Page 121 of A Matter of Time

I nodded, then asked if the attorney was married.

“Engaged to a pediatrician. Sweetest little gal you ever met. We’re having her and her family over for Thanksgiving tomorrow. Got a huge spread—like, thirty people coming.”

“Must be nice.”

We talked about architecture and art and for some reason music, because he didn’t understand what was going on with what people were singing about “these days,” and I played him some jazz remixes on my MP3 player. He got a big kick out of using the headphones and was impressed that I knew my world history. He had been in Vietnam, doing three tours before coming home to finish up his law degree, at the same time becoming a certified public accountant. I asked a million questions about the war and if he had been disappointed that neither of his sons had enlisted.

He nodded at me. “Very perceptive question, son.” But he didn’t answer, so I figured it was private.

He was intrigued by the assortment of pens on my desk, and I explained that each one had its own special function. I took him with me to get my afternoon coffee, and on my way back, when I hesitated, he asked me what I was doing. I explained about the scented oils that I was out of and needed to pick up. I laughed when he offered to go along to the head shop with me.

Mr. Ward looking at bongs and candles and watching people smoke from a hookah was hysterical. I let him smell the bergamot, sandalwood, and amber oil I wore, and he cocked his head back and forth, giving me a look like it was okay. I couldn’t stop smiling. When we got back, Dane was there and thanked me for entertaining our guest. I nodded, and Mr. Ward draped an arm across my shoulders and said that he hadn’t had such a lovely afternoon in he couldn’t remember how long.

After work, Dane sent me to pick up wine for him to take to Thanksgiving dinner the following day at his friend Jude’s house. He invited me along for the fifth time, and I turned him down for the last time. I assured him that I would be fine. While not convinced, neither did he push me. He knew me well enough to know the harder I was pressed, the harder I resisted.

On my way to the train, I got a call.

“Jory?”

“Yes?”

“Jory, this is Truman Ward from this afternoon.”

“Oh.” I smiled. “How’re you, sir?”

“I’m good, thank you. I wanted to call and see if maybe you would like to join my family for dinner tomorrow night, say around five?”

“Sir, tomorrow’s Thanksgiving.”

“Yes, I know,” he affirmed, like maybe I wasn’t that bright. “That’s why I’m calling.”

“But, sir, you’re having, like, thirty people you said and⁠—”

“And one more won’t make a bit of difference. I have to say I so enjoyed meeting you and talking to you, and I would just love it if you showed up.”

“But—”

“It’s very casual, son, no suits or that kind of crap, just football and good food and family and friends. You’ll have a good time. Please say you’ll come.”

How could I say no to a new adventure? “Yessir.”

“Oh, excellent. I’m really pleased.”

“You’re kinda weird,” I assured him.

And he laughed harder before he gave me the address.

The train to Highland Park dropped me off on a platform in the middle of town. I saw the deli Mr. Ward had told me to look for, so I took the right as I had been directed. I passed the little shops and found that the crisp air, the leaves blowing around on the ground, and the gray sky were very soothing. I loved being outside in the fall, the smell of fireplaces and that mix of cold, slight damp, and dirt making me feel good. Like winter was coming, which I loved most of all.

The house was a huge four-story Georgian colonial with one of those crescent-shaped driveways done in red cobblestone. There were flower beds on both sides of the porch that went from one end of the front of the house to the other. The fall cornucopia wreath on the front door was very festive, if not a little over the top. I used the knocker because I couldn’t find the doorbell, then waited.

I was ignored for a minute before the door opened. The guy who answered was talking to someone behind him and was still engaged in conversation, only turning to me after several seconds. When he did, I felt better. His smile was warm and seemed genuine.

“Oh.” He seemed taken aback. “Hi. Who’re you?”

I smiled wide. “I’m Jory.”

“You’re Jory?” He was staring at me, deep into my eyes. “My dad’s friend Jory?”