Still holding my hand, as Mickey guided us behind the hostess, I took in the restaurant and something settled inside me.

Because the Lobster Market was perfectly Mickey.

And perfectly Magdalene.

And maybe perfectly me.

I’d never been there in the evening, but I saw the lights were dimmed. And as at lunch, on the tables they had the squat glass vases filled with short buds, only two or three stems each, but it brought a bit of class. They also didn’t change their blue and white checkered tablecloths for the evening. The salt and pepper shakers were glass, attractive, but not crystal.

However evening meals, I saw, did not have paper napkins like at lunch, but blue or white cloth napkins and also small, lit candles.

The view of the wharf from the big windows was amazing.

Even though it was nice, it wasn’t exactly romantic.

What it was was a place that could be for anything. A date. A family dinner. Whatever you needed it to be. It wasn’t fancy, it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t a burger joint you dropped by to grab a meal. It was a place you made special for whatever reason that might be.

It wasn’t elegant and refined, however, the fare wasn’t cheap but it was delicious.

It was just right for Mickey.

And, I decided, walking hand in hand with Mickey, for me.

The restaurant wasn’t full, though there wasn’t a lot of seating left, but the hostess led us right to a prime table at the windows so our amazing view was unadulterated.

Perfect.

Mickey seated me before he seated himself and the hostess gave us our menus. Before we could even glance at them, a busboy came with glasses of water.

After he left, I put the menu down and looked at Mickey.

“You’re the Maine man, show me how to eat at a lobster joint in Maine,” I challenged.

As I spoke, Mickey’s eyes went from his menu to me and they were smiling.

“Anything you don’t like?” he asked.

“Not really,” I replied.

“Then you’re on,” he muttered, looking back at his menu.

The waitress came and asked for our drink orders. I ordered a sauvignon blanc and Mickey ordered a beer. We received our drinks and Mickey handed the menus to the waitress after ordering us both steamers, cups of New England clam chowder, dinner salads and full lobsters with all the fixin’s.

When she left, I turned wide eyes to Mickey.

“That’s a lot of food.”

His gaze went guarded but even so, it didn’t leave mine when he replied, “Amy, you gotta eat more, baby.”

And I felt it again. That settling inside me.