He comes back to the restaurant. A Thursday, like before. He smiles at me. When I hand him back his credit card, his fingers brush against mine. But they’re cold. Dead. Like they will never hold on to me again, grip me like I’m the most tantalizing, the most beloved creature in the world.
On Friday evening, the judge comes in for dinner. He sits at the bar, his preferred spot. It’s more casual this way, he says. He can mingle. Plus he’d feel self-conscious, all by himself at a table.
The idea is here. In my mind. It has the air of generosity, but there’s a toxicity to it. It feels interesting and a little bit dangerous.
Aidan won’t like it at first, but—if I play my cards right—he’ll come around to it.
“We should do more.”
The judge looks up like he’s just noticed my presence.
“For the family,” I tell him. “They’ve been through so much. I can’t imagine what it’s been like for his daughter.”
He stares at something above my shoulder, considering it. Judge Byrne. Three decades on the bench. Every four years, his name on the ballot. Every four years, his future in the hands of the town. How it matters to him, not only being liked, but for people to know he likes them back.
“You’re right,” he says. “You’re absolutely right.”
Okay. There’s no turning back now. We’re doing this. I’m doing this.
“If I were her,” I tell the judge, “I’d want a little party. Christmas break, you miss your friends, right?” A brief nod. “I would never admit it, of course. Teenagers…” The judge and I roll our eyes together as if we both know, as if he remembers as well as I do what it’s like to be a thirteen-year-old girl.
Eric deposits a plate of mushroom risotto in front of the judge. I pour him an Irish coffee on the house, and we keep talking.
The easiest thing, I supply, would be to do it at their house.
The judge isn’t so sure. “Won’t we be imposing?”
“It’s your house, Judge.”
“I know, I know,” he says. “But Aidan’s renting it. I’m not sure I want to be that kind of landlord.”
I lean over the bar. Stay with me, Judge. “We could have it outside the house. The yard is so nice.” The judge tilts his head. “We can use the space heaters from the restaurant patio,” I tell him. “Hang Christmas lights. I’ll make mulled wine. We’ll take care of everything. It’ll be beautiful.”
He thinks it over.
“Have you seen the house?” I ask. “It could be so pretty, but right now it’s just sad. It’s the only one on the street without any lights. I’m not blaming anyone, mind you. They moved here at the worst time in their lives. But I think they need a little help making it feel like home. They need to start making nice memories there.”
This time, the judge smiles. He’s in. “All right,” he says. “That’s not a bad idea. I’ll speak to Aidan, let him know he won’t have to lift a finger.”
“Great.” Then, with a grin: “He’ll probably have a hard time with that, though. You know how he gets. Can’t ever stay still. Always has to help with everything.”
The judge chuckles, like Don’t I know it. I top up his Irish coffee, and he raises his cup to our dear friend.
“It should be soon,” I say as I screw the cap back on the bottle of Jameson. “It should be before Christmas.”
The judge nods.
After he leaves, I rest my hands on the counter and consider what just happened. A little dizzy, a little out of breath.
Aidan.
His house, his home.
We will be there, together. And I will get to him. I will get right to the heart of him.