Enough to Miss Christmas

I didn't have a chance to answer. Young Dennis jumped to his feet, holding his completed art work high for our approval. After appropriate ohs and ahs, Maureen toddled them off to their upstairs hotel room. That was my cue to exit the ordeal of ducking a flying bouquet. My sister and I had waved. It wasn't a break in the ice but perhaps a crack.

I sashayed up to the coat room when I turned and nearly bumped into a well-dressed man with an engaging smile.

"Hi, Sarah. I'm Paul North," he said holding out his hand.

While I was flustered that he knew my name, I was too embarrassed to ask how. I held my coat in one hand and the crayon drawing of a mostly-red horse in the other. I dropped the coat on a table and murmured something inane as I took his hand. I looked up at him. Mr. Paul North, at six feet plus, towered over me by nearly a foot.

He looked at the drawing. "I have one of those," he said.

"A coloring book or a red horse?" I asked too quickly.

"No, a four year old artist. You're not going to leave me here alone, are you?" The smile remained while I must have looked like a cookie-jar thief as I picked up my coat, with the drawing still in my hand.

"I'm just. . . ." My mind lacked any plausible excuse or an intelligent reply. Still holding my hand, he reached for my coat and tossed it over a chair.

"We're the only two people here without a mate or not collecting Social Security. We have an obligation to rescue one another."

"Thank you, but . . ."

"Good. I hereby claim you for the balance of the evening. Now that you've finished your art lessons, it's time to enjoy yourself." He led me away from the cloak room to an empty table.

As we chatted, it became obvious Paul didn't know me, or anyone else at the affair. His connection to the wedding was through some work related association with the bride's father. My sister or niece must have given him my name. Paul, who appeared to be in his mid-forties, made it easy to carry on a conversation. We soon found ourselves shouting out agreeing opinions on obscure topics over the nonstop noise of music from another era.

Between diatribes on the inefficiency of the airlines, the escalating price of gasoline and the artistic merit of crayon drawings, I learned Paul worked in Boston and lived in the nearby Newton. Crouching beneath a potted palm, with my mouth close to his ear, I told him I instructed uninterested and near illiterate military recruits in the basics of communications. That was the limit of our personal revelations. The balance was limited to chitchat. We were together by default, but between his engaging company and the circulating waiters who made sure our champagne glasses were never empty. I began warming to his company.