Hattie Magee’s was a typical sports bar: muted TVs tuned to ESPN, the waitstaff in football jerseys, Scott’s band in jeans and cowboy boots. Erik had had a fundraising event nearby, so I’d driven over with Annabelle and Eva, whose family was from Philly and had vacationed in Rehoboth every summer when she was growing up.
“You lived there? It’s one of my favorite places in the world,” she told me.
“Mine too,” I said.
When she learned that my parents owned the restaurant her family had made a point of frequenting each year, she squeezed my arm and said, “It’s almost like we already know each other.”
As soon as we walked into Hattie’s, Scott, in the middle of “Brown-Eyed Girl,” broke into a huge grin, eyes laser-focused on Annabelle. Two older women at the bar swiveled to look at us, then said, “He certainly didn’t respond like that when we walked in the door.”
Erik and Gabe were already at a booth, and as we approached, they stood and started singing “Mrs. Robinson,” just loud enough for Annabelle to hear. A reference to her being eight years older than Scott.
“Shut up,” she laughed.
Eva kissed Gabe, then reached up to wipe the smudge of lipstick off his lip. “You’re not being very nice.”
“That’s why you love me. Nice is boring.”
“I love you because you’re smart and kind,” Eva said as she settled into the booth.
“What? Not good-looking?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, my love. Good-looking too.” He was, though not the kind of good-looking Scott was—chiseled features, dimpled smile, bodybuilder arms. Gabe was more handsome than good-looking: wrinkled oxford, wire-rimmed glasses, close-cropped gray hair. And a great smile. As soon as I sat down, he said, “So, Erik says you aren’t a theater person either, thank God!” He grinned. “Give us the dirt: He talks about Ten Chimneys in his sleep, doesn’t he?”
“He whispers Lynn Fontanne’s name,” I teased.
“Traitor.” Erik squeezed my leg.
“Even I whisper Lynn Fontanne’s name in my sleep,” Eva said. “God, that woman could act!”
“What you should all be whispering about is a new name for that place,” Annabelle said. “It’s a PR nightmare.”
“Ten Chimneys is what Alfred and Lynn called it,” Erik said.
“Who cares?” Annabelle retorted. “Why not just call it Ten Drain Spouts, Fifteen Gutters?”
“Thirteen Toilets,” Eva laughed.
“That’s low,” Erik said, but he was smiling.
The whole night was like that: banter and jokes and such gentle affection between them. “You still with us?” Eva asked Annabelle as she gazed at Scott. “How many fingers do you see?” She held up two.
Annabelle smiled and, without turning, said, “How many do you see?” and flashed Eva her own finger. We all laughed.
What surprised me most was how much I not only liked them but liked who I was with them. Relaxed, funny, happy. I had been serious for so long, had wondered for years if I’d ever be able to enjoy myself again without feeling guilty.
We talked about Gabe and Eva’s recent vacation to Door County, grilled Annabelle about Scott, talked about the kids. Eva and I chatted about Wallace Stegner’s Wisconsin novel, Crossing to Safety, a favorite for us both, and then we were all discussing our shared addiction to The Sopranos. We shifted from teasing to serious, then back again effortlessly. I thought of a performance I’d once seen where a dozen dancers moved about the stage in complicated, intricate ways, all while holding the edges of a huge swath of fiery orange fabric so that the rippling and folding and twisting and unfurling of the cloth became its own performance. Our conversation was like that, a bright billowing thing, each of them holding an edge.
During the break between sets, when Scott pulled up a chair, I watched how they folded him into the group as naturally as they had me. Despite their incessant Mrs. Robinson references to Annabelle or the way they referred to Scott as “your painter boy” or made fun of his looks—“You could fall into that dimple and never find your way home again!”—I loved how genuine and welcoming they were, Erik buying Scott a beer, Gabe asking what kind of guitar he was using, and Eva, the nurturer in the group, nudging her plate of nachos toward him and urging him to eat. It was obvious they liked him not only because Scott was immensely likable but also because they loved Annabelle, and if this was what she wanted, then they did too.
Or should I say we? Because by the time Scott joined our table, I felt like I was a part of them, like I had been for years.