* * *
Craig takes me to what is probably the best restaurant in the area. It’s one town south of Seaside and obviously expensive, with waiters in tuxedos gliding around silently and a pianist discreetly playing a baby grand on one side of the dining room. We’re seated at a candlelit table by a window with a view of the ocean, while I try not to be overly disturbed by Craig’s taste in music, which I was introduced to on the drive over.
He likes polka. Polka, for the love of all that’s holy.
Other than that extreme failing—and a tendency to dominate the conversation, which I already knew—he has lovely manners and is easy to be around. He’s smart, polite, engaging, and funny. Not to mention well dressed and sophisticated. He’s the kind of man every woman’s mother would love to have as a so
