(Author’s note: This story picks up the action several months after the events in Love Has No Pride and When You Wish Upon a Star.)

I placed my left hand on the white tablecloth, my ring finger displaying the blue sapphire halo trinket that Alastair paid a small fortune for from Cleave and Company, 1 Buckingham Place, London.

Elizabeth blinked, raised my hand to her right eye like a jeweler without a loop, and her mouth went agape.

“Speechless, you?” I snickered at her.

We were at a window table in Manhattan’s trendiest new Asian Fusion restaurant, Zhou Dynasty, nestled on the 39th floor of a building with an awesome view of the Empire State Building and the skyline beyond. Alastair and I had only been back in town the day before (December 13th) when Elizabeth unexpectedly invited us to dinner to celebrate my 58th birthday, which falls on the 15th.

“Hollywood pays well is what comes to mind. This must have cost—”

“No congratulations, Joanne and Alastair?” Alastair interjected, a smile trying to blunt the sarcasm.

“Of course, mazel tov, kids. This makes the ring Willard gave me look like it came out of a box of Crackerjacks.”

“Thanks for the dinner, E, but how did you know Alastair and I were in town? My sister?”

“Your sister?! She wouldn’t give me the time of day if my face was a digital clock. No, it was my dear daughter Joey who called and told me you and Al were spending the holidays in the city. Of course, the little imp didn’t tell me you and Alastair had gotten engaged.”

“Disappointed, Elizabeth?” Alastair asked, hiding behind his napkin.

“I’m over it. You won. I accept it. I am a little puzzled by Joey’s acceptance, though. Not to say you’re not a nice guy and all. But…”

“But what?” I posed, wary of what Elizabeth was thinking.

“Well, I didn’t think you swung that way, frankly. Giving it the old school try at an advanced age?”

“Elizabeth, that’s unnecessarily mean…and untrue.”

Alastair started out of his chair and turned to me. “Let’s go, Jo. It was a bad idea accepting her invitation. No matter how good the food is, it’s not worth her badgering.”

“Oh, sit down, Al. Let’s not act like children. I apologize. The food really is marvelous. I promise I’ll behave. Please, Joey?”

I gently pulled Alastair back down to his chair and squeezed his hand. “E will control her sociopathic tendencies at least until dessert, right?” Before Elizabeth could retort with her usual razor-sharp wit, a rather striking man in a chef’s apron approached our table and placed his hands on her shoulders.

“Babe, are these your friends, Joanne and Alastair?” He reached out to shake our hands.

“Kids, this is Mark Sheldon, owner and executive chef of Zhou Dynasty. I texted the Times review to you, Joey. You could sense the reviewer drooling as he described the menu, right?”

“Nice to meet you. Elizabeth has told me so much about you, Joanne. You’re quite a remarkable lady—”

“Any bon mots about me, Mark?” Alastair said with a smirk. I kicked his shin under the table. “Oww!”

“Oh, definitely, Mr. Knowles. I’ve been looking into upgrading the production values on my YouTube channel and, since you’re in the business, I’d love to pick your brain.”

“Well, I’m only in town until Friday—”

“But, Alastair, you’ll be back next week. Maybe you two can get together for some brain-picking before Christmas.” I winked at Elizabeth, who smiled and mouthed “thank you.”

“Yeah, let’s get together next week. Have your girl call my girl.” He laughed a bit awkwardly.

“Sounds good! By the way, your orders will be ready in five minutes. Did you order the breast of duck with Asian soy glaze?”

“Guilty,” Alastair admitted.

“It’s my signature dish. I hope you love it…but I’m sure you will. Elizabeth, can you come with me? There’s a couple that would like to meet you.” He nodded in the direction of their table.

“Oh, really, who?”

He leaned down to semi-whisper. “Leonardo DiCaprio and his girlfriend.”

I gasped and Alastair squeezed my hand. “Don’t look! Be cool. These celebrities crave anonymity in public.”

“But you know Leo and he knows who you are too.”

“I’m a nobody to someone of his stature.”

Elizabeth rose from the table and took Mark’s hand. “I’ll be right back, kids. Talk amongst yourselves while I say hello to the patrons.” They walked away.

“Well, at least they’re not the only inappropriately age matched couple in the place.”

“Yeah, Leo’s date looks like a teenager.”

