Every year, the three of them celebrated Charlie’s birthday with what he called their “pig-out,” gorging on all the menu options forbidden by his doctor. Dino’s Steer House was an old-fashioned steak joint that had been in business for more than half a century, and while other restaurants in town had turned haute cuisine, Dino’s had no such pretensions. It still served steaks, burgers, and heart-stopping sides like porky sticks—a mountain of french fries covered with a thick cheese sauce topped with bacon bits and sour cream.

“Happy birthday, Pops,” said Maggie, clinking her wineglass against his beer. “And look what I have for you.” From her briefcase she removed a package wrapped in shiny red paper with a large golden bow.

“Ah, darlin’, you shouldn’t have brought me anything,” he said, but his eyes sparkled as he took the gift. He struggled to unwrap it without destroying the paper, painstakingly slicing the adhesive tape with a steak knife.

“They close at nine thirty,” Jack said to Charlie.

With a chuckle, Charlie ripped off the paper in one swoop and beamed at the box partitioned with various roasted artisanal nuts from Fastachi. Charlie loved nuts. He leaned over and hugged Maggie. “You’re the best, kiddo. And my doctor says nuts are great for my heart.” He gave Jack a wink. “But you can’t have any. They’re mine, all mine!”

Maggie’s phone dinged with a text message. Jack sighed. She was a primary care physician at Mount Auburn Hospital in Cambridge, and they never made it through a meal without that damn phone dinging or ringing or buzzing—if she made it home for a meal at all.

The waitress came to take their orders, and even as Maggie asked for a jumbo sirloin cheeseburger, she was scrolling through her text messages.

“And you, sir?” the waitress asked Jack.

“If you order salmon,” Charlie said, “you’re a disgrace to your Armenian heritage.”

Jack ordered the shish kebab.

The waitress turned to Charlie. “And what will you have?”

“My doctor’s got me on this blasted five-low diet.” And he counted on his fingers. “Low fat, low salt, low sugar, low meat, low taste. So bring me a medium-rare heifer with mozzarella sticks, and a side of melted bacon fat for dipping.”

The woman snickered. “I’m afraid heifer’s not on the menu.”

“Then how ’bout barbecued ribs and porky sticks? Oh, and fried mozzarella for an appetizer. It’s my birthday.”

“Is it? Well, happy birthday!”

“You wanna guess how old I am?”

The woman screwed up her face, not wanting to insult him. “I’d say fifty, fifty-five.”

“Not even close. I’m thirty-seven.”

The waitress’s eyebrows shot up. “Thirty-seven?”

“Celsius. You get to be my age, you go metric.” He winked as the woman left, still snickering.

Most of the time Charlie’s face was hard to read, a fixed and expressionless mask that hid whatever emotions were roiling inside him. It was a face made for interrogations. Before he’d retired seven years before, Charlie had been a detective in the Cambridge PD. Jack often imagined criminals squirming under the glare of those flat blue eyes, set in a face that gave no clues—an inscrutable, emotionless Easter Island blank that could make even a saint confess to murder.

But tonight Charlie was all grins and twinkling eyes as he and Maggie traded their usual father-daughter banter. Watching them together, Jack missed the evenings when he and Maggie used to share their own affectionate banter. The evenings before she’d started dragging herself home exhausted from the clinic, too hollowed out for conversation. It didn’t seem that long ago when Maggie and Jack would have dinner around six thirty—dinners prepared together or by whoever got home first. Or they’d go out to a favorite restaurant or on a warm night drive to Kelly’s on Revere Beach for lobster rolls. With the exception of special nights like tonight, dinners were takeouts now, or they ate separately—she at the hospital and Jack at the Subway down the street from their home. Maggie’s cell phone buzzed again. She frowned at the screen, then tapped the button that sent the call to voice mail.

“Maybe you could turn that off while we eat?” Jack suggested, trying his best not to show his irritation. With a sigh, she slipped her phone into her handbag.

“Happy birthday!” the waitress said, sliding their plates onto the table.

“And what a happy day it is,” Charlie said, beaming at the rack of ribs, dark and glistening with apricot glaze, and the bowl of fries piled high with melted cheese and studded with bacon chips.

Maggie eyed the intimidating burger on her plate, oozing with cheese. “I haven’t eaten one of these monstrosities since your last birthday, Dad.”

