Date: Mon, 14 Nov 2022 08:50:37 -0500
From: Samuel Stefanik <churchphilips@yahoo.com>
Subject: From Whence I Came.  Chapter 22

Here's the next chapter as promised!

I hope you enjoy this installment!  Drop me a line if you want.  I'd be
happy to hear from you.

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close up now and have a great day!  If you are of legal age and are
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Crown Vic to a Parallel World: From Whence I Came
The second installment of the ongoing adventures of Church Philips

22

An Anticlimactic Meeting & A Climactic Meal

Joe's plain, silver, four-door, German import was much smaller than the
Town Car, a trait I took advantage of while driving into Philly.  Its
handling was nimble and precise.  Diving in and out of lanes wasn't even
challenging.  The ride was another matter.  It was appalling, like a
horse-drawn cinderblock.  I looked forward to never driving the thing
again.

As conversation fodder as we rode along, Shawn brought up the subject of
whatever we'd experienced on the yard swing that morning.  I explained how
Bem was feeling anxious and down, but I didn't say why.  I told Shawn how
I'd activated my magic and let it gather all over my body, the same way I'd
done the night before.  I explained, as best as I could, what I felt when
Bem's magic equalized with mine.

That's what I assumed had happened anyway.  I couldn't come up with any
other reason for the magic to stop its one-way flow and to become two-way.
I knew that Bem's capacity hadn't increased to match mine, but I assumed
I'd filled his capacity and that's why the magic drifted between us instead
of just moving from me to Bem.

Shawn cupped his right cheek in his right hand and leaned into his
palm. "It felt incredible, like I was sharing all of you and all of Bem at
the same time.  I'd like to do it just with you to see what that would be
like."

"Maybe tonight." I offered.

"Maybe." Shawn hedged. "I still worry sometimes about what making all that
magic might be costing you."

"I thought we settled all that."

"We found out your magic doesn't hurt people around you, but we never
confirmed that it's not harming you, not definitively."

I patted my right hand on the steering wheel and passed a slow-moving truck
on the right.  I felt Shawn's anxiety spike up as I jumped in front of the
truck and accelerated away from it.  I glanced at my husband and felt bad
for scaring him.  I told myself not to drive like a nut, then I stopped to
pay the bridge toll and came out of the booth hard on the throttle like I
usually would.  I apologized to Shawn but didn't adjust my driving style.

"As far as my magic goes," I said as an add-on to the end of my apology,
"there isn't anything I can do about it, so I'm not going to worry.  This
magic saved your world and..."

"Our world." Shawn corrected.

"Our world." I agreed. "And it helps Bem and it helped Joe and it helps
you.  Even if it is costing me something, I would rather pay that cost than
to not be able to help the people I love."

"I just want you to be careful." Shawn explained. "I love you and I want to
keep you."

"I know."

"Do you?" Shawn challenged.

"What?"

"Do you know that I love you?"

"Of course."

Shawn retreated into his thoughts for the rest of the drive to the Market
Street address.  I wondered what was behind his asking me if I was certain
that he loved me.  I didn't wonder for very long though because I didn't
have time.  Soon, we'd arrived.

* * * *

When we got to the Market Street high-rise that housed Abbey Associates
Wealth Management, we were greeted by a valet who relieved us of the car
and a very attractive woman in a close-fitting business suit who introduced
herself as the `head administrator.'  My mind immediately dropped into the
gutter when she told us her title.  I'll confess that I sniggered like an
adolescent who'd remembered a limerick as the woman escorted us to the
fourteenth floor.  I had it under control by the time we entered the
executive conference room where the partners of the firm waited.

The conference room was ultra-modern.  The exterior walls were
floor-to-ceiling glass in a weird parallel to the transparent walls in Ars'
office on Solum, but these walls had seams.  Inside, the style was very
standard `Earth corporate.'  The room had low-pile commercial carpet in
beige, a glass and chrome conference table, and black leather swivel
chairs.  The walls were covered with maroon paneling that was streaked with
vertical black lines.  The ceiling was a standard, white acoustic drop
ceiling and there was a ceiling-mounted projector and retractable screen
for presentations.

