Somehow I convinced the
publisher there’s a market.” Her eyes twinkle a little. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll get rich. More likely they’ll make nice Christmas
gifts. It’s really just something I enjoy doing.”
More silence…
“My dear, have you noticed you’re not saying anything? One of the primary requisites for a conversation is the back-and-forth
part. I can’t do that on my own. I would if I could, as my husband will tell you. But right now you’re going to have to step
to the plate.”
“Right,” I mutter. “Sorry, I’m a little new here.”
She laughs out loud and jumps up to smother me in a hug. “Well, if you aren’t the most precious thing in the world. ‘I’m a
little new here.’ Honey, that’s like being a little engulfed in flames. No, you’re completely and utterly new here. And in
a ridiculously nice suit, I might add!”
She laughs some more. Then she sits back down, gathers herself, and looks into my eyes again with great sincerity. “Steven,
you were new seconds ago. But now you’ve been willing to let a silly old woman laugh at you and hug you. From this moment
on you are no longer new. You’re a regular. Welcome to Bo’s, young man.” She hugs me again, jingling all over.
I mumble something back to her, but I am stunned. Less than an hour ago, I was trying to end the ride that brought me here.
Now I’m taking in ocean air fused with the smell of shrimp and corn on the cob, smiling at this woman who is completely delighted
at my awkwardness. She’s staring again, contentedly waiting for me to catch up. I’m not used to catching up. I’m also not
used to noticing the way the waves crash against pylons on the pier. But that’s what I’m doing.
“Steven,” she eventually calls out.
My eyes come back into focus. “I’m sorry, Cynthia. I grew up around here. I’m just taking it all in.”
She pats my hand. “Forgive me, Steven. I can be a little much all at once. You don’t know me and I don’t know you. But my
friend Andy… he cares about you. So now you’re important to me. It’s kind of that simple. I don’t know if what I’m about to
say will make any sense, but here goes.”
She is sitting too close again as she says, “Don’t miss what is being offered to you. It would be easy for you to miss it.
You’ve got deadlines and quotas. When life is moving fast and in a straight line, it’s easy to discount anything slow and
circular.”
“Miss what?” I ask.
“Forgive me again. I’m rushing ahead. It’s just that I wanted to get this out while Andy wasn’t at the table.” Cynthia’s smile
and the way she puts her hand on my arm is reassuring.
“Let me back up a little,” she says. “I was Andy’s wife’s best friend—”
“Excuse me,” I interrupt. “
Was
Andy’s wife’s best friend?”
“My wife died, Steven,” Andy answers as he returns to the table. He turns his chair backward and sits, his arms folded across
its top. “She contracted a quick-moving form of cancer. She fought courageously, but the cancer won.”
I blink once. Twice. “I’m sorry, Andy. How long ago did this happen?”
“It was about six years ago.” He stops. His mouth starts moving like he’s going to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks
over at Cynthia.
I interrupt my own question. “We don’t have to talk about this right now.”
Andy continues as if I haven’t spoken. “When Laura died, I was a mess. I drifted away from almost everyone. People reached
out, but I just wanted to be alone. Somehow I managed the bills and continued to work. But I was walking around like I was
wearing several heavy winter coats. Each day my goal was just to make it back home and to bed.
“One night, about four months after her death, I was alone in that big house where all our life had happened. I was just overcome
with grief. Blackness. I heard a knock at the door. It was Cynthia and her husband, Keith. They had
publisher there’s a market.” Her eyes twinkle a little. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll get rich. More likely they’ll make nice Christmas
gifts. It’s really just something I enjoy doing.”
More silence…
“My dear, have you noticed you’re not saying anything? One of the primary requisites for a conversation is the back-and-forth
part. I can’t do that on my own. I would if I could, as my husband will tell you. But right now you’re going to have to step
to the plate.”
“Right,” I mutter. “Sorry, I’m a little new here.”
She laughs out loud and jumps up to smother me in a hug. “Well, if you aren’t the most precious thing in the world. ‘I’m a
little new here.’ Honey, that’s like being a little engulfed in flames. No, you’re completely and utterly new here. And in
a ridiculously nice suit, I might add!”
She laughs some more. Then she sits back down, gathers herself, and looks into my eyes again with great sincerity. “Steven,
you were new seconds ago. But now you’ve been willing to let a silly old woman laugh at you and hug you. From this moment
on you are no longer new. You’re a regular. Welcome to Bo’s, young man.” She hugs me again, jingling all over.
I mumble something back to her, but I am stunned. Less than an hour ago, I was trying to end the ride that brought me here.
Now I’m taking in ocean air fused with the smell of shrimp and corn on the cob, smiling at this woman who is completely delighted
at my awkwardness. She’s staring again, contentedly waiting for me to catch up. I’m not used to catching up. I’m also not
used to noticing the way the waves crash against pylons on the pier. But that’s what I’m doing.
“Steven,” she eventually calls out.
My eyes come back into focus. “I’m sorry, Cynthia. I grew up around here. I’m just taking it all in.”
She pats my hand. “Forgive me, Steven. I can be a little much all at once. You don’t know me and I don’t know you. But my
friend Andy… he cares about you. So now you’re important to me. It’s kind of that simple. I don’t know if what I’m about to
say will make any sense, but here goes.”
She is sitting too close again as she says, “Don’t miss what is being offered to you. It would be easy for you to miss it.
You’ve got deadlines and quotas. When life is moving fast and in a straight line, it’s easy to discount anything slow and
circular.”
“Miss what?” I ask.
“Forgive me again. I’m rushing ahead. It’s just that I wanted to get this out while Andy wasn’t at the table.” Cynthia’s smile
and the way she puts her hand on my arm is reassuring.
“Let me back up a little,” she says. “I was Andy’s wife’s best friend—”
“Excuse me,” I interrupt. “
Was
Andy’s wife’s best friend?”
“My wife died, Steven,” Andy answers as he returns to the table. He turns his chair backward and sits, his arms folded across
its top. “She contracted a quick-moving form of cancer. She fought courageously, but the cancer won.”
I blink once. Twice. “I’m sorry, Andy. How long ago did this happen?”
“It was about six years ago.” He stops. His mouth starts moving like he’s going to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks
over at Cynthia.
I interrupt my own question. “We don’t have to talk about this right now.”
Andy continues as if I haven’t spoken. “When Laura died, I was a mess. I drifted away from almost everyone. People reached
out, but I just wanted to be alone. Somehow I managed the bills and continued to work. But I was walking around like I was
wearing several heavy winter coats. Each day my goal was just to make it back home and to bed.
“One night, about four months after her death, I was alone in that big house where all our life had happened. I was just overcome
with grief. Blackness. I heard a knock at the door. It was Cynthia and her husband, Keith. They had
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