I am nervous, nervous as I drive to meet Mr. Faraway. I’m not clear whether it’s a date or not: it started as coffee during the day and morphed into dinner at a Japanese restaurant that I picked out. I try to think about things to talk about that aren’t his divorce or our kids or board business. He gets there first, so when I arrive, I see him waiting outside, wearing his suit from work and weighed down with two large tote bags, filled with books and things he wants to discuss with me.

He’s brought the conversation with him, packed it very carefully ahead of time, but even though he’s got quite the load, he steps ahead to open the door for me.

My father warned me this might happen, and lectured me about how to do this: on his last visit, he tried to hold a door for me and I crashed into it. It made him mad – not at me, but at The Departed, who, my father surmised correctly, had never held a door for me during our marriage.

I’d lost the skills I needed to let someone be gracious to me, so I reminded myself to step back a little bit, and allow Mr. Faraway to do these things. And when he does, I think, perhaps such a little thing should not be such a big thing.

I savor it anyway.

We sit at a large round table in a booth, so we’re sort of facing each other but also sort of next to each other, and I rest my arm on the back of the booth as we talk over drinks. He has a book about the history of the Latvian town my great-grandfather is from: This town is significant, he tells me, and then tells me why, and shows me the section from the book about it. There’s another book, too, that mentions some other ancient ancestor of mine, and he tries to explain it and I try to follow along. There’s a lot of information, a lot to follow. I listen and smile and mostly I’m just watching him as he talks – he leans toward me and shifts toward me and occasionally I feel his leg brush against mine with all the shifting.

Partway through dinner, though, something changes. He has started sitting back – he’s moved slightly away from me, even folding his hands at times. I don’t shift at all, and the conversation continues, but it becomes slightly more reserved, and I wonder what I’ve said to cause this.

The check arrives, and I remind myself, again, to allow him some space. I try not to glance at it, and wonder what to do. It sits, unremarked upon, while we finish our drinks and notice that it’s gotten fairly late, and I’ve got The Child at home and should probably get going.

I go to the ladies room, and when I return, the check is gone and he’s chatting with the bartender.

As we head outside, he asks where I’m parked, and I say, not far.

Okay, he says, and after a brisk hug, he says goodnight and heads off quickly in the opposite direction.

Mr. Faraway and I have some events coming up, that we will both attend, with our children. The first one is coming up in Seattle, and he mentions, in passing, that there is a part of it his children won’t be interested in. He’s thinking perhaps he will take them to this cool old library nearby, to check it out while the boring stuff is going on.

It sounds interesting, I say, but then the subject is dropped.

He starts trying to coordinate a lunch for the group at the same event, which quickly becomes complicated by various other adults’ dietary concerns and other schedule conflicts, and by the end, nobody quite knows whether something is or isn’t planned.

This becomes a problem when he suggests that perhaps he and I and one other adult could step away from the main group for a bit, get some coffee and attend to some needed paperwork.

One evening, he asks how far my house is from the old library – how long is the drive, he wants to know.

Twenty minutes or so, I tell him. Why?

He is in town on business a few days before the overly-complicated event, and it seems like a shame that I’ve never seen this library, especially since I don’t live all that far from it. Maybe, he says, we could get a cup of coffee nearby – so that he could show it to me.

It would be great, but realistically, it will be a two-hour lunch from a workday, and that’s a luxury I don’t have. I wish I could, I tell him.

It’s easier for me to get together with people after work, I say.

Oh. I have a business dinner that evening, he says. That wouldn’t work.

A few days later, he mentions the business dinner might not be happening after all. He’s not sure. If it doesn’t, though, maybe we can have that cup of coffee.

Do I know any places near there? he wants to know.

I suggest a couple of restaurants in the area, and a few days later, he lets me know that his  business dinner has been canceled, and we have plans to meet at a Japanese restaurant.

Mr. Faraway and I continue to chat most evenings. One evening, he mentions my Latvian family history, and sends me links to some eBay items he found – jewelry made out of antique Latvian coins. He seems to have this information very close at hand – as though he’s spent some time researching it, recently.

I joke: Sir, have you been jewelry shopping for me?

He’s mortified. He tries to talk about the details of the coin, about the details of Latvian history – about anything else he can think of. I didn’t save that very well, he says.

I smile and finally let him change the subject and get comfortable again.

He tells me he is meeting with his attorney again in a few days, which he does. He finally decides to give his wife a deadline: she can sign the agreement they made together but have left unsigned and unfiled, or he will simply proceed without her. He calls me on skype after the meeting, and I notice that he’s not sitting in front of over-stuffed bookcases this time, but he’s re-arranged the computer so that he’s sitting on a couch and there’s a nice clean living room behind him. He’s wearing the nice shirt and tie he must have worn to the meeting, and I think maybe he wants to create a certain impression, and if he does, then he’s succeeded.

He tells me how the meeting went. He’s still negotiating things, offering areas of discussion to someone who’s stopped talking. I tell him to stop it: If she has something to discuss, she can raise the issue herself.

He seems to think about that and realize maybe that’s right; I think maybe I am not the first person who has said that to him.

I have to cut the conversation short, to go get The Child, so we say goodbye.

But though he gets up to disconnect the call, he doesn’t do it right away. He stands there, looking at me on his computer monitor, beaming.