He struggled to get out of the large, comfortable chair, his arthritis in evidence, and I reached him before he stood. I leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You are here,” I said. “Ayuh, I certainly am, Jessica. Pleasant evening?” “Yes, pleasant enough, and interesting, although I’m not sure why.” He pushed himself to his feet and said, “Nightcap? The bar is right elegant.” “I know. I was there last night.” “Seems like you’ve been doin’ your share of ramming since you got here to D.C.,” he said as we headed for the Round Robin Bar. I laughed at his use of the Maine colloquialism for being out on the town. “Yes, I have been”—I slipped in the Maine phrase for being busy—“all drove up.” I took his arm as we entered the bar and were directed to one of only a few available tables. Seth, who was a moderate drinker—although he has always enjoyed his Manhattans and ward eights—had recently developed a taste for imported beers, and ordered one. I was thirsty and asked for a sparkling water with a wedge of lemon.
