“What can I get you?” asked our server, a girl of about twenty.
Ben nodded at me, still looking at the menu.
“Um . . . a cup of chowder, side of onion rings, and a Devil’s Purse, please,” I said. I liked drinking local beer, when I did drink beer, which was about twice a year. Usually with Brad, Dylan and Charles when we went to Fenway. There was a great Irish pub near the ballpark, and we’d go to a game every fall. Brad’s father had season tickets. Vanessa would join us at the restaurant, since she hated watching sports, and we always had such fun. Such easy laughter, light teasing, affection.
This was the first year we wouldn’t be doing that. Would Brad think about it? Would he miss it? Would he take his new wife and new child there?
One thing was certain—I’d never go to Fenway with the three generations of Fairchild men again. Shit. My throat was tight.
“A Reuben and a Guinness,” Ben said. “Side of fries. Thanks.”
We sat there, not talking, just watching the rest of the customers and staff. Several generations of the Smith family were at a big table in the back, laughing and teasing like a normal family. I waved, and they waved back, and Harlow reminded me that the book I’d ordered was in. The Sox had been rained out, and caber tossing was on ESPN, which was wicked pissah. Our beers arrived, and we sipped, still not talking. Someone came up to the jukebox, and a second later, Van Morrison’s “Someone Like You” came on.
“Nice song,” I said.
“Mm.”
As I said, chatty as a barnacle.
“How’s your daughter?” I asked. “What’s her name again?”
“Reese. She’s good.”
“How old is she now?”
“Twenty-three. Same age as I was when she was born.”
“Wow, Ben. You’re old.”
He grinned.
“Is she in school, or does she have a job?”
He sipped his beer.
“Come on, Ben, you’re the one who wanted to eat together.”
“She’s in medical school. Tulane.”
“Wow. Good for her!”
“Yeah.” He took another sip of beer. “How does Dylan like college?”
I thought a minute. Most of his texts were checking up on me, and me checking up on him. We FaceTimed once or twice a week. “Well, aside from Brad and me, I think he’s good. He loves football, of course, and he’s taking mostly core classes. Not sure what he wants to do yet. I think he might have a girlfriend. A girl invited him for Thanksgiving, so . . .” So he wouldn’t be home this year for the first time in his life.
“Hard when they go away.”
I swallowed and nodded.
More silence. It was fine. Our food came, and we ate. Funny, all the meals I’d had with Ben, but never once just the two of us.
He had a good face, I decided, finishing my beer. It was . . . I don’t know. Durable. The face of a workingman, rugged and a little plain, but nice. His mouth was expressive. The slightest pull at the corner, the faint purse of his lips before he spoke. Those lovely, dark blue eyes, so different from Brad’s remarkable shade of aqua. Ben’s were less remarkable, but also a little more mysterious. The way they slanted down at the corners . . . he could pass for an Aussie cowboy.
“What are you looking at?” he asked, and he gave his lopsided smile, eyes crinkling. Something stirred in me. Something . . . lustful.
“My dad’s best bud,” I said, remembering to answer.
Ben shrugged. “He’s always been good to me.”
“It’s mutual. If he couldn’t go out to sea, he’d go crazy.”
Ben smiled again, and again, my stomach felt warm. I wondered what he looked like when he laughed. Couldn’t say I’d ever seen that. It was strangely nice, sitting here with him, no agenda, little conversation. Just . . . companionship. No wonder Dad liked him.
Our server brought the check. “No hurry. Whenever you’re ready,” she said.
We were ready, I guessed, because Ben took out his wallet and left two twenties on the table.
“Let me get my half,” I said.
“No need. You’ve fed me more than once.”
“True,” I said. “Thank you.”
“You bet.”
We went out into the parking lot, and I glanced at the license plates. Mostly Massachusetts, dotted with a few from Connecticut and New York. Soon, it would be dark too early, and the off-Capers would go back to their other homes, and our little peninsula would quiet under the gray winter skies.