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ing relieved to have weathered the storm. But he was also feeling very much adrift in its
wake.
There was something very appealing about Jonah—a worldliness intermingled with an
almost boyish vulnerability—that compelled me, towards the end of our phone conversa-
tion, to invite him to join us for dinner in Esperanza the next night.
All well and good.
Except that he was late. Very late. Michael was hungry and distinctly not amused.
“Maybe he got lost,” I suggested.
“On Vieques?” Michael shot back.
I ordered another drink.
Ten minutes later the bartender called me to the phone. It was Jonah.
“Oh my God,” he said. “I'm completely lost. I've driven around this island at least five
times. Where the hell is Esperanza?”
“On the Caribbean side,” I said as neutrally as possible. “Basically just head south from
anywhere and you'll get here.”
“Or not,” he said gloomily. “Plus, I almost hit a cow. She had the longest eyelashes I've
ever seen. I'd never have forgiven myself.”
Eventually I handed the phone back to the bartender, who gave Jonah such clear direc-
tions he would have had to be comatose not to find his way to Esperanza.
When he finally drifted in, dressed to the nines in a crisp white shirt and Nantucket red
shorts, his crystal blue eyes blazing, it would have been hard to stay mad, even for Michael.
“I never had a good sense of direction,” Jonah flatly declared, raking his hand through
his gray buzz-cut.
I avoided Michael's gaze and agreed that Vieques was tricky to navigate.
Michael thawed out quickly. It helped that Jonah had great charm, the kind you don't
stumble across much anymore.
For one thing, he was a terrific storyteller. He'd travelled just about everywhere and
had at least one hilarious story about each destination. Also, when it was your turn to talk,
he was a generous listener. And if you made a joke, he laughed. To top it all off, he could
hold his booze, a wonderfully endearing quality in a friend.
In short, we liked him.
The next time we arranged to get together for dinner with Jonah, I suggested (at Mi-
chael's behest) that we meet at a new restaurant in Isabel, slightly nearer Jonah's house in
Bravos de Boston. I hoped against hope he'd be more punctual this time.
No such luck.
Admittedly, Michael and I are notoriously punctual. In fact, we have trouble arriving
anywhere more than five minutes late. As a result, we've faced more than our share of hosts
through the years who were clad in little more than a towel and a sour expression when we
arrived on their doorstep at the appointed cocktail hour.
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