“Oh my. Thank you all for coming!” Mary Ann lets out a girlish giggle and takes her designated seat at the center of the table as more people filter in. Tova recognizes several parishioners from St. Ann’s, where Mary Ann was on the board for years, along with neighbors. In a matter of minutes, most of the seats are filled, leaving only the two on Tova’s other side empty. Relieved to be next to the no-shows, she places her purse on one.
“Well, doesn’t this look like a rowdy bunch!” A young man with deep brown skin and sparkling eyes approaches with two pitchers of water. Omar, according to his name tag. “Glad I wore my sneakers because I can tell you all will keep me on my toes!” An approving laugh moves across the crowd.
“We came to party!” Barb Vanderhoof shimmies.
Omar makes finger guns and aims them at her. “That’s the spirit!”
“Our dear friend Mary Ann is moving away.” Barb gestures at Mary Ann, who is blushing. “To Spokane.”
“Yikes! Spokane! I’m sorry.” Omar makes a face like he just ate a lemon, but his eyes are still twinkling.
“Hey now! I live in Spokane!” Laughing, Laura lofts her empty highball glass.
Tova’s coffee finally arrives, via a harried-looking busboy. She studies the thick black liquid before taking a sip. It’s hot and strong. She picks up the menu and studies it, clicking her tongue at the descriptions, things like basil cream foam and heirloom turnip reduction. Where are the soups and salads? A cup of corn chowder would do nicely.
“These seats taken?” A deep voice, vaguely familiar, breaks her focus on the menu. She looks up at a tall figure. He doesn’t look so strange without his bike shorts and space-age sunglasses and helmet, but it’s Adam Wright, the fellow who helped her with her crossword down at Hamilton Park a few weeks ago. “Oh! Hello.” He breaks into a smile, recognizing her as well.
“Nice to see you again,” Tova says, moving her pocketbook from the chair. On Adam’s other side is a short woman with curly auburn hair.
“This is Sandy Hewitt,” he says, giving his companion’s arm a squeeze as they both sit. “Sandy, meet Tova Sullivan.”
“How do you do,” Tova says with a nod. The busboy returns with two martinis on a tray. Carefully, he sets them in front of the couple.
Adam takes a long gulp, which reminds Tova of that day when he chugged her bottle of water in the park. “Laura and I went to Sunday school together at St. Ann’s,” he explains. “She heard I’d moved back to town. And somehow roped me into helping out with her mother’s move. And now I’ve roped in my better half, too.” He winks at Sandy.
“They’re lucky to have him.” She grins and squeezes Adam’s bicep. “And I’m always happy to help out, not that I’m much for heavy lifting. But Laura was nice enough to include me in lunch. It’s great to meet so much of Sowell Bay, all at once.”
“Yes, Laura really went above and beyond with the guest list, didn’t she?” Tova sips her coffee.
“I guess so.” Sandy tilts her head. “So, how do you and Adam know each other?”
Tova clears her throat, then says quietly, “Adam was a friend of my son’s.”
Adam flattens his lips. Then he leans down to Sandy’s ear, and most of the whispered explanation is inaudible to Tova, but she catches the words there was this kid who . . .
Sandy’s eyes widen, and she shoots Tova a sympathetic look before turning her attention to intensely studying the menu. Smoothing her hair, she straightens in her chair and clasps her hands. “Well,” she chirps, addressing the table at large. “Who’s decided what they’re having? I’ve heard the skirt steak is to die for!”
CORN CHOWDER, AS it turns out, is not available at the Elland Chophouse. But Omar recommends a curried squash bisque that, to Tova’s surprise, is lovely. She sops every last drop with the accompanying hunk of sourdough while Adam Wright and Peter Kim complain across Tova and Janice about the Mariners and their losing streak, a subject that doesn’t interest Tova in the least.
“Baseball. Who cares, right?” Janice says.
Tova smiles, then dabs a napkin on the corners of her mouth. “The only thing more tedious than watching it is talking about it.”
Peter Kim gives his wife’s shoulder a playful squeeze. “Sorry to bore you, darling.”
“Hey, maybe I’m cursed.” Adam Wright laughs. “I move back to town and suddenly they start sucking. Should’ve stayed in Chicago.” He drains his martini, then smiles at Sandy as he plucks one fat green olive from the sword-shaped plastic spear and offers her the other, slinging an arm across the back of her chair.