After throwing a handful of ice into a tumbler, he poured a little bit of dry sherry into the glass. Then he dumped out the sherry and filled it up with Plymouth Gin. He found a lemon in the refrigerator and added a few drops of lemon juice. He couldn’t remember if you added some lemon peel but decided to do it anyway. It looked nice, and Jack had always considered drinking an aesthetic activity, above all else. He was going to bring his drink out to the back patio, but changed his mind, and went out the front door of the house, taking a seat on the bench that sat to the right of the front door. It wasn’t comfortable, but it would be nice to watch the cars and the dogwalkers go by.
He balanced the drink on the metal seat of the bench and buttoned up his cardigan. Then he took a long sip of the delicious gin, and silently toasted whatever author it had been who had created Travis McGee.
Fewer cars were going by than he thought, then he realized it was a Sunday. But there were plenty of pedestrians, most of whom were walking with purpose, or at least seemed to be. There were several runners, mostly men. But even the walkers, especially the women, seemed to be walking with exaggerated strides, and they were all wearing exercise clothes, tight black leggings and brightly colored tops. And not only were they walking with grim determination, they were all talking at the same time, and it took Jack a moment to realize that they were on their phones, talking through the speakers that dangled from their headphones.
He finished his drink and was about to go inside for the evening when he spotted his neighbor—her name had already escaped him—walking along the sidewalk. Even if he hadn’t known her, she would have stood out to him. First off, she wasn’t wearing workout clothes. She was in jeans and a turtleneck sweater, and she was walking slowly, looking up at the leaves that still clung to the trees. She wasn’t even wearing headphones.
“Hello,” he said, and when she didn’t seem to hear him, he said it again, louder.
She jumped a little, then turned her head. “You scared me. I was totally lost in my thoughts.”
“Please go back to them. I’m sorry I interrupted.”
“God, no. If you knew my thoughts, you wouldn’t want to be lost in them. I didn’t see you there. You blend into the side of your house.”
Jack looked down at himself. He was wearing brown trousers, and a rust-red cardigan and he realized now that he probably was hidden against the brick exterior.
“I do,” he said. “I was just about to go inside and get myself another drink. Will you join me on my bench?”
His neighbor, who had stepped up onto his lawn, shrugged and said that she would.
“What can I get you?” he asked, still trying to come up with her name.
“What were you having?”
“Gin on the rocks, which sounds like very serious drinking for a Sunday night, I now realize.”
“It does. Although if you have some tonic, I’d drink a gin and tonic.”
“I think I might.”
When Jack had returned with two gin and tonics, she was sitting on the bench waiting for him. He handed her the glass, and she said, “I might have to suddenly leave you. My husband went into the office today, and he’s due back soon, so I hope you don’t mind …”
“I promise I won’t be insulted when you leave me. This is a good spot. You’ll be able to see him arrive from here.”
“I will,” she said, and took a sip of her drink.
“I’m embarrassed to admit this,” Jack said, “but I’ve forgotten your name already. I blame old age.”
“It’s Margaret,” she said. “And you hardly seem old at all.”
“Margaret. That’s right. And is that what people call you? Or do you have a nickname?”
“I think I’m the only Margaret left in the world. I’m not Maggie, or Megan, or Meg.”
“Or Peg,” Jack said.
“Right. Or Peg, although I don’t think anyone these days is called Peg. No, I’m just Margaret. In college I had a boyfriend who called me Maggie and I loved it at the time, but then we broke up …”
“And no more Maggie.”
“That’s right.”
They were quiet for a moment, both sipping at their drinks. Jack said, “Does your husband always work on Sundays?”
“He’s ambitious, and he says that if he goes in on Sundays, he can get more work done in eight hours than he gets done in the entire week. I don’t mind. I spent the day reading, then decided I needed to get some exercise. You should meet him. I told him about you, and he looked up your book and said that he definitely remembers it. Why don’t you come over for dinner?”