Running late, with a pounding hangover headache, Rick takes the PATH train into Manhattan at noon.
He’d lied to Rowan on Friday night when he’d said his schedule was wide open this weekend. In reality, he had—-has—-plans for Sunday brunch with his closest friend in the world. He’d have canceled if today had been his only opportunity to reconnect with Rowan, but as it turned out, he didn’t have to.
That’s good, because he really needs someone to talk to right now, and Bob Belinke is one of the few -people he trusts.
They met in kindergarten back in their hometown Appleton, Wisconsin, and bonded—-rather, clashed—-when they both wanted to play with the same toy plane at recess. Bob was equally obsessed with all things aviation--related, and they both wanted to become pilots when they grew up.
Bob learned to fly at sixteen, had his private license at eighteen, went to Aeronautical University, went to work for the FAA as an air traffic controller in Illinois, Oklahoma, and Kansas, and even owned his own plane, while Rick . . .
Well, at least someone’s dream came true.
Bob retired to Florida over a decade ago, but he’s an avid traveler and pops up in New York every so often. This weekend, he’s on an overnight layover on his way home from Scotland and England, and he’d e--mailed Rick last week to see if he was free.
It’s been a while since I’ve heard from you, he wrote. I worry. How are you doing on your own?
On his own—-he’s always been on his own. Even when he and Vanessa were still married and going through the motions of supporting each other, they lived separate lives. He felt more alone in their relationship than he has since it ended with her death.
But he wrote back to Bob simply Hanging in there, and arranged to meet today at the same diner where he wound up meeting Rowan yesterday.
It’s near Bob’s hotel and the PATH station and—-most important—-it’s affordable. He hasn’t told Bob about his recent layoff. He hasn’t told anyone, even the kids. With two in college, bills stacking up, and Vanessa’s life insurance settlement still in limbo, Rick isn’t going to be brunching at the Peninsula anytime soon.
Walking in, he spots Bob sitting a booth away from the one he and Rowan shared only twenty--four hours ago. The same waitress is handling the section. What was her name? Bertrice? Beatrice?
She spots him heading to the table and waves, cheerfully busting his chops: “What, are you a stalker or something?”
“Only for you—-” He can see her name tag now. “—-Bernice.”
Standing to greet him with a warm handshake, Bob asks if he’s a regular here.
“This weekend I am,” he replies, thinking no one in the restaurant is going to mistake Bob for a regular. He’s wearing a bright blue polo shirt and has the tanned, relaxed vibe that may be de rigueur in Florida but is rarely seen in New York City.
There was a time, not long after they were married, when Rick imagined himself and Vanessa living that life someday. It was a short--lived fantasy. Even if they had stayed together—-even if they could have afforded for Vanessa to retire and she’d been willing to move South—-the lifestyle would never have suited her.
“Can you see me on a golf course, wearing a visor and Lilly Pulitzer?” she’d asked, wrinkling her nose when he brought it up. “All that pastel. I could never.”
“You don’t have to dress like that. It’s not in the Florida rulebook.”
“I bet there is a Florida rulebook and it comes with coupons for bug repellent and early bird specials.”
“Why do you hate Florida so much?”
Why do you hate everything?
Ignoring the question he’d asked, Vanessa added, as if to answer the one he hadn’t asked: “And the sun. I hate the sun. I burn and I freckle.”
Rick had to bite his tongue to keep from saying he likes freckles.