After the death of his wife, Karen, Pete took a trip to Australia. Upon reaching the top of the Sydney Harbor BrigeClimb, he realized he hated being single.
Back in Chicago, he stopped by to finish paperwork with his broker, Alan, and shared this revelation: “I’m going to start dating, Alan.” Alan shuffled through stacks of papers strewn on his desk. “Ah, I found it,” he said. It turned out to be New York Magazine with pages open to the 25 Things TO DO cultural page. Alan picked up a Bick and, in the margin, wrote, #26. Mary-Frances. Checking his phone, he added a number. “Call her,” he said, handing Pete the magazine. “She’s a friend of my mother’s.” Pete thinks, ‘friend of your mother’s?’ However, Pete pocketed the magazine, knowing only too well Alan’s enduring record of wise investment advice.
Pete calls. I take a beat and consider: A blind date set up by Alan, my trustworthy and magnificent financial advisor? If this guy is from Alan, I’m sure he won’t be a serial killer.
We skip the Starbucks step. I let Pete pick me up at home—a dinner date.
We have Amori spiral spaghetti with tomato and basil sauce, a slight dusting of parmesan cheese, and a fruity chianti. We talk until the maître’d hints, “Lights out, kids.” That was 17 years ago.
MARY-FRANCES SCHNEIDER 