Joe was overly punctual and used to waiting for women. He forgave them; it was a genetic condition associated with the willingness to walk slowly in front of onrushing traffic and also—somehow—with the inability to have money ready at checkout counters. Alison was waiting for him.
"You're supposed to be late," he said. She smiled prettily. She was wearing a teal colored silk tunic over a chino skirt. Her hair was brushed back; a small opal swung from each ear; something glittered around her eyes. "You look terrific."
"Thank you." They sat at a table with a view of the mountains. "I don't drink much," she said as he ordered a Glenlivet and water. "I do know about Glenlivet. I'm Scots and Swedish."
"Single malt—wonderful stuff," he said.
"I'll have a glass of Chardonnay. So, Joe, tell me about when you used to live here."
"I was married and Kate, our daughter, was young. I've been married twice." Alison did not appear surprised. "Sally and I were happy to be out of Woodstock."
"Woodstock, the Woodstock?"
"Yes, a small town. It was so great to be in Honolulu where we didn't know anyone. My feet didn't feel the pavement for a year. But we had a hard time. Food stamps and all that, even welfare for a while. Things settled down when I started driving a Charley's cab and Sally cleaned houses. Cleaning houses isn't bad work—cash—anybody gives you a hard time you just go somewhere else. Here's looking at you." They touched glasses.
"Sally had a couple of steady gigs where she liked the people and knew what she was supposed to do every week." His mind was moving back. "Some amazing things did happen . . . "
"Oh, good," Alison said.