There were three partners, all roughly middle age, all overweight, and all
dressed in conservative blue suits.  Nicholas Abbey was the youngest and
least portly, Robert Newman (the associate, I assumed) was in the middle of
size and age, and William Abbey was the eldest and largest man.  Robert
took the lead in the review of the portfolio and provided advice while the
Abbeys looked on and made sounds of approval from time to time.

After some initial confusion over whether it was me or Shawn that was the
subject of the meeting, the wealth managers addressed all their attention
to Shawn.  I was glad of that.  It was his portfolio, after all.  I was
there as little more than an escort.  Once we all shook hands and I
clarified the relationship, the Abbeys and Call-Me-Bob Newman paid me no
attention beyond what was required for common courtesy.

The wealth managers laid out several options of how to handle the portfolio
but advised Shawn that each option had its own benefits and downsides.
They counseled that one plan that involved the formation of an LLC
corporation to hold the portfolio, had the largest benefits and the least
detractions.  It was that plan which Shawn eventually agreed to.

The LLC would be called `Summas and Summas Investments' and Shawn and his
uncle would be equal partners.  This gave the most flexibility.  While Ars
was alive, he could continue to manage the funds as he had been.  When he
died, everything would automatically transfer to the remaining partner,
Shawn.

What this meant in practice was that, once Ars' Earth identity grew too old
to be usable, Ars would simply continue to manage the portfolio in Shawn's
name.  For the price of a modest annual retainer, the firm would facilitate
the reinvestment of dividends, handle changes in the fund allocation, and
see to any disbursements.  Shawn signed the necessary forms for both him
and his uncle.  As he had come prepared with Ars' power of attorney, he was
able to handle all the business on his own authority.

Bob explained that the process of starting the LLC, and gathering the
portfolio into it, would take a week or less.  With all the electronic
accounting in use, much of what needed to be done was simple data entry.
They also said that if Shawn wanted access to the funds, a transfer of any
size was as easy as filling in a form.  The wealth managers confirmed that
they would be in touch with Shawn later in the week with a progress update.

The other thing the meeting accomplished was to put Shawn on record as one
of the lawful partners in the LLC with an identity that was confirmed by
the Abbey Associates notary.  The administrators of the firm copied Shawn's
identification for the files and for a certified affidavit that further
confirmed his identity for the Securities and Exchange commission.  Thus,
Shawn and his uncle had complied with the requirements of the new law
before it was even in force.

* * * *

"I can't believe it was that easy."  I said as we got the car back from the
valet.  "Usually, your uncle sends us to do the impossible.  That meeting
was anticlimactic to say the least."

"I know."  Shawn agreed as he settled into the passenger seat and buckled
his belt.  "I feel like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.  By the
way, what had you laughing when we met that woman?"

I snickered at the memory.  "She's the `head administrator.'  Get it?  She
administers the head."  Shawn didn't get it and I had to explain it.
Instead of a laugh, I got an eye roll for being a child.

We left the Abbey Associates garage and I drove us toward the river, to
Penn's Landing where we had reservations at a restaurant for lunch.  Penn's
Landing was an area of the city on the Delaware River waterfront that had
been reclaimed from the industry that had once occupied it.  Instead of its
former atmosphere of heavy industry and shipping, it was a cluster of
yuppie apartment towers, high class restaurants, and overpriced shopping.

The name of the area referred to William Penn, who was the colonial founder
of the state of Pennsylvania.  I didn't know the historical significance of
the name `Penn's Landing,' but I assumed that William Penn had landed
something there at some point in the distant past.  Perhaps he'd landed
himself there.  I didn't know, and like most Philadelphia residents, both
past and present, I never bothered to find out.

The senior Abbey had recommended the restaurant we were destined for and
had made a quick call to get us a table on short notice.  The restaurant's
name was a number, 1890, and it was located in a small, converted factory.
We pulled up to the square brick building with its foundation of local
stone and parked in front of a brass sign mounted on a black enameled post
that said `VALET' in black enamel letters.  The restaurant was a block back
from the river and was the only building within view that boasted any
historical significance.  Everything around it was built of glass and steel
and appeared to be no more than a few years old.