“I’ve heard of Chef Boyardee but it looks like Elizabeth’s gotten herself a Chef Boy-R-Toy.”

“You’re younger than I am too.”

“Three years, Jo! That kid can’t be a whisker older than 32.”

“Shhh. She’s coming back. Just zip it. Let’s have a nice, quiet dinner. O.K.?” Alastair “zipped” his lips, then kissed my cheek.

“Get a room, you two,” clucked Elizabeth as she sat down.

Alastair and I shared our two dishes: his breast of duck with Asian soy glaze and my sweet chili pork lettuce wraps with crispy rice noodles. Elizabeth rolled her eyes at our behavior, feeding each other spoonsful like over-the-top cute young sweethearts in a 1950s soda shoppe.

“Too bad Mark doesn’t include banana splits on the dessert menu. You two crazy kids would love that wouldn’t you?”

“Want a crispy rice noodle, E?” I asked, innocently.

“I’m good. Listen, what do you want for dessert?”

“Madam can suggest something, perhaps?” Alastair answered.

“My favorite is the coconut tapioca with lychee and pineapple—”

“Oh that sounds delicious! Alastair, let’s share one—”

“I thought so. Just coffee for me.” She gestured to the waiter, who rushed over, obviously in deference to Elizabeth’s status in the restaurant.

Elizabeth stared at me for what seemed like a minute but was probably only 10 seconds. Her face took on a serious look and she lowered her voice to speak directly to me, ignoring Alastair.

“I should have mentioned it to you when it happened but…well, things sort of went sideways last summer and…I got a call from Ralph Metheny about a month after I moved back to New York—”

“You mean Rafe Metheny?” interjected Alastair.

“It’s Ralph. R-a-l-p-h. He just called himself Rafe, as if we all couldn’t read—”

“That’s not true, E. His mother named him after his maternal great-grandfather, who was a Baronet in England. That’s the way it’s pronounced in Britain. He wasn’t trying to put on airs. Anyway, what did he call about?”

“You, actually. The poor guy’s wife died in January—”

“She was our age. I was Joanne’s plus one at their wedding—”

Elizabeth arched her eyebrow. “Really, Joey? You took Al to Ralph’s wedding?”

“It’s a long story, Elizabeth. What did Rafe want?”

“Your number. I guess he wanted to see you again. Maybe pick up where you left it. You know. When you rejected him.”

“I did not reject him. I told him we didn’t have a viable future together. I did that more for his sake than my own.”

“Cool story, bro.”

“She rejected me too back then. She wasn’t in a good place to think about a relationship. She’d just transitioned and just wanted to sort out her life first before making that kind of commitment.”

“Except Joey wasn’t in love with you since she was practically a toddler. No, she loved Ralph Metheny more than any person she ever knew…including me…including you, Alastair.”

“So, what did you tell him, already?” I blurted out, trying to steer the conversation to something practical.

“I didn’t think it was my place to give him your number. I did tell him you had retired from the TV business and was in LA writing a film script. I think he kind of slowed his roll after I told him that. He probably thought you’d be some lonely widow after Emily’s death, pining away for companionship in your declining years…”

“Poor Rafe. He was always so needy emotionally. He must have felt lost after Sarah died. A least he has his children to commiserate with. They must be in their 20s by now. What did Sarah die of?”

“Cancer. Anyway, that’s the last I heard from him. I assumed he would have gotten in touch with you by now. Although your sister is very protective of you. She liked him as much as she liked me. Not very much.”

“Alastair, I’m tired. Let’s forego dessert. I’ll make us a pot of tea at home. Thank you so much for dinner, Elizabeth. Say good night to Mark for us. The food was marvelous!” We hugged and, for a moment, I thought Elizabeth was going to kiss me on the lips but, instead, she bussed me on both cheeks.

On the 15-minute cab ride back to Alastair’s apartment in The West Village (I had put my house on The Island on the market months ago, deciding to move permanently to California), he checked his phone for messages while I reflected upon the hurly-burly of the last two weeks. I hadn’t expected Alastair to return home from London until the new year and was finishing up the re-writes to the script with Philippa, resigned to the belief that I had fucked up the whole relationship with him. He would return in January and ask me to move out of his guest house. At least with the money from the script, I’d have no trouble finding a house to move into, even with the sky-high prices of Los Angeles real estate. What I’d do after that, I had no idea. But I’d have good weather to ponder it in.

