"You must be Jerry Rappaport," she said. "Hi, I'm Deborah Shapiro, formerly Weiss."

"You're still recognisably the girl I knew in high school," I said, "and that's a compliment."

"I'll take it as such," she said. "And please forgive me for not recognising you, on the phone or here, though you do look vaguely familiar."

"I spent a lot of my free time at Mather working in our family restaurant," I said.

"Then you're a Rappaport from Rappaport's on Devon and California. My Dad used to take me and my brother Donny there for Sunday morning breakfast."

"Are you still in touch any of the kids we went to school with?" I asked.

"I was when I lived in Glencoe with my first husband. But during my second and third marriages, living in the city, I fell out of touch. You married?"

"A widower," I said.

"If it doesn't sound too cruel, I wish I were a widow, at least where my third husband is concerned, but I guess you can't have everything."

We ordered coffee, and she walked over to the pastry display and brought back a croissant, which she nibbled at.

"Are you seeing anyone at present?" she asked.

"Not at the moment. The restaurant — we're now on Broadway near Addison — keeps me busy. How about you?"

"I was. A much older man," she said. I didn't say I knew that older man.

"Funny but I happened last to be seeing a much younger woman. She was in her early thirties, but it didn't work out. We didn't know the same songs, if you get my drift. I also felt uncomfortable going with her to her clubs with people younger than my two daughters."

"You have two daughters," she said. "I have no kids myself, but if I had I would have wanted girls. I think I would have understood them better than boys."

"Ever hear from Ted Levinson?"

"He died in his forties, I heard, from cancer. He was living in Milwaukee. But tell me about this 45th reunion."

"It's all very tentative," I lied. "I don't know why I even offered to serve on the planning committee. I don't see why we can't wait until the 50th year reunion."

"This reminds me," she said, "of a friend of my last husband. He was nuts about a little college he went to in upstate New York. Hamilton or Madison maybe was its name. I don't remember exactly. He was a wealthy man, and he gave the school lots of money. He showed me a letter announcing his 60th year class reunion. As I began to read it, he said look at the bottom. ‘Walkers and wheelchairs will be provided.' ‘Screw it,' he said. ‘I'm not going.'" She laughed.