We got out of the car through doors held by a pair of immaculately dressed,
red-suited valets.  One of these men took the car while the other handed us
off to a traditionally uniformed doorman.  The doorman bowed and showed us
into the restaurant through twin doors of brass-bound oak.  Inside, we were
met by a deferential host with silver-hair.  He was dressed in a black,
jazz-age tuxedo complete with single button dinner jacket with tails.  He
guided us in and explained the restaurant as we went.

No trace of the building's former purpose or the character of its
construction remained.  I quickly understood the establishment's name was
also its theme.  The inside was a recreation of fine dining at the dawn of
the twentieth century.  The dress and dˇcor weren't completely faithful
to a year, more the idea of the era.  The interior was a large rectangular
dining room that somehow muted all sound.  It didn't even smell like a
restaurant; there was a hint of food in the air but that's all.

The floor of the room was a shining parquetry wood.  On it stood a cluster
of high-walled booths that could have been office cubicles if they'd had
such a thing in Victorian England.  The cubicles walls were thin varnished
oak supported with round stiles and decorated with fine hand-painted
paneling.  Inside each was a heavy table of oak with space for four.  "For
the commoners," our host breathed disdainfully, "mere executives and vice
presidents."

Along the two side walls were private booths adorned with beautifully
carved oak pillars, deeply fluted and darkly varnished.  These supported
heavy burgundy damask curtains that were operated by a matching decorative
rope.  One or two of the booths was unoccupied.  I looked in to see heavy
oak tables, similar to the ones in the main room, but these were dressed up
with rows of polished brass nails and brown leather tops.

The dividing walls of the booths were ornamented with more fine
hand-painted panels that depicted nature scenes.  The ones I saw were birds
flying across the blue sky, some deer standing in a clearing, and a mirror
flat lake with ducks and a heron.  Our host waved a dismissive hand at the
curtained booths.  "CEOs, company presidents, and board members."

Shawn and I were led to the rear of the room, to a row of stained-glass
panels bound with heavy oak stiles.  Our host selected one of the panels
and opened it to reveal a very private booth.  The stained-glass paneled
door slid on a track with just the barely audible whisper of
well-lubricated bearings.  The benches in these booths were made of
mahogany inlaid with bone and topped with red velvet cushions.  A single
piece of heavily burled mahogany veneer made up the visible portion of the
tabletop.  Vertically milled paneling of brown maple graced the walls, and
a single piece of genuine-looking art hung at the back of the booth.

The art was framed with carved wood, painted gold and polished.  The scene
was an idyllic picnic from long ago.  Men in high collared shirts and dark
suits stood to drink tea, while women in pastel bonnets and dresses made of
oceans of material sat on small folding chairs and picked at cucumber
sandwiches.  "For you, gentleman, our exclusive section."  The host said as
he gestured us to sit.  "Heads of Fortune 100 companies, major
conglomerates, and people of your means and discernment ONLY."

Our host didn't say, `filthy rich,' but it was implied.  Shawn and I sat.
The host bid us a clichˇ `bon appetit,' and slid the panel closed with a
slight bow.  I glanced around our private room and noticed that there were
no menus.  I supposed our server would bring them.

Barely a minute passed when the panel slid open, and our waiter introduced
himself.  His name was Franklin and he promised to see to our every whim.
He was a trim, medium height man.  I guessed he was about forty.  He had
curly black hair cut short, a thin moustache, frameless glasses, and
intense dark eyes.  He dressed in a pair of black slacks, a spotless white,
collared shirt, a black bow tie, and black suspenders.

"What would you gentleman like for lunch?"  Franklin asked in a quiet,
breathy voice.

I asked what I thought was an obvious question. "Could we see a menu?"

"Sir," Franklin smiled indulgently, "we cater to a very exacting clientele.
Our reputation is based on being able to offer our diners, especially our
private room diners, anything they desire.  Let your imagination guide you.
Anything you choose, we will provide.  Please, your wish is our command."