Charlie grinned and tucked a napkin into his shirt. “I know this is supposed to be bad for me. So maybe you should call an ambulance to wait outside with the motor running. If I go into cardiac arrest, I want that cute little waitress to give me mouth to mouth.” He snatched up the steak knife and suddenly paused, wincing.

“You okay, Dad?” Maggie asked.

“Except for this ice pick in my back.”

“What do you mean?”

“It feels like someone’s stabbing me between the shoulder blades. I hate when that happens.”

Maggie set down her drink. “How long have you had this pain?”

“A few weeks.” He gave a careless wave. “It comes and goes. Just a nuisance, really.”

“Maybe you pulled a muscle at the gym,” Jack said. Charlie worked out regularly at Gold’s in Arlington Heights and had always been in superb physical shape, bicycling sixty miles or more a week when the weather permitted. Even at seventy, his arms were as thick as hams.

“Have you seen your doctor about it?” Maggie asked.

“He said it’s just a muscle strain.”

“Did he prescribe anything?”

“Just Tylenol. Maybe I should see a chiropractor.”

“God, no,” Maggie said. “You know what I think of chiropractors. At your age, you probably have a degenerative disk or two. The last thing you want is someone jerking around your spine. You should get an MRI.”

“What’ll that show?”

“Maybe a herniated disk pinching a nerve.”

“Hmph. I figured it was just from getting older.”

“I’ll give your doctor a call. See if he can at least get you in for x-rays.”

Charlie slapped his chest. “Uh-oh. Old-guy alert! Where’s that waitress? I need mouth to mouth stat!”

Maggie sighed. “Good try, Dad.”

Even though her phone was tucked inside her purse, they could all hear it ringing. She couldn’t help herself; she pulled it out, looked at the caller’s number, and immediately rose to her feet.

“Sorry, but I have to take this one.” She cupped the phone to her ear and headed outside.

“Those patients of hers should be grateful,” Charlie said. “I don’t think my doctor even knows me by name. I’m just another seventy-year-old white male.”

“Hmm.”

Charlie dipped a mozzarella stick in sauce and took a bite. “Now there’s a discouraging sound. What’s up with you, Jack?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“But I can hear you thinking. Are you two okay?”

“What do you mean?”

Charlie looked at him with that maddeningly unreadable face. “Jack, I spent my career talking to people who were trying to hide stuff.”

Charlie was like a seismograph, sensitive enough to pick up even the slightest tectonic tremor, and his gaze was so intent Jack could almost feel it burrowing into his brain. “It’s her job, that’s all.”

“What about her job?”

“The work is so all-consuming.”

“She’s dedicated to her patients. She has a booming practice. Of course it keeps her busy.”

“I know, and I’m proud of her. But lately it feels like we’re just ships passing in the night.”

“It’s the nature of the beast,” Charlie said. “Part of being married to a professional. All doctors should be like her.”

How could Jack argue with that? At their wedding, his friends had congratulated him for landing a woman who was not only a looker but also a future physician who’d be bringing home fat paychecks. They didn’t know about the insane hours the job required. These days, they scarcely watched TV together.

“Maybe she could cut down her hours a bit.”

“I wish she could. But when a patient needs you . . .” Jack’s voice trailed off before he finished the sentence: your husband comes second.

He saw no sympathy in Charlie’s face, and why should he? Maggie was his perfect, brilliant little girl; Jack was the guy who’d stolen her away, a guy who spent his days teaching a course called Star-Crossed Lovers.

Maggie returned to the table and sat down. “Sorry about the interruption.”

“Everything okay?” Charlie asked.

“I have a very sick patient. She’s only forty-three years old, with three young children. And she’s dying.”

“Jesus,” said Charlie.

“Ovarian cancer is the pits.” Maggie took a deep breath and rubbed a hand across her face. “It’s been a long day. I’m sorry to put a damper on your birthday.”

“Maggie, nothing you do will ever ruin my day. You want to talk about it?”

“Not really. I’d rather talk about happy things.”

“You’re just like your mother, you know that? Never once a discouraging word, right up until the day she died. You look more like her every day.”

Jack watched as father and daughter joined hands on the table, a connection forged long before he’d ever met Maggie. He didn’t resent their closeness, but he did envy it. And he wished, not for the first time, that one day he’d know just such a bond with his own child.