so we got a couple of cubes of beer – Killian’s Red for him, Budweiser for me – and some chips – guy food.

At the last minute, Tony grabbed a large bottle of Courvoisier – and gave me the pirate leer, saying “Something to warm us up on a cold winter night”, with a wink that left me weak in the knees, but strong and growing in other body parts somewhat above the knees…

We got to his house and I was literally in shock – it was in the richest section of town, the old-money section, and it was huge – all brick and stone and big wrap-around porches, with matching 3-story turrets on either side of a HUGE center hall – I’d never been inside anything like it in my life. He pulled the car up to the back door and we got out, and stamped our way into the kitchen. It was laid out like Martha Stewart had just been to visit, and had every conceivable convenience that serious greenbacks could buy. And we tromped straight on through it, past all the gleaming appliances, with our take-out pizza and beer and chips. Guys, I swear…

We shed our coats and shoes in the kitchen, and headed through the formal dining room with its 12-foot Mission refectory table and the 14 or so carved-walnut chairs around it, across the stone-floored center hall to the living room, with its oriental carpets over parquet hardwood floors, the pocket doors part-way open showing off their leaded glass, and the brass-and-crystal sconces by the huge fieldstone fireplace. We dropped the pizza and beer on the table in front of the couch, and Tony started a fire – no gas log, here, a real fire with real wood.

We tore into the pizza and beer – both of us were like ravening wolves, after the stress of the day and the ride up here, and my feeling of camping out. Eventually, we laid back and, a few satisfied belches developed into a burping contest. Guys being guys. Tony stirred up the fire, and laid on another log, and then brought back two sizeable snifters from the dining room and filled them with the Courvoisier, and sat down next to me on the couch, and we began to talk.

I started it off with the “Wow-this-place-is-magnificent!” comment, and Tony told me about his life. “After World War II, my grandfather took his GI Bill money to get a business degree, and then a real-estate license, where he made more millions than he could count. My parents bought this house from the estate of my grandfather’s business partner when I was not yet 2 years old, so it’s the only house I’ve ever really lived in. They wanted a big house because they wanted a big family, but after I was born, my mother had a series of miscarriages, and the doctor finally told them not to try anymore. There were always a slew of aunts and uncles and cousins around, though.” I knew that Tony had inherited the house, so I was staying away from that, but he opened it up himself. “I’m the only one left living here now – they were flying in the corporate jet to my college graduation, in a storm, and the plane was struck by lightning. All aboard were killed. They had set up a trust fund, and I have that and this house, so I don’t have to work, but I can’t stand being idle. Too