I thought about that statement for a second.  I could get what I usually
ordered, a steak and baked potato, but where would the fun be in that?
Instead, I accepted Franklin's challenge and rattled off an order that I
assumed would be impossible to fill.  "Split pea soup with ham to start
please, then turkey with gravy, white meat only, herb stuffing with onions
and sage, roasted carrots and green beans, smashed yellow skin potatoes,
and corn on the cob.  For dessert, crumb top apple pie and one scoop of
vanilla ice cream.  I'd like white wine with the meal, black, dark roast
coffee with desert, and Armagnac to finish.  The wine selection I leave to
your judgement."

Franklin's face remained placid, and he took no notes during my speech.  He
was either very good, or simply didn't care if he missed a detail.  I bet
he was very good.  He turned his questioning gaze to Shawn who inclined his
head in our waiter's direction and placed his own order.

"Butternut squash soup to start, truffle ravioli in white wine cream sauce,
spinach risotto balls in marinara, and for dessert, cr¸me brule with
whatever berries are in season.  I'll have wine with the entrˇe, your
choice, coffee with cream only with dessert, and Armagnac at the end."

"Very good gentleman." Franklin responded with an air of confidence. "I
will be back shortly with your soups.  If you require anything in the
interim, please press the button directly below the painting and I will
respond immediately."  Franklin bowed and silently retreated from the
cubicle.

"How in the hell is he going to pull that off?"  I asked when the door slid
shut.

"I don't know, turkey takes hours." Shawn nodded at me. "You were very
specific."

"He challenged us, and I took him up on it.  You didn't do so bad
yourself."

"Well," Shawn fought to hide a grin, that he didn't need to hide, because I
could feel his amusement through our link, "if you were going all the way,
I figured I'd join you.  By the way, what is Armagnac?"

"I have no idea."  I chuckled.  "A character in a book I read once talked
about it.  I think it's some kind of French brandy.  It sounds fancy and
we're supposed to be rich, so I threw it out."

"You're something."  Shawn laughed at me.

I had a bit of my own laugh and we both settled.  With the silliness out of
the way, I took a minute to admire Shawn and our surroundings.  "This is
nice.  We haven't had any alone time since we got to Earth."

"What would you call Sunday night if not alone time?" Shawn challenged.

"That doesn't count." I shook my head but savored the memory. "A marathon
of sweaty sex is not alone time.  I mean time to be ourselves, time to talk
and remember who we are when we're not surrounded by conflict."

"I don't know that we're exactly `surrounded by conflict.'"

I feared for my husband's sanity for just a second after he made that
statement.  I didn't feel any teasing or intentional falsehood from him,
which meant he believed what he'd said.  If he believed what he said, I
reasoned that he'd lost his mind.

"OK, Shawn, let's review."  I counted my points off on the fingers of my
left hand.  "There was my sister and her towering religious rage that
switched abruptly to complete understanding and the desire to break one of
her faith's cardinal rules by divorcing her gambling, whoring husband who
gets violent when he's exposed as a thief and a sinner.  There's my brother
and what I'm guessing will be his refusal to come back with us, his
constant questions and moral judgements about our relationship and very
healthy sex life, and his teenage son who just came out of the closet by
virtue of my brother's newly-activated magic power."

I took a breath and continued, the speed of my words and their volume
increased as I went.  "If that doesn't sound completely insane, brace
yourself.  Did you know he asked me what sex with you is like?  That one
hit me out of nowhere.  At no time in my wildest imagination did I ever
think I'd be asked to explain man-sex to my straight brother.  I've dodged
him, but he's bound to ask again.  Then there's Burned-out-Bem who is
alternately horny, funny, silly, violent, and calculating.  He is also, at
this very moment, getting a lecture on the Catholic faith from my brother,
who is still very devout and doesn't understand how we live without God on
Solum.  We are not just surrounded by conflict; we're routed by it."

