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Something new that would be exciting for him. Then I remembered his words.Not the acts, the people.Steve was looking for the connection.Oh my.Steve wasn't wagering just two minutes, I realized. He was playing for bigger stakes. Much bigger.That scared me.That tugged at me.What were my stakes? I took a deep breath and looked around my apartment. It was pretty empty, I realized. Not as spartan as Steve's bedroom, but still. Utilitarian furniture accumulated in bits and pieces through my college years. The scatter of books and papers and a few houseplants. My prized hockey possession—the autographed Joe Sakic jersey from the 2001 Stanley Cup Championship Season hanging framed on the wall. I wondered what Red Wings memorabilia Steve had tucked away.My eyes fell on the pictures on top of the bookcase. Vickie and me on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Sandy, in full hockey gear, holding the trophy she'd won that year in high school.And Dad.God I missed him.When I was a kid, he'd take us. "There are several restaurants listed in the travel guide," Lucy volunteered."If they are listed, then the company can find them easily. What we need is a restaurant no one would expect. Something small and local would be nice," I suggested."How do we find such a place?" Lucy asked."We ask someone, you tell me, who should we ask?" I demanded."Someone who is not in the tourist trade for sure," she said. "How about a street vendor?" That's a good idea. I wonder if they have food carts, or some other kind of street vendors." I suggested."I can look that up," Lucy suggested. Then almost instantly said, "Nothing listed." Let's just go out and find something for tonight.," I said."I'm ready to go whenever you are," she said. It was a lot more natural sounding than it had been only a few days before.In the lobby I had Lucy ask the night manager, "Do you have a farmer's market here?"He replied, but of course I had no idea what he said. Lucy turned to me, "Yes and they have food vendors by the.
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