“And you lie like a rug,” he said. He gestured toward the cobblestone street along the side of the Market. “Should we walk?”
“Okay.”
Two
They walked into the old North End, where so much of the country’s early history had taken place. Many of the buildings seemed just as they had been the night, more than two hundred years earlier, when Paul Revere left his blacksmith shop and went on a midnight ride.
Rachel liked history, and had always loved this neighborhood, as much for its ethic Italian flair as anything else. She had no idea what Michael thought of it.
As they walked, she was surprised by an urge she had. The urge was to put her hand in his as they walked along. She remembered how when they were young, he was so much taller than her that when they held hands, she felt like a little girl walking with her daddy. And now it was like no time had passed at all. Like they were that same couple from so long ago.
She almost did it. She almost reached out and…
“How about this place?” he said.
It was an Italian place, naturally, with a small outside section on the street, tables made for two with white linen tablecloths. It looked expensive. All these North End restaurants were expensive. Besides the excellent food, the price was what they were most known for. She hesitated.
Three years before, during her divorce, and the vicious and outrageously expensive court battle that ensued, she found herself doing something she had never done before: thinking about money. Her ex-husband Tim (she mostly thought of him as The Jerk now) was a corporate lawyer, and although he was the cheater, he spared no expense trying to gain custody of their two girls.
In the end, Rachel won. Tim got the girls two weeks in the summer, two weeks at Christmas, and one weekend a month. Rachel had them the rest of the year. But to achieve that goal, she burned through more of her trust fund than she cared to think about. It was worth it, every penny, but budgeting was a reality for her now, as it had never been before.
“I’m buying,” Michael said with a smile. “Your money’s no good here.”
She returned his smile. “Okay.”
She sat across from him at an outdoor table. The sun was warm and welcome on her back. It was a quiet day, a Sunday, and there wasn’t much traffic on the street. She realized that this was the first chance she’d had to get a good look at him.
He had changed. Twenty years will change a person. When she knew him, his hair was a jet-black, messy tangle - rock star hair, like Jim Morrison or the singer from INXS. His eyes were light green and intense, eyes that were on fire. He was thin back then, a young body that wouldn’t keep weight on. It didn’t matter what he ate or drank. He never gained a pound.
He wore his hair short now, and it was gray at the temples. There was a light in his eyes still, maybe there was still a flame there, but it wasn’t a raging fire. His facial features were harder than before, almost chiseled. His body was different too, thicker, more muscular. He looked like someone who pumped iron.
“You’ve been working out,” she said.
He shrugged. “I have a guy who comes in three mornings a week. He works me half to death, then he leaves. I’ve been on a health kick the past few years. Since I kicked the coke, and the smokes, and the pills, and whatever else I was doing.”
She had read about his battles with alcohol and drugs, of course. She had followed his life for ten years. Michael wasn’t famous, but he was known. He was a songwriter who had worked with some very big pop stars. He had written chart-topping songs. You could read about him in Billboard , and in the gossip rags.
Married twice. Divorced twice. In rehab.
“Okay.”
Two
They walked into the old North End, where so much of the country’s early history had taken place. Many of the buildings seemed just as they had been the night, more than two hundred years earlier, when Paul Revere left his blacksmith shop and went on a midnight ride.
Rachel liked history, and had always loved this neighborhood, as much for its ethic Italian flair as anything else. She had no idea what Michael thought of it.
As they walked, she was surprised by an urge she had. The urge was to put her hand in his as they walked along. She remembered how when they were young, he was so much taller than her that when they held hands, she felt like a little girl walking with her daddy. And now it was like no time had passed at all. Like they were that same couple from so long ago.
She almost did it. She almost reached out and…
“How about this place?” he said.
It was an Italian place, naturally, with a small outside section on the street, tables made for two with white linen tablecloths. It looked expensive. All these North End restaurants were expensive. Besides the excellent food, the price was what they were most known for. She hesitated.
Three years before, during her divorce, and the vicious and outrageously expensive court battle that ensued, she found herself doing something she had never done before: thinking about money. Her ex-husband Tim (she mostly thought of him as The Jerk now) was a corporate lawyer, and although he was the cheater, he spared no expense trying to gain custody of their two girls.
In the end, Rachel won. Tim got the girls two weeks in the summer, two weeks at Christmas, and one weekend a month. Rachel had them the rest of the year. But to achieve that goal, she burned through more of her trust fund than she cared to think about. It was worth it, every penny, but budgeting was a reality for her now, as it had never been before.
“I’m buying,” Michael said with a smile. “Your money’s no good here.”
She returned his smile. “Okay.”
She sat across from him at an outdoor table. The sun was warm and welcome on her back. It was a quiet day, a Sunday, and there wasn’t much traffic on the street. She realized that this was the first chance she’d had to get a good look at him.
He had changed. Twenty years will change a person. When she knew him, his hair was a jet-black, messy tangle - rock star hair, like Jim Morrison or the singer from INXS. His eyes were light green and intense, eyes that were on fire. He was thin back then, a young body that wouldn’t keep weight on. It didn’t matter what he ate or drank. He never gained a pound.
He wore his hair short now, and it was gray at the temples. There was a light in his eyes still, maybe there was still a flame there, but it wasn’t a raging fire. His facial features were harder than before, almost chiseled. His body was different too, thicker, more muscular. He looked like someone who pumped iron.
“You’ve been working out,” she said.
He shrugged. “I have a guy who comes in three mornings a week. He works me half to death, then he leaves. I’ve been on a health kick the past few years. Since I kicked the coke, and the smokes, and the pills, and whatever else I was doing.”
She had read about his battles with alcohol and drugs, of course. She had followed his life for ten years. Michael wasn’t famous, but he was known. He was a songwriter who had worked with some very big pop stars. He had written chart-topping songs. You could read about him in Billboard , and in the gossip rags.
Married twice. Divorced twice. In rehab.
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