and embarrassed by his behavior.
“Do you think we’re not rich enough, not successful enough?”
What if she were right?
“He must be in a bad mood,” I prayed.
So I tried again. Different friends, maybe a different outcome. The following week we arranged to meet up after work with my friends, Ann and Patrick, for dinner at Aquavit, the latest restaurant to be rewarded with three stars by the New York Times.
Delayed fifteen minutes en route, I found Len standing outside the restaurant on the sidewalk.
“You’re late.”
“I know. The traffic was awful.”
“People don’t keep me waiting, you know,” he said.
“I’m not people, you know.”
He stepped back and stiffly held the door open for me. We found Ann and Patrick standing in the alcove. The atrium of the restaurant shimmered with glass and a waterfall. The bar looked packed with twenty-something singles.
Ann, a charming conversationalist, was a tall, elegant lawyer who had worked for years at Pointer, one of the prestigious New York law firms Len used for his deals. Len had no choice but to approve of her. He later told me that one of his very prominent friends knew of her.
“Kate must be okay if she’s friends with Ann,” his friend had said.
Her husband Patrick was infamous for his big heart and extreme political views. We had been arguing for years, ever since he had tried to convince seven-year old Chloe to vote for Pat Buchanan.
“Ann, I hear you work with Steve. He’s a great lawyer. I’ve done a lot of work with him, noteworthy deals. He’s been invaluable. Tough guy,” Len said.
“He is sharp. Have you worked with Don?” Ann asked.
“Don is the man you want at your side. He will never back down. Great team at your firm,” Len replied.
After Len had consumed a few too many glasses of wine and had run out of war stories from work, he told Ann one more in his arsenal of tough guy tales.
“A guy hit my car about ten years ago, just a minor fender-bender. It might have been a big nothing, but I didn’t like his attitude. So I pursued him, and I mean for years. In the end, I spent about fifty thousand in legal fees to screw this guy. I didn’t care how long it took or how much it cost. For me, revenge is best served cold.”
When we had ordered espresso, Len excused himself to go to the men’s room. As soon as he appeared out of earshot I began, not able to withstand the urge any longer.
“So? What do you think, Ann? Do you like him?”
She sat quietly for a minute, and then glanced at Patrick who remained silent, nursing his drink.
“You’re the best thing to happen to him in twenty-five years,” she declared.
Me?
Len, who apparently had enough of the dinners with my friends, offered to take Chloe, Ben and me out for a meal at a sports bar near our home where we could watch the World Series. The Atlanta Braves were playing the Cleveland Indians and I frankly didn’t care. But Ben appeared psyched while Chloe quickly disappeared into her room.
McNale’s dark wood paneled walls were lined with three televisions and all three had the game already on. The place was packed, mostly with men, some with their young sons.
“The food here couldn’t be worse than the concession stands at a stadium, could it?” Len said while surveying the place.
Ben looked around and appeared thrilled to be at a guy’s place with a guy.
“I might leave you two alone,” I whispered to Len.
He nodded and I headed out the door after explaining to Ben that I wanted to keep an eye on Chloe. He hardly seemed to notice my exit.
At home, Chloe came downstairs when she heard me open the door.
“Where’s Ben?”
“With Len at McNale’s.”
“Hah. Good luck with that.”
Two hours later they showed up, barely moving their Buffalo wings and chips laden bodies into the house. Ben headed up to his room. Len looked relaxed and one might almost think content.
“He’s a great kid. We had a really good time.”
Couldn’t things
“Do you think we’re not rich enough, not successful enough?”
What if she were right?
“He must be in a bad mood,” I prayed.
So I tried again. Different friends, maybe a different outcome. The following week we arranged to meet up after work with my friends, Ann and Patrick, for dinner at Aquavit, the latest restaurant to be rewarded with three stars by the New York Times.
Delayed fifteen minutes en route, I found Len standing outside the restaurant on the sidewalk.
“You’re late.”
“I know. The traffic was awful.”
“People don’t keep me waiting, you know,” he said.
“I’m not people, you know.”
He stepped back and stiffly held the door open for me. We found Ann and Patrick standing in the alcove. The atrium of the restaurant shimmered with glass and a waterfall. The bar looked packed with twenty-something singles.
Ann, a charming conversationalist, was a tall, elegant lawyer who had worked for years at Pointer, one of the prestigious New York law firms Len used for his deals. Len had no choice but to approve of her. He later told me that one of his very prominent friends knew of her.
“Kate must be okay if she’s friends with Ann,” his friend had said.
Her husband Patrick was infamous for his big heart and extreme political views. We had been arguing for years, ever since he had tried to convince seven-year old Chloe to vote for Pat Buchanan.
“Ann, I hear you work with Steve. He’s a great lawyer. I’ve done a lot of work with him, noteworthy deals. He’s been invaluable. Tough guy,” Len said.
“He is sharp. Have you worked with Don?” Ann asked.
“Don is the man you want at your side. He will never back down. Great team at your firm,” Len replied.
After Len had consumed a few too many glasses of wine and had run out of war stories from work, he told Ann one more in his arsenal of tough guy tales.
“A guy hit my car about ten years ago, just a minor fender-bender. It might have been a big nothing, but I didn’t like his attitude. So I pursued him, and I mean for years. In the end, I spent about fifty thousand in legal fees to screw this guy. I didn’t care how long it took or how much it cost. For me, revenge is best served cold.”
When we had ordered espresso, Len excused himself to go to the men’s room. As soon as he appeared out of earshot I began, not able to withstand the urge any longer.
“So? What do you think, Ann? Do you like him?”
She sat quietly for a minute, and then glanced at Patrick who remained silent, nursing his drink.
“You’re the best thing to happen to him in twenty-five years,” she declared.
Me?
Len, who apparently had enough of the dinners with my friends, offered to take Chloe, Ben and me out for a meal at a sports bar near our home where we could watch the World Series. The Atlanta Braves were playing the Cleveland Indians and I frankly didn’t care. But Ben appeared psyched while Chloe quickly disappeared into her room.
McNale’s dark wood paneled walls were lined with three televisions and all three had the game already on. The place was packed, mostly with men, some with their young sons.
“The food here couldn’t be worse than the concession stands at a stadium, could it?” Len said while surveying the place.
Ben looked around and appeared thrilled to be at a guy’s place with a guy.
“I might leave you two alone,” I whispered to Len.
He nodded and I headed out the door after explaining to Ben that I wanted to keep an eye on Chloe. He hardly seemed to notice my exit.
At home, Chloe came downstairs when she heard me open the door.
“Where’s Ben?”
“With Len at McNale’s.”
“Hah. Good luck with that.”
Two hours later they showed up, barely moving their Buffalo wings and chips laden bodies into the house. Ben headed up to his room. Len looked relaxed and one might almost think content.
“He’s a great kid. We had a really good time.”
Couldn’t things
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