I dropped my head in my hands and stared at the table.  I'd been feeling
more and more uneasy as the consequences of our arrival on Earth piled up.
Having just listed them all at once, the problems seemed overwhelming.  My
brain chose that moment to remind me that Joe and I still had to see Zeke
before the day was out.  I dreaded that meeting.  `What would he say?' I
wondered. `Does he know that Bem beat the crap out of him, or does he think
it was a bad dream?'

"Hey, hey."  Shawn pulled my hands from my face and held them across the
table.  "It'll be OK, Church.  It will.  You'll see.  I promise it will all
work out.  When it's done, hopefully in another week, we'll get in your car
and go home.  Once we're there, we might never leave again."

I apologized again for my family and myself.  "I'm sorry, it's been wearing
on me.  I haven't been at ease since your uncle told us we had to come
here.  I really need it all to work out and settle down so we can go home.
You've been very stabilizing.  If you weren't with me, I think I would've
come unglued long before this."

"I'm glad I could help." Shawn said, and I sensed that he genuinely was. "I
know this has been difficult for you.  I don't know what I would do if I
suddenly had to wade into all my family's issues and try to solve them."

I was tired of my family and fed up with Joe's bullshit.  I decided to talk
about anything but that and abruptly changed the subject.  "What do you
want to do?"  I asked and I teased the knuckles on the back of Shawn's
hands with my thumbs as we held each other across the table.  "When we get
home, I mean.  We have to figure out what to do.  We don't need to work for
the money, but we need something to do, especially if we won't be traveling
the globe like we have been.  What do you want?"

Shawn embraced the new topic and warmed to it.  "I've been thinking about
that.  I think I want to open a practice, be a real doctor.  Get up in the
morning and go to work at the same place and same hour every day.  I'll
wear a green lab coat and see patients.  I want to help people."  Shawn
seemed to look through me as he spoke, into the future, like he could
already see his office and waiting room full of appreciative patients.

"That sounds perfect." I agreed. "I can be your sexy nurse.  I'll get a set
of those orange scrubs two sizes too small and follow you around dropping
things so I can bend at the waist to pick them up."  I felt Shawn's
amusement as he imagined what I'd said, and we both got to laugh a little.

Franklin showed up with our soups before we could imagine any farther.  He
brought them, and some sparkling water on a little silver cart.  Each dish
on the cart was covered with one of those silver domes that I'd only ever
seen in Depression era movies that depicted the ultra-rich.  Franklin
served the soup with a flourish and was gone.

Each bowl was perfect in temperature, texture, and flavor.  We offered each
other tastes of soup as we ate.  Shawn refused me because my soup had ham
in it, and I refused him because I didn't know what a butternut squash was.
We paused the `what do you want to be when you grow up' conversation to
savor the first course of our meal.  When the bowls were empty and spirited
away by Franklin, we picked back up.

"What do you want to do?"  Shawn asked as he took my hand across the table
again.  Early in our relationship, Shawn realized how insecure I was, and
that physical contact tended to ground me.  Whenever he sensed that my
emotions were getting out of control, he would take my hand or made some
other contact with me.  He did it for a long time before he ever told me
why.

What had started as a way to calm me whenever I felt overwhelmed, became a
habit between us.  Whenever we were alone, or when it felt like the world
was spinning too fast, Shawn would reach out with his calming touch.  As
the sensitivity of my hands increased, as the callouses faded, my end of
the handholding grew more active.  The tactile sensation of Shawn's skin,
the feeling that was uniquely his, made the simple gesture much more
intimate.

"I don't know."  I admitted.  I would have rubbed my neck as I thought
about it, except it would have meant letting go of one of Shawn's hands.
"I never had a hobby, not one that could be turned into an occupation.  I'm
not educated in anything that's useful on Solum.  In a world made mostly of
stone, glass, and plastic, a welder is pretty useless.  Maybe I'll use some
of my vast fortune and invest in a crazy idea, like in `Brewster's
Millions.'"  I grinned as Shawn found the memory of the film and chuckled.