I found it odd when Philippa asked on the first of December if we could work at the guest house instead of her place, where we almost always worked because of her toddler Clarissa (Paul was often at meetings or at the studio). That day, she said, Paul was taking Clarissa to his mother’s house in Pasadena. It was the one free day he had in weeks. I told her I had no problem doing that and we had a nice vegetarian pasta salad for lunch with broccoli, olives, red onion, cucumber, and baby carrots. Parmesan and homemade dressing topped it off. Delicious.

We were in the middle of rewriting some dialogue in the third act when Philippa suddenly stood up, looked at the clock on the kitchen wall, and packed up her things.

“It’s almost 4! I need to get back home. Paul and Clarissa are probably on their way from Pasadena already.”

“What’s the plan for tomorrow?”

“Oh, we’ll work at my place as usual. See ya!” She hugged me hurriedly and practically flew out the door. I heard her car tires screech as she drove off. Chuckling at her behavior, I went into the kitchen to make a pot of tea.

I was pouring out a cup when the front door buzzed. Peering through the window, I was shocked to see Alastair standing on the doorstep, nervously holding a bouquet of pink roses. I opened the door.

“Delivery for Ms. Joanne Prentiss!” he declaimed, hiding behind the colorful and fragrant bouquet.

“Alastair! What are you doing back home? I thought—” He stepped in and kissed me full on the lips, placing the bouquet behind his back.

“I’ll explain but first, take the roses, please.” I took the roses, sniffed them appreciatively and went to find a vase.

“Sit down, Alastair. It’s good to see you. I hope you’re not here to evict me—”

“Yes, Jo, I want you out of my guest house tout suite.” He had put his arms around me from behind as I filled a vase with water from the sink. “I love it when I speak French to you, mi querida!” He kissed a line up my neck and started to nibble my ear lobe.

“That’s Spanish.”

“No, it’s the language of love, ma cherie—”

“You’ll make me spill the water!”

“I’m not letting go!” I finally put the roses in the vase and placed it on the side of the sink. Turning around, I looked into Alastair’s eyes.

“What’s this all about?”

“Like I said, I want you out of my guest house ASAP.” Playing along, I pouted and pretended to push him away.

“I’ll be homeless. Where can I go?”

“I want to take you somewhere we can watch the sunset. Have you seen Los Angeles from the roof of Griffith Observatory as the sun descends in the evening sky?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“Come on, bring a sweater. There’s a breeze up there.” He hooked his arm around my waist and guided me toward the front door, only pausing for me to pick up my sweater. “We can talk as the sun sets.”

Alastair parked his black Porsche Boxter near the Observatory and ran around to the passenger side, offering me a chivalrous hand to help me out of the car without flashing the small crowd of visitors sauntering along the path toward the building’s entrance.

“I should have changed into some slacks—”

“No time. Sunset is at 4:45.” He took hold of my wrist and read the face of my tiny watch. “Good thing you got Lasik, Jo. How do you women manage with these teeny tiny watches? Anyway, we’ve got less than ten minutes before the sun goes below the horizon. Come on.” Maintaining his grasp of my wrist, we trotted to the external stairs that led to the West Terraces (upper and lower) and began to climb.

“Couldn’t we take the elevator?”

“This is quicker, trust me.”

Finally, we arrived on the lower terrace. Immediately, the imminence of sundown registered in my purview of the stunning vista before us: downtown Los Angeles, the Pacific Ocean, and everything in between. Alastair guided me to a relatively secluded spot on the terrace. There were other couples around, holding hands, embracing, whispering into each other’s ears. Then, it occurred to me that the terrace was notorious for its popularity as a location for marriage proposals (for those, I suppose, who found proposing in Dodger Stadium during a baseball game much too public). When I turned away from the view, I saw Alastair down on one knee, proffering a beautiful sapphire ring nestled in a blush pink, smooth leather Cleave and Company box. The glow of impending sunset shone on the tableaux and, realizing what was about to take place, I started to tear up.

“Joanne Prentiss, please grant me the great honor of being your life partner. Will you marry me?”

I couldn’t speak. Little gasps and squeaks were the only things that escaped my lips. My hands shook.

