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has a party afterwards.”
    “Not a party, the party.”
    She said, “Then how come we didn’t come here when you ran?”
    “Because after I finished the race, my legs were barely able to climb curbs, remember?”
    “I remember how stupid it was for a man six-three—”
    “—a little under, Nance-—”
    “—and almost two hundred pounds to run twenty-six miles without stopping when he didn’t have to.”
    “And I remember you, waiting for me at the finish line.”
    “With my camera.”
    “It was the ‘you’ part that mattered.”
    A smile crossed her face, almost from ear to ear. “That was certainly the right thing to say. Where do we sit?”
    I ordered a pint of draught ale for each of us and led her to a table under the “Wall of Memory.” There were photos and testaments to Johnny Kelley, who ran more Bostons than any other human being, winning several times around 1940 before finally having to stop in the early nineties. I identified some candid shots of Joan Benoit Samuelson, the great women’s and Olympic champion, and of course Boston ’s own Bill Rodgers, who finished first an incredible four times in six years.
    Nancy looked up at the wall as our drinks arrived. “You really know who all these people are?”
    Alberto Salazar, Greg Meyer, Cosmos Ndeti. “Most of them. But this was never just a runner’s bar. Professors from Berklee College of Music played jazz. And reporters from the old Phoenix kibitzed with state senators ducking quorum calls. Even the great Bill Lee made an appearance.”
    “Bill Lee?”
    “The Spaceman. He was pitching for the Red Sox one afternoon at Fenway when the game got delayed by rain. He came over to the bar in his uniform and cleats, drinking beer while monitoring the rain on television, running back to the park to retake the mound.”
    Nancy looked at me. “And when was all this?”
    “The mid-to late-seventies.”
    “John?”
    “What?”
    “In the mid- to late-seventies, the only time I’d have seen any of those people would have been if they’d come to show-and-tell at my grammar school.”
    “Drink your ale.”
    As Nancy smiled at me over the top of her glass, I looked around the room, then noticed Nancy ’s expression change.
    She said, “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”
    “How do you mean?”
    “Your face just went sad.”
    “The reason I brought you here.”
    “Which is?”
    “The owners of the hotel aren’t renewing the bar’s lease. They want to aim at a more upscale crowd.”
    “So, this is kind of last call at the Eliot Lounge?”
    “Kind of.”
    Nancy reached her right hand across the table, closing on my left one. “Then I’m glad you cared enough to have me come with you.”
    “You and no other, kid.”

    * * *

    “What a lovely evening,” said Nancy .
    We were walking east on Newbury Street , Boston ’s answer to Rodeo Drive . A little funkier on the Mass Ave end where we were, a little ritzier—appropriately—as you got closer to the Ritz Carlton Hotel overlooking the Public Garden. There were a few outdoor cafes, tables set but no diners seated.
    “John?”
    “Agreed,” I said. “Lovely evening.”
    Nancy took my arm, giving me a sidelong glance. “You still down about the Eliot?”
    “Yes, but I did what I could, which was to send the place off with as much good feeling as it gave me back when.”
    “Then there’s nothing else you can do.”
    “Right.”
    Nancy tone changed. “You know the photos of the runners on the wall?”
    “Yes?”
    “I bet you’d look cute in one of those little running outfits, with the silk singlets and short shorts.”
    “You should catch me in the swim-suit competition.” Nancy drew my arm toward her more tightly. “I was kind of hoping for the birthday-suit competition.”
    “If you can curb your lust until after dinner.”
    “You’re on.”
    Just past Dartmouth , we turned down a set of stairs to Thai Basil.
    Nancy smiled. “My tummy’s happy already.”
    The