Once at my computer, I checked the markets, reviewed the portfolios’ returns, and scanned the to-do list. I opened the calendar, pondered the clients and the prep work needed for the meetings, and most importantly, penciled in a half hour for lunch. Then I checked e-mails.
“You have a message from Joseph Santelli.” I smiled, logging on to Facebook. I pulled up the message. It had come in late last night. I was wondering why I hadn’t heard the message alert on my phone until I found my phone dead in my purse.
Okay, then. A message from Joe.
I couldn’t stop smiling. I wanted to savor this moment. I sipped at my coffee. I needed a doughnut. I returned to the break room, found a leftover Krispy Kreme from yesterday’s breakfast meeting. I zapped it in the microwave, then returned to my office. I sat at my computer, clicked on the screen, and read the message.
I’d loved Joe more than anyone other than my father. I was glad to hear he was happy, and his joy inspired mine. Lucas wasn’t Joe, but Lucas was great, and he and I could build what Joe and his wife had made: a home, a family, a lifetime of memories.
I wrote Joe back. I told him about Fletcher Financial and how Dad was the same great guy and how everyone still loved him and how he still loved everyone. Then I told Joe about Dad’s forgetfulness, and how I wanted him to have a brain scan, and how Dad was resisting. “I just hope he’s okay,” I told him. “Thanks for writing me back, Joe. It’s amazing to hear from you.”
The following weekend, Lucas came to dinner. I cooked him Italian. It took me most of the day, but I managed to master saltimbocca. And while I was keenly aware that Lucas would eat only a portion of this plateful of food, I did it anyway. I wanted my house to burst with the aromatic smells. I wanted him to understand my passion. All the while, I sipped from my glass of Barolo.
While I finished up the dinner preparations, Lucas sat at the counter, sipping water and watching me.
“In Italian,” I said, “saltimbocca means ‘to jump in the mouth.’” I cut a small piece of veal and prosciutto and jabbed it with a fork, then leaned over the counter toward Lucas. “Open up,” I said.
He took the bite, chewed. “That’s cool that you’re learning Italian.”
I was being a bully; I realized this. But I wanted to know: “So what do you think? Is the food so good it ‘jumps in your mouth’?”
“It’s the best saltimbocca I’ve ever had,” Lucas said.
I grimaced at his offhanded compliment. It was delicious, if I might have said so myself. During dinner, Lucas ate, but he didn’t devour. Tomorrow I would savor our leftovers in private, and enjoy it a thousand times more.
I gritted my teeth and fought every urge in my body not to hold this against him, because after all, he and I were the same—except for this one point. So he wasn’t a foodie. So he didn’t drool at the thought of salted caramel, or ravioli pillows stuffed with creamy goat cheese, or Merlot sliding down his throat.
He was so much like me—a safety guy happy to stay put, a risk-averse chap who believed that testing the waters or working outside of the box could only lead to problems. I poured and downed another glass of Barolo. If we were so much alike, why was it taking me a half bottle of wine to get through dinner?
When I was a teenager, I was obedient and good. I never once rebelled against my father. His guidance didn’t send me in the opposite direction. When he warned me not to cozy up with the boys too early, I listened. When other girls were pushing themselves into the arms of unsuitable boys just to spite their parents, I took Dad’s advice to heart. He knew what he was talking about. When Dad told me to listen to his cache of Dale Carnegie tapes, I did. When he suggested I learn tennis because “country club sports” were essential to business, I grabbed my racquet. When he advised me to buy near the water because real estate
“You have a message from Joseph Santelli.” I smiled, logging on to Facebook. I pulled up the message. It had come in late last night. I was wondering why I hadn’t heard the message alert on my phone until I found my phone dead in my purse.
Okay, then. A message from Joe.
I couldn’t stop smiling. I wanted to savor this moment. I sipped at my coffee. I needed a doughnut. I returned to the break room, found a leftover Krispy Kreme from yesterday’s breakfast meeting. I zapped it in the microwave, then returned to my office. I sat at my computer, clicked on the screen, and read the message.
I’d loved Joe more than anyone other than my father. I was glad to hear he was happy, and his joy inspired mine. Lucas wasn’t Joe, but Lucas was great, and he and I could build what Joe and his wife had made: a home, a family, a lifetime of memories.
I wrote Joe back. I told him about Fletcher Financial and how Dad was the same great guy and how everyone still loved him and how he still loved everyone. Then I told Joe about Dad’s forgetfulness, and how I wanted him to have a brain scan, and how Dad was resisting. “I just hope he’s okay,” I told him. “Thanks for writing me back, Joe. It’s amazing to hear from you.”
The following weekend, Lucas came to dinner. I cooked him Italian. It took me most of the day, but I managed to master saltimbocca. And while I was keenly aware that Lucas would eat only a portion of this plateful of food, I did it anyway. I wanted my house to burst with the aromatic smells. I wanted him to understand my passion. All the while, I sipped from my glass of Barolo.
While I finished up the dinner preparations, Lucas sat at the counter, sipping water and watching me.
“In Italian,” I said, “saltimbocca means ‘to jump in the mouth.’” I cut a small piece of veal and prosciutto and jabbed it with a fork, then leaned over the counter toward Lucas. “Open up,” I said.
He took the bite, chewed. “That’s cool that you’re learning Italian.”
I was being a bully; I realized this. But I wanted to know: “So what do you think? Is the food so good it ‘jumps in your mouth’?”
“It’s the best saltimbocca I’ve ever had,” Lucas said.
I grimaced at his offhanded compliment. It was delicious, if I might have said so myself. During dinner, Lucas ate, but he didn’t devour. Tomorrow I would savor our leftovers in private, and enjoy it a thousand times more.
I gritted my teeth and fought every urge in my body not to hold this against him, because after all, he and I were the same—except for this one point. So he wasn’t a foodie. So he didn’t drool at the thought of salted caramel, or ravioli pillows stuffed with creamy goat cheese, or Merlot sliding down his throat.
He was so much like me—a safety guy happy to stay put, a risk-averse chap who believed that testing the waters or working outside of the box could only lead to problems. I poured and downed another glass of Barolo. If we were so much alike, why was it taking me a half bottle of wine to get through dinner?
When I was a teenager, I was obedient and good. I never once rebelled against my father. His guidance didn’t send me in the opposite direction. When he warned me not to cozy up with the boys too early, I listened. When other girls were pushing themselves into the arms of unsuitable boys just to spite their parents, I took Dad’s advice to heart. He knew what he was talking about. When Dad told me to listen to his cache of Dale Carnegie tapes, I did. When he suggested I learn tennis because “country club sports” were essential to business, I grabbed my racquet. When he advised me to buy near the water because real estate
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