“No? Let’s put the last few months behind us. We fucked up royally. We both made rash decisions. Regretful mistakes—”

“Of course, I will, dear, dear Alastair. I love you. Yes, yes, yes!” We kissed and clung to each other’s lips like survivors of a capsized boat hanging on for dear life to floating pieces of timber. Eventually, Alastair slipped the ring onto my finger and we watched the sun disappear below the horizon, turning Los Angeles into The City of Night.

“I…I thought I’d ruined everything. That you’d never come back to me—”

“Jo, you’re the love of my life. You know that. How could I—”

I placed my index finger on his lips to quiet him. “Dear, sweet Alastair. Let’s go home. Our home.”

The next day, I proudly showed Philippa my engagement ring. She smiled, then faked a big yawn, waving my hand away.

“Well, of course, I’m the one who picked it out for Alastair. Men are so clueless about jewelry—”

“What? You knew all about this? You guys set me up!”

“I knew Alastair had to come back for GlobalNet’s year-end management meetings. Luckily, that BBC co-production in London finished principal photography earlier than expected. He had a couple of weeks to play with. That’s when he called me, right after Thanksgiving, and we got together on his plan to make you an honest woman.”

“Philippa, there’s no chance I’m pregnant—”

“Metaphorically speaking, Jo. He told me he would’ve proposed back in the summer, even after the…kerfuffle you two had. Unfortunately, he had the commitment to the projects in the UK. So, my sometimes-oblivious friend, he was always going to ask…”

“Ask what?” Paul had just walked into the room, followed by Clarissa, munching on a banana. Philippa and I exchanged looks.

“Men!”

“It’s officially your birthday now.”

I turned from the window overlooking the early morning streets of the West Village when Alastair placed his hands on my shoulders, massaging them while nuzzling the hair on the back of my head.

“Big day ahead of you. You should get some sleep.”

“Can’t. My mind’s swirling with thoughts.”

“Thinking about what Elizabeth said about Rafe wanting your number?”

“You’re not upset, are you, Alastair?”

“No. Rafe’s old news. You haven’t spoken in, what, 10 years, maybe more? Anyway, I never felt in competition with him. I mean, I know what he meant to you but…”

“It’s not true. What Elizabeth said.”

“About?”

“She said I loved Rafe more than anyone I’ve ever loved. It’s not true. You must believe me—”

“You were kids. You grew up together. But, like you said, there was no way it would’ve worked out as grown-ups.”

I caressed Alastair’s whiskered face and gave him a quick peck on the lips. I never thought I’d be attracted to a man with a beard. I was disappointed when Rafe grew one when he went away to study at M.I.T.

“I’m heating up some milk for you. A cup of that will make you go beddy-bye. It works for me. I’ve always been a trypto-fan. Don’t sneer. Puns are a sign of high intelligence. Have a seat on the couch. I’ll be back.”

“Thanks. You’re a sweetheart.”

When Alastair returned with a cup of warm milk and a chocolate chip cookie, I was already spooling the movie of my childhood memories with Rafe in my mind.

“Dip the cookie into the milk. You’ll be in la-la land in no time. I’ll see you in bed.” Alastair trudged off into the bedroom.

The cookie acted like Proust’s madeleine and the sights, sounds, even smells of that summer morning when Rafe and I were just 8 years old came back to me. A morning that changed the nature of our friendship forever

The summer of 1972 was a great time in my father’s life. He was on the verge of becoming Director of Structural Engineering for Metheny Architectural Design Inc. Rafe’s father was Matthew Metheny. Our families had become close in the last several years as my father worked his way up in the firm. So, I had been playmates with Rafe since our sandbox days. Port Jefferson being a small town of less than 6.000 residents, being the same age, we went through school from kindergarten to high school together.

Although my dad thought he was the reason the Metheny family spent so much time at our house during those years, it was really because my mom and Rafe’s mom had become close friends working as teachers at Port Jefferson High School. My mother taught mathematics and Rafe’s mother taught English. Dad had just installed an outdoor, in-ground swimming pool in our backyard that he was very proud of and expected every one of our friends and neighbors to be suitably impressed by it.

It was a particularly hot Saturday in July and the Metheny’s had arrived around mid-morning. While the adults and Rafe’s older sister Sally (she was 16 that summer) lounged around the pool and our dads discussed The Jets football team (in the middle of baseball season!), we were told to go change into our swim trunks.

