—her blondish white hair pulled back loosely in a black-beaded clip. She was wearing an ivory cashmere sweater and black knee-length skirt beneath a navy topcoat. “There’s your girlfriend,” George said.
“Shut up.” May shoved him.
“She looksamazing.”
“Yes, she does.”
Behind them, more followed—a handsome black man with an older woman on his arm, followed by another male couple that he assumed were added on. George didn’t know either of them, but he was pretty sure he recognized the face of one.
Theresa was gauging the size of the party, determining where to seat them. Jack, seeing George, grabbed the hand of the black man and led him over to the bar.
“Hi, George. I want you to meet my husband.”
“Demarco. Demarco Alford,” said the man, extending a hand.
“Welcome. I’m George Patras. It’s a pleasure meeting you. I love your boys.”
“You’re too kind.” Demarco chuckled. “And you’ll likely change your mind before the evening is over.”
The door jingled and in came Gianni. George waved, motioning over to the corner he had set up for the accordion player—complete with a stool, a small table, a water pitcher, and glass.
Demarco put his hand on George’s shoulder. “Honey, I know we just met but... are you OK? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Is that Andrew Mulligan that came in behind you?” George asked.
“Yes. Yes, it is. And his husband, Aaron. He’s an old friend. Jack said you wouldn’t mind. We also brought my mother, Abigail... but don’t mind her—she eats like a bird.”
“We have plenty of food,” George said, distracted. He was concentrating on Theresa’s handling of the new arrivals. She was making accommodations by pulling the three tables farthest back together. Enough seating for a party of eight and on the wall so as not to bisect the room.
Good girl, he thought.
“I’m May, by the way. I have the pet food store next door.”
“Hello, May,” said Demarco. “Maddy thinksveryhighly of you.”
Jack waved his hand in front of George’s face. “Are you sure OK, George? Can we do anything to help?”
“Andrew Mulligan writes forThe Post.”
“Yes,” said Demarco, “—andNew Yorkmagazine. He used to be more of a political writer, but he’s softened with age. Mostly pop culture and local interest pieces now, like—”
“—restaurant reviews,” George said.
Jack’s started to speak, then stopped. He looked at Demarco.
“Whoops,” Demarco said. “I think we may have invited a fox into the henhouse.”
