“He’s very passionate about it, though,” I added. “My anniversary gift to him is an overnight up on Kitt Peak. Have you heard about their programs?”

“Not yet,” Jerry said.

I explained, several huge telescopes, six thousand feet elevation, an expert on hand. Sleeping quarters and sandwiches. Carlo filled in some of the details I didn’t know while tilting the wine bottle in my direction. I moved my index finger up in our subtle sign that said I was done.

“When do you plan to go to this place?” Jerry asked Carlo.

Carlo told him. With some questioning, with too many questions? Carlo told him the date and how long it would take to drive there. Gemma-Kate caught my eye from across the table.

Jerry changed the conversation to what Carlo did for a living.

Carlo reminded Jerry that he had been first a Jesuit priest, and then a philosophy professor at the university.

Jerry said that sounded hard, philosophy, and Carlo didn’t mention that Jerry had already said this the first time they talked, but joked that yes, it was a tough racket.

That was another opening.

“So what do you do, Jerry?” I asked, pretending I didn’t already know, and toying with a noodle on my plate to indicate I didn’t much care.

“I’m retired,” he said. We waited. And then he finally gave up some information. “But I had an interesting career. I was a jockey.”

“Flat or harness? Steeple?” I asked.

He paused, and picked at his own pad thai before answering. Apparently he didn’t like it as well when someone else was asking the questions. “Flat,” he said finally. “I was never stupid enough to do the steeplechasing. Too easy to break yourself. Do you ride?”

I cocked my head in a noncommittal way and pretended to be too interested in him to talk about myself. “Where did you race?”

“All over the South. Nothing high stakes like the Derby. Nothing famous. Ever hear of Mother’s Little Helper?”

“No, sorry.”

“He was one of the horses I rode for a while. Placed a couple of times but never won a race. I guess you could blame me.”

“Ever race at Pompano Park?”

Another pause, then, “Sure.”

“When?”

I kept my eyes on his face, but the dining room table has a glass top and through it I could see him picking at a bandage on his right palm.

“In the seventies,” he said.

Then and throughout the evening he seemed both a trifle edgy and overly polite, like a man who’s socializing in a different class and is insecure about it. But there was more. The feeling lingered that he was playing me as much as I was playing him. That one of us was the cat and one the mouse and I wasn’t sure who was which. That didn’t allow for either of us to get anywhere, like evenly matched chess players.