"Actually," I said to prime an idea I'd had that morning when everyone was
gushing over how Shawn and I looked in our Andy-selected suits, "assuming
Joe and Andy come with us, I'd like to start a fashion company with Andy.
He's incredible.  Look at us.  I look great, and I can hardly look at you.
I never saw clothing more self-destructive than that suit."

"What do you mean, self-destructive?"  Shawn asked and looked down at his
front.

"Every time I look at you, I want to tear it off!"

Shawn smiled and tortured me with that tantalizing up-from-under look.
"You're pretty distracting yourself dressed like that.  It's when you walk
away from me, the way the jacket traces the line of your back and hugs
those broad shoulders, it makes me want to pounce."

I felt a wave of heat flood my body.  My own lust was hard enough to
ignore.  When I felt Shawn's, my control almost failed.  "I think we should
change the subject," I prompted, "mainly because that sliding door doesn't
have a lock on it and Franklin will be back long before we could get truly
started, let alone finish."

"Uh...fashion company?  That sounds fun."  Shawn said as he walled off his
emotions so I could get control of mine.

"Yeah, Andy could adapt to Solum fashion, maybe even bring some Earth
influence.  He could really be great with the right backing."  In my mind I
already saw Andy rubbing elbows with celebrities and outfitting all the
high rollers.  `Is that an Andy Philips?' people would ask each other.  `I
never wear anything else.' they would reply.  "Maybe I could take some
business classes while he went to design school."

Shawn leaned back and let go of my left hand so he could use his right to
cup his cheek.  He felt curious and it showed on his face.  "I didn't think
you cared about clothes at all.  You never have any opinion of what Rubi
picks out for you.  The last time you didn't even go to the shop.  Why
didn't you, by the way?"

I used the left hand Shawn had released to rub my neck so I could answer
that one.  "Yeah, well, since I built my new body, Rubi has been much more
forward about wanting a tumble.  I swear the robe she puts me in gets
smaller every time I visit, and she is an attractive woman.  I'm not made
of stone."

I glanced up.  The grin Shawn wore would have rivaled one of Bem's for its
maliciousness.  He loved it when people propositioned me.  The more forward
they were, the more he enjoyed it.  It's not that he wanted to add
bedmates.  He liked it when other people told me I was attractive.  I
wasn't as gracious when the shoe was on the other foot.  Shawn still didn't
realize how hot he was.  I liked when outsiders admired him, but I'll admit
that I get very possessive when the other person is too forward.

I remembered Shawn's original question and went on with my reply.  "I don't
care about clothes, not in the least.  I care about Andy.  He's fun and
quick.  He flatters me by listening when I talk.  Andy's also had a rough
time the last few years, being gay and hiding that, his father getting
sick.  He's a sensitive, thin-skinned guy and I don't think he should
suffer for that.  I don't want him to have to grow a thick leather hide
like I did.  I want him to think that life is wonderful."

Shawn leaned forward then back before he said anything.  The motion
reminded me a little of his uncle Ars.  "It's a nice thought, but you can't
build a wall around him.  He has to experience life and know what it's all
about.  He should think life is wonderful.  Life is wonderful, but you
can't make it all sunshine.  Everyone needs some rain to make the sunshine
sweet."  He reasoned correctly and knocked some wind out of my sails.

"I know," I sulked, "I just think it would be nice if all he needed was an
umbrella and not a rowboat."

On that statement the panel slid open, and Franklin was back with our main
courses.  He'd swapped his silver cart for a large wooden one with brass
trim.  He again removed several silver lids and served up exactly what we'd
ordered with a flourish and perhaps a little smugness.  He laid the food,
waited for our acknowledgement, then left.

I was amazed at what he'd brought us.  The meal set before me was perfect
in every way, even in portion size.  Shawn and I ate in near silence.  The
flavor was so exquisite, I actually felt sad as I cleaned my plate, because
I knew that each bite brought me closer to the meal's end.  Even Franklin's
wine selections were perfect, the right compliment to the incredible meal.

