Richard had long favoured more conservative places, but the choice was out of his hands. Perhaps Ruth wasn’t being quite fair: it was his birthday, after all. She had heard Henry speak of this restaurant at work, and she had made the reservation before Richard could protest. When she told him where they were going, he looked disappointed. If she wanted French food, he said, how about that place just north of the lake, a mere five-minute drive from home? Ruth returned the observation that surely the last thing he wanted as he got older was to get set in his ways. Over the preceding weeks, the household had descended into a morbid mood. Richard was working longer hours at the clinic, often eating dinner there. When he was home, Ruth tried to be busy marking student assignments or working on The Pomegranate. She was surprised by how easy it was to get around talking about anything of significance, to pretend that the pit bull argument had never happened. Richard had once been unable to let any acrimony between them pass without redress, but now he appeared as happy as she to dwell within discomfort, to accept it as a condition without easy alteration.