“Wow, your mom looks great in a bathing suit. You’re so lucky to have a beautiful mom like that.”

We were in my room. Rafe had his swim shorts underneath his regular clothes so he was already set to jump into the pool. He looked at the poster of Joe Namath on my wall as he waited for me to change. Erica, my little 5-year-old sister, was running around in her “baby” bathing suit, a ball of energy. She tended to follow me everywhere…annoyingly.

“Dad tells me I look a lot like mom.”

“But you’re a boy. You can’t look like your mom.”

“Joey does look like mommy. They’re both pretty—” Erica blurted out while spinning around like a top.

“Stop spinning around, Erica. You’ll make yourself dizzy.” She stopped and gave me a contrite look.

“I’m sorry. Joey why don’t you show Rafe how you look in mommy’s dress!”

“Erica, don’t be stupid. Rafe doesn’t want to see that.”

“Yeah, I bet you look real silly.”

“No, Joey is beautiful. Just like mommy!”

“Okay. I’ve gotta see this.”

We went into my mother’s bedroom and I reached into her closet and selected one of her floral pattern peasant blouses that she rarely wore anymore. I pulled it over my head and it hung like a dress on me, the hem inches below my knees. Then I took a red plastic headband from her vanity and combed back my long blond hair. After taking a quick look in the vanity mirror, I turned around to face Rafe.

“See? Joey’s so pretty. Don’t you think so, Rafe?”

Rafe stood seemingly transfixed. I couldn’t tell by the expression on his face whether he was charmed or disgusted by this version of me. Finally, he spoke.

“Jeez, Joey, you look…like…a girl!”

“Betcha Joey’s prettier than your girlfriend.”

“I don’t have no girlfriend, silly.”

At that moment, Rafe’s mother shouted from the bottom of the stairs, “Boys, what’s taking so long? You only have less than an hour before lunch and then you’ll have to wait until late in the afternoon to go back in.”

“Coming, mom. Joey couldn’t find his favorite trunks. We’ll be right down.” He turned to me. “You better put all that stuff back. They’ll come up here if we don’t hurry up.”

“Just go out like that, Joey. Everyone will see how pretty you look.”

“Erica, don’t say anything to mommy about this, okay? It’s just something you and I know about.”

“Rafe knows now.”

“You won’t say anything, will you?” I had returned mom’s things to their rightful place and was running into my room to put on my trunks.

“No, of course not. It was just a joke anyway. Right?”

“Yeah, it’s something I gotta do to entertain my little sister, you know. She doesn’t have any playmates. The neighborhood’s got no girls her age and she doesn’t start school until the Fall—”

“Yeah, yeah. I understand. It’s our secret. Okay?” He offered his hand to shake. He didn’t meet my eyes when we shook. The rest of the day, Rafe would sneak furtive glances at me. One time I smiled and he, after bowing his head for a second, returned the smile. We had become secret sharers. Neither of us knew then what else we would share as we grew up.

The 15th was my birthday. We set out for my sister Erica’s house in Port Jefferson in the morning. Alastair complained all the way there. Ninety minutes of grousing about having to drive a Toyota Corolla when he wanted to rent an Audi. The day with Erica’s family was pleasant. Fred, her husband, enjoyed talking football with Alastair (they’re both lifelong Giants fans). Meanwhile, Erica and my niece, Kiana, admired my engagement ring and asked about celebrities I’d run across in Hollywood. Their monstrously large Maine Coon cat kept trying to sidle up to me. I threw her chew toy across the room several times but she retrieved it and wetly placed it in my lap again and again. I’m not a cat person, you can see.

We came back to the city, changed into more formal attire, and went to see “MJ: The Musical” at The Neil Simon Theater. Hottest musical on Broadway this season. Myles Frost won a Tony for his portrayal of the King of Pop. Like most jukebox musicals, it was light on story and characterization but the music and choreography was glorious. I think Alastair fell asleep during the second act just as Myles Frost in the MJ role started singing “Human Nature.” I did my best to keep Alastair’s head from tilting back and snoring. To be fair, I’ve fallen asleep listening to Alastair’s jazz records. There was an Oscar Peterson/Joe Pass album that…I’m not a jazz person, you can see.

