living situation at lunch."
"Yessir, I will! Thank you for the opportunity," Jim said, shaking Walter's hand, noting its steely grip.
The old man guffawed, slapping his young friend's back.
Jim turned toward the door, and before opening it, angled his head toward the window. He narrowed his eyes and smiled with contentment. The Charles idled past with its daysailers and occasional sailboats, their sails puffing in the wind like the breasts of eagles on the verge of taking flight.
Jim hoped he could meet the challenge. It had been years since he had worked on a boat.
CHAPTER TEN
The belfry of Saint Cecilia's rang in noontime a block away as Jim strolled down Boylston toward Whiskey's Smokehouse and Saloon. Inside, he held up his identification to the doorman.
" Louisiana ? You're a long way from home! There for Katrina?" The brawny man in the muscle shirt squinted down at Jim.
"Unfortunately, yes," Jim said, immediately regretting his glib response.
The roar of the lunchtime crowd was befitting Fenway Park. Music videos played on all screens, and the place was almost as glutted as it would be in five hours with young professionals and students from Boston University and Berklee College. Jim glanced across the room, then meandered through the teeming crowd and took his seat with his three friends.
Most of his closest friends in New England were there except his good friend in New Hampshire: Liam, the actual reason for his move to the region. Jim spotted Bryce Donahue, who hailed from Simsbury, Connecticut. Bryce lived in an apartment a few blocks away on Newbury and Hereford.
"Greetings, Jimmy!" Bryce said. A CPA at Ernst and Young, Bryce often met Jim for lunch at Whiskey's for the famous ten-cent wings, lobster specials, and beer. Bryce shared Jim's near-fanatical love for seafood and they knew all the good spots in town.
"Good to see y'all. Glad we could meet up at 'the club'!"
"You've got some important news for us, Jimmy," said his friend Duff, an inside salesman and native Bostonian who lived on Bowdoin Street in Beacon Hill. Duff was blind from birth, yet his wizard-like skill at maneuvering through the meandering streets of Boston without a fall or any impact with man or car ranked second only to his zest for meeting and conversing with young women.
"I've got some news, yes indeedy!" Jim said.
"Well, Mr. Scoresby," his friend Patrick Brauner said. Patrick was in his residency at Harvard Medical School. Maureen seemed to be one of a handful of young females not impressed with him. Maureen was even repulsed, detecting a womanizer.
"Cough it up, man," Patrick said. "Alas, you have decided on moving west and pursuing a career as an ' actor ' of ill repute."
"It's a good thing I didn't invite our friend Father Esteban from Saint Cecilia's across the street." Duff was the only friend who did not care for Patrick.
"Yes, this time the priesthood might actually recruit him," Patrick sneered.
"Alright, man, enough of the suspense!" his friend Case said, beating a drum roll with his hands on the table. Though well liked by the entire group, Case cut a unique figure there at the table. He was longhaired, six-three, gangly and his face was weathered a bit past his years from mountain climbing and hiking out west.
"I've told y'all that I've opened most of my firm's new accounts in the last four months," Jim began.
"You yuppie!" Case said.
"Of course, Case," Bryce nodded over his chicken wings. "And well done, Jim."
"Thanks. Walter Henretty has commended me many times. But he's moving me out of the firm. He's transferring me to a totally unrelated side-venture of his, putting me in charge of the Melville Yacht Brokerage down on the Cape, in Osterville. Selling, buying boats, delivering them up and down the East Coast. Wintering them down south! I'll be making out well in terms of pay and benefits, too."
"That's good stuff, Jimmy," Bryce said. "That's right up your alley."
"Hell yeah! Whoo hooo!" Case
"Yessir, I will! Thank you for the opportunity," Jim said, shaking Walter's hand, noting its steely grip.
The old man guffawed, slapping his young friend's back.
Jim turned toward the door, and before opening it, angled his head toward the window. He narrowed his eyes and smiled with contentment. The Charles idled past with its daysailers and occasional sailboats, their sails puffing in the wind like the breasts of eagles on the verge of taking flight.
Jim hoped he could meet the challenge. It had been years since he had worked on a boat.
CHAPTER TEN
The belfry of Saint Cecilia's rang in noontime a block away as Jim strolled down Boylston toward Whiskey's Smokehouse and Saloon. Inside, he held up his identification to the doorman.
" Louisiana ? You're a long way from home! There for Katrina?" The brawny man in the muscle shirt squinted down at Jim.
"Unfortunately, yes," Jim said, immediately regretting his glib response.
The roar of the lunchtime crowd was befitting Fenway Park. Music videos played on all screens, and the place was almost as glutted as it would be in five hours with young professionals and students from Boston University and Berklee College. Jim glanced across the room, then meandered through the teeming crowd and took his seat with his three friends.
Most of his closest friends in New England were there except his good friend in New Hampshire: Liam, the actual reason for his move to the region. Jim spotted Bryce Donahue, who hailed from Simsbury, Connecticut. Bryce lived in an apartment a few blocks away on Newbury and Hereford.
"Greetings, Jimmy!" Bryce said. A CPA at Ernst and Young, Bryce often met Jim for lunch at Whiskey's for the famous ten-cent wings, lobster specials, and beer. Bryce shared Jim's near-fanatical love for seafood and they knew all the good spots in town.
"Good to see y'all. Glad we could meet up at 'the club'!"
"You've got some important news for us, Jimmy," said his friend Duff, an inside salesman and native Bostonian who lived on Bowdoin Street in Beacon Hill. Duff was blind from birth, yet his wizard-like skill at maneuvering through the meandering streets of Boston without a fall or any impact with man or car ranked second only to his zest for meeting and conversing with young women.
"I've got some news, yes indeedy!" Jim said.
"Well, Mr. Scoresby," his friend Patrick Brauner said. Patrick was in his residency at Harvard Medical School. Maureen seemed to be one of a handful of young females not impressed with him. Maureen was even repulsed, detecting a womanizer.
"Cough it up, man," Patrick said. "Alas, you have decided on moving west and pursuing a career as an ' actor ' of ill repute."
"It's a good thing I didn't invite our friend Father Esteban from Saint Cecilia's across the street." Duff was the only friend who did not care for Patrick.
"Yes, this time the priesthood might actually recruit him," Patrick sneered.
"Alright, man, enough of the suspense!" his friend Case said, beating a drum roll with his hands on the table. Though well liked by the entire group, Case cut a unique figure there at the table. He was longhaired, six-three, gangly and his face was weathered a bit past his years from mountain climbing and hiking out west.
"I've told y'all that I've opened most of my firm's new accounts in the last four months," Jim began.
"You yuppie!" Case said.
"Of course, Case," Bryce nodded over his chicken wings. "And well done, Jim."
"Thanks. Walter Henretty has commended me many times. But he's moving me out of the firm. He's transferring me to a totally unrelated side-venture of his, putting me in charge of the Melville Yacht Brokerage down on the Cape, in Osterville. Selling, buying boats, delivering them up and down the East Coast. Wintering them down south! I'll be making out well in terms of pay and benefits, too."
"That's good stuff, Jimmy," Bryce said. "That's right up your alley."
"Hell yeah! Whoo hooo!" Case
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