She shepherded me over to a table near the window. Two men were already sitting there. I recognized Dave. Across from him sat an elderly gentleman with a hooked nose and no hair to speak of except for the ones growing from his ears. I gave Eva what I hoped was a dirty look. She kept her hand squarely against my back and gave me the tiniest of shoves.
“India, my sweet. You know Dave. And this,” she made a flourish towards the elderly man, “is Henry.”
Henry, it turned out, was Dave’s uncle. He was eighty-two years old, he was a widower, and he lived at a place called River View, which he described as a community for mature adults. I might have known. How could I expect any less from Eva?
I did my level best to curtail my anger. I smiled, made polite conversation, and toasted Eva’s success.
Henry was, it turns out, not so easily fooled. “You seem a little preoccupied,” he said. We had finished dinner and moved to the famous martini bar for a farewell famous martini. Eva and Dave were snuggled together a few stools down, whispering like a pair of teenagers.
“Do I?” I said, giving Henry my best charming smile.
Henry put his hand on my thigh, which did nothing to decrease my level of discomfort. “No worries. I’ve got a little present for you.”
I could just imagine. A picture of Henry in boxers jumped into my head. I put my hand on Henry’s, moved it gently away, and said, “Oh?”
Henry reached into his pocket and pulled out a baggy. “Open your purse,” he whispered. He buried the baggy under my wallet and winked at me. “Prime stuff,” he said. “Maybe you’ll share it with me
Flustered, I pulled my purse into my lap and put my arms around it. What exactly, does one do when an eighty-two year old man hands you a packet of weed? Did Miss Manners have some protocol for this?