Bob at the Plaza by R. Murphy Read Free Book Online

tonight so we can celebrate?”
    “I’d love it. Can we make it tomorrow though? I told Alex I’d help him tonight. We’re going to work late and finish bottling some of his riesling. I don’t want to let him down.”
    “How late will you be there?”
    “I think we’ll be working at least until seven. That’s what time we wrapped up when we bottled the semi-drys. Besides, Alex has some sort of Chamber of Commerce meeting tonight so I’m pretty sure we’ll be done by then.”
    I paused, silently reviewing timetables and logistics, then said, “That doesn’t seem too late. I could meet you at the winery and we could take separate cars to a restaurant in Southport. How about that new Greek place? People say good things about it.”
    “Greek? Interesting choice. I haven’t had Greek food since I left Rochester. I used to love it. Sure, why don’t you come to the winery about seven?  We’ll probably be wrapping up by then, and I can introduce you to Alex.” He continued with enthusiasm, “And congrats, sweetie! Look how, after all these weeks of worrying and fretting about paying for that trip, the answer just falls into your lap.”
    Glancing at the mounds of paper decorating my desk, I commented in a wry tone, “I don’t know about the ‘falling into my lap’ part, but you’re right, it is strange how the money just appeared. Weird how that works sometimes, isn’t it? I’m never lucky with money, and now this just happens. I will never understand how the Universe works.”
    “Nobody does, but it almost seems as if you’re supposed to take that trip to the city, doesn’t it? ‘Meant to be,’ as they say.”
    “I suppose you could look at it that way, couldn’t you?” I said, still studying the piles of paper littering the room.
    I heard someone yell David’s name in the background, and he said, “Let’s talk about this more tonight. I’ve got to get back to work, but I’ll look forward to our date at seven. Later, sweetie.”
    ‘Sweetie’ again. I could get to like this. I put down the phone and gathered my tax documentation to label it and stash it away. Even though I’d submitted my tax returns electronically, I wanted clean and straight-forward paper trails in case—God forbid!—I ever got audited.
    Lately I felt like I’d specialized in documentation: three tax filings and two enormous America Wins! entries. Other authors, like Ernest Hemingway, write about dramatic war-torn lives full of drinking and bullfights. I might be perfecting the drinking part, but replace bullfights with paperwork, and battling bankruptcy instead of Franco, and you’ve got my writing métier. No legacy of children will remain after me, but I’ll sure bequest a boatload of paperwork to mark my place in this world.
    After sorting, stapling, labeling, and filing, I stood for a moment with empty hands. Of course, images of Bob drifted into my mind. Why did I always think of him when I was at loose ends, or between projects? I tried to shove the thoughts away, and went outside to monitor the ever-rising lake instead. I noticed Stan in thigh-high rubber boots, wading in the water around his house, and hurling large rocks from the shallows onto his lakefront. He must have been working for a while, since I counted at least twenty substantial rocks littering his beach. After watching him for a few minutes, I put on my coat and boots and slogged along the shore to his place. Stan saw me coming and waved.
    “Can I ask a dumb question?” I said when we got within talking distance, me on dry land and Stan ankle-deep in churning water.
    “Sure, if you don’t mind that I keep working while we talk. If I stop moving I’ll freeze, and I need to get more done today,” Stan answered.
    “Well, that’s kind of my question. What are you doing out there?”
    Stan stretched down and shimmied his rubber-gloved hands into the silt around a football-sized rock. After heaving it onto the lakefront twenty feet to my right,