Although I urged Alastair to take an earlier flight to Los Angeles the next day, he insisted on catching the red eye instead so we could go see the Christmas Tree in Rockefeller Center, lit up in all its seasonal glory at night.

“Alastair, we’re both from New York. We’ve seen the tree many, many times over five decades.”

“Yes, but I’ve always wanted to see it with the love of my life.”

“Oh, Alastair, you sweet talking Romeo—”

“Well, Julianne Moore won’t leave her husband so I thought I’d ask you instead.”

I playfully swatted Alastair and several heads in the crowd in Rockefeller Center turned our way. Blushing, I hid my hands behind my back as Alastair laughed to show we were just kidding around.

“We should try skating in the rink down here. How good are you on blades?”

“Not as good as Julianne Moore, I’m sure. Text her. Maybe her husband’s out of town.”

“I do have her mobile number, Jo. Of course, I’d only use it for business purposes.”

“Do you want to ever walk normally again?”

Why do people wave at airplanes as they take off? It’s not that anyone on the plane can actually see you wave. But there I was, a bit tearful, waving at the dark sky outside the terminal windows. Alastair pretended he was upset at having to leave for that management meeting but I know it’s a weekend at the Palazzo Beverly Hills, a mansion situated on Billionaires Row in a wooded enclave. It features a ¼ mile private gated driveway, sprawling acres surrounded by breathtaking natural wildlife, views of the mountains and vistas, luxury white Scandinavian interior décor, a fully equipped gym, a glass domed opening roof perfect for viewing the stars at night, a swimming pool, a party-sized jacuzzi, and “romantic poolside cabanas.” I checked out their website. Poor Alastair. Yeah, right. Now, where did I put that rolling pin?

I was outside the terminal at La Guardia, phone to my ear, waiting to confirm my Uber when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man and a teenage girl in one of the exits, waiting for the skycap to push their luggage trolley through. It was Rafe Metheny. Decades older than the last time I’d seen him but he was still immediately recognizable.

He spoke first after our eyes met.

“Joey? Joey, it’s me. Rafe. Funny meeting you here.” He laughed as his daughter hardly took notice, scrolling through the texts on her phone.

“Rafe. How are you? It’s been—”

“Too long. I thought you were in LA. Elizabeth told me you had moved out there.”

“I’m here for the holidays. I’m with my fiancé. He just left on the red eye. He’ll be back next week. Business conference.”

“Did Elizabeth tell you?”

“Yes, I’m sorry to hear about Sarah. You must have been devastated when she passed.”

“Well, I’m still mourning. She was a wonderful partner. The best.” He turned to his daughter, whispered something, and turned back to me. “Joey, this is my youngest, Harlow. She’s a junior at Georgetown. We’re spending the holidays with my sister Sally and her family. Say hello to Ms. Prentiss, Harlow.”

Harlow looked up from her phone and her face evinced surprise. “You’re Joey? Dad talks about you a lot.”

“All good things I hope.”

“If you think calling you the love of his life a good thing—”

“Harlow! She’s being her usual acerbic self today. She wanted to stay in DC.”

“Now I’m glad I came. Aunt Sally’s mind will be blown!”

“Are you waiting for a cab, Joey?”

“My Uber doesn’t seem to be coming anytime soon.”

“Ride with us. That’s our Uber coming round the bend right now. Where in Manhattan are you staying?”

“We’re in the West Village, Perry Street.”

“Sally’s on The Upper West Side. You’re on our way there. Come on. Harlow, who are you calling?”

“Aunt Sally. I’ve got to tell her who we’re bringing with us.”

“No, Harlow. We’re just going to drop her off. I’m sure she has better things to do than spend the night after her birthday with a bunch of relative strangers.”

“Rafe, you remember my birthday?”

“Well, it’s an easy date to remember.”

Harlow had already barreled into the back seat of the Uber as the driver placed their luggage in the rear trunk.

“It’s cold, dad! Let’s go already.”

“After you, Joey.”

When we drove across the Queensboro Bridge into Manhattan, Rafe turned to face me, his lips inches away from my ear.

“We had some great adventures in the city back then, didn’t we?”

“Yes, we had some good times.”

I thought I heard Harlow suppress a giggle. Perhaps it was a sneeze. After all, it was flu season.