Franklin returned as we finished the last morsel of food and cleared the
plates like they were naughty children who were up passed their bedtime.
Shawn and I complimented the meal to each other before we returned to the
topic.  "Don't take this the wrong way," Shawn began, as he tried to chart
a careful course around my fragile feelings, "but maybe you should try to
develop your own interests.  I know you love helping, it's part of what
makes you who you are, but you can't live for other people."

Shawn's statement struck me like a slap in the face.  I didn't realize that
all I'd been talking about was making other people's dreams come true.  The
truth of what he said, set me back on my heels.  "I don't know what
interests me."

Shawn hurried to reinforce me, like he always did.  "You've got time to
figure it out.  When we get back, we'll have to get Mary and Joe settled
in, then I'll need to find an office to rent or buy.  There will be lots to
do for at least half a year.  After that, though...I really want you to
have something that makes you happy.  I'm not just talking about a project
to pass the time; I mean a real passion.  It needs to be something that
makes you want to get out of bed in the morning."

I crossed my arms and sat back.  I'd gone on the defensive without
realizing I'd done it.  "You're making some major assumptions, but I like
the confidence.  Find my passion, huh.  That's a tall order.  I'll think
about it."

I fell silent and rolled what Shawn had said around inside my mind.  Before
either of us spoke again, there was a quick rap on the partition and the
panel slid open to admit Franklin and our desserts.  He'd brought my pie
hot and the ice cream in a separate chilled bowl so it could be added to
the plate right before he set it on the table.  He also had a little silver
torch to crisp Shawn's cr¸me brule.  The desserts continued the pattern
of excellence that marked the entire meal.  Even the coffee was a dream.

"Can we eat all our meals here?"  I asked around a mouthful of pie.

"I think that would get expensive, especially when we showed up with the
whole gang."

"I don't care where they eat."

Shawn snickered.  "That might be the first selfish thing I've ever heard
you say.  This place is incredible.  I've never been anywhere like this."

I embraced the silliness with an idea of my own.  "Maybe we can just adopt
Franklin."

"I think that might be one too many in the Vic, unless he sits on your
lap."

"That might work, he's in pretty good shape."  I looked away from Shawn
like I was picturing Franklin and his shape.

"You really need to find another passion."  Shawn laughed.

In the next instant, Franklin was back to whisk the dessert plates away and
to deliver our Armagnac in large pot-belly glasses.  "Gentleman, it's been
a pleasure serving you.  Please enjoy your liqueur at your own pace.  When
you are ready to leave, press the buzzer twice and the host will show you
out."

"What about the check?"  I asked.

Franklin dismissed my concern. "I have been instructed to forward the
invoice to Abbey Associates.  They are one of our premier clients."

I worried about the tip.  "What about you?  Have you been taken care of?"

"Abbey Associates always provides a generous gratuity.  Please do not
trouble yourself about me.  Once again, gentleman, a pleasure."  Franklin
gave a small bow and noiselessly disappeared for the last time.

"That's surprising."  Shawn said when the partition was closed.

"Not really."  I countered.  My natural cynicism knew the score.  "We just
put them in charge of a massive fortune.  Them buying lunch was nice, but
they'll get it back many times over."

"That's true."

I sipped some of the amber liquid and rolled it across my tongue.  It
tasted like good brandy and was the perfect cap to an exquisite meal.
Shawn and I lingered for a while over our drinks but as all things must,
the meal had come to an end.  I pressed the buzzer below the painting and
the host in the tuxedo appeared.  He escorted us to the door and bid us a
fine afternoon.  As he shook my hand the final time, he passed a small card
to me that I dropped in my pocket.

The host handed us over to the red uniformed doorman, who performed his
function, and ushered us into the blinking sunshine.  As my vision adjusted
to the light, the valet came into focus.  He was holding the door open to
Joe's status sedan.  I climbed in and he shut the door with a click.  The
whole thing was like a well-rehearsed performance.

It was only when I saw the analogue clock on the car's dashboard that I
realized how long Shawn and I had been at lunch.  It was a
quarter-after-two as I drove us away from the restaurant and a little after
three when we pulled into the driveway at Joe's.