In Afterglow, India's best friend Eva seems determined to set her up with every available man in the town of Tamsett. She may have out done herself when a celebration dinner turns into a double date with Eva's current man, Dave and Dave's Uncle Henry.
Arlan’s Martini Bar was the new hot spot in eastern Massachusetts. The Boston Globe, in an article in the Sunday Living section, had described it as intimate. Which, looking the place over, Iconstrued as meaning tiny. It had all of ten tables. Apparently, people drove from the far reaches of New England for the privilege of sitting at one of them. As Eva had said, even on an ordinary Wednesday night like this one it was nearly impossible to get a reservation.
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
later.”
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?
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
later.”
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?
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