(Paul neglected to mention the fact that he agreed with the Professor.) He gestured to her left hand. “That’s quite a rock you have.”
“Thank you. Gabriel picked it.”
Of course he’d buy her a big-ass ring, Paul thought. I’m surprised he didn’t have his name tattooed on her forehead.
“I would have married him with a ring from a box of Cracker Jack.” Julia looked at her hand wistfully. “I would have married him with a tie from a garbage bag. I don’t care about this kind of stuff.”
Exactly. I could have never given her a ring like that. But Julia is the kind of girl who would be happy with next to nothing, provided she loved the guy enough.
“He paid off my student loans,” she offered quietly.
“What, all of them?”
She nodded. “I was going to consolidate them and start making payments, but he insisted on paying them.”
Paul whistled. “That must have cost him.”
“It did. It’s taken some getting used to—the fact that we share everything including a bank account. I had a very small checking account when we got married. He had . . . more.”
“How do you like living in Cambridge?” Paul changed the subject, far from eager to learn how much more the Professor had.
“I love it. We live close enough to Harvard so I can walk. Which is good, because I don’t drive.” Julia sounded sheepish.
“You don’t? Why not?”
“I kept getting lost and ending up in sketchy neighborhoods. I called Gabriel from Dorchester one night and he had a fit. And that was after I’d used the GPS.”
“How did you end up in Dorchester?”
“The GPS screwed up. It didn’t recognize one-way streets. It even told me to do an illegal U-turn while I was driving through one of the underpasses. So I ended up farther and farther away from my house. After that, I quit.”
“You don’t drive at all?”
“Not in the greater Boston area. Gabriel’s Range Rover is difficult to park and I was always worried I was going to hit someone. Boston drivers are crazy. And don’t get me started on the pedestrians.”
Paul resisted the urge to itemize Gabriel’s myriad failings, and settled on one.
“Why doesn’t he get you a new car? Obviously, he can afford it.”
“I want something small, like a Smart car or one of those new Fiats. Gabriel says they’re like driving a can of tuna.” She sighed. “He wants me in something bigger, like a Hummer.”
He bumped her shoulder playfully. “Planning on invading Baghdad? Or just Charlestown?”
“Very funny. If I can’t parallel park the Range Rover, how the hell am I going to park a Hummer?”
Paul laughed, opening the door to the restaurant.
Before he could ask the host for a table for two, a commotion emerged from a nearby table. A little girl, who was probably three or four years old, was hitting a button on her book repeatedly, generating a few bars of a song over and over again.
As the girl continued this behavior, Paul and Julia looked around the restaurant. The other patrons were less than impressed.
A woman who was modestly dressed and wearing a hijab tried to persuade the girl to exchange her musical book for another, nonmusical one. But the girl shrieked in protest.
It was at that moment that an older man who had been sitting near them noisily demanded that the waiter silence the girl. He further complained that she was ruining his lunch and that children who cannot behave themselves should not be allowed in restaurants.
The woman flushed a deep red and tried once again to persuade her daughter to switch books. But once again, the girl refused, kicking loudly against the table leg.
At that moment, the host approached them.
“A table for two,” said Paul cheerfully.
“By the window?” The host gestured to a table in the far corner, next to the window.
“Yes.” Paul moved to follow the host as he retrieved two menus.
As they were walking across the dining room, Julia noticed that the older man was still grumbling about the little girl and that she was still playing her music loudly and erratically. Julia wondered briefly if the little girl was autistic. Regardless, she was appalled at the older man’s behavior.
She addressed the host. “Maybe we could trade tables with the girl and her mother? If they don’t want to move, that’s fine. But the girl might like to look out the window and she’d be able to play with her book in peace.”
The host glanced in the direction of Julia’s hand, noting the increasing discomfort of the other diners.
“Excuse me,” he said, before approaching mother and child.
The mother and the host had a quick exchange in Arabic, and then the mother addressed her daughter in English.
“Maia, we can sit by the window. Isn’t that nice? We can look out at the cars.”
The little girl followed her mother’s gesture to the table in the corner. She blinked a little behind her thick glasses and nodded.
“Maia, can you say thank you?”