They say that women marry their fathers, but this didn’t seem to be the case with Carrie. I had only met her father once, when he was in town on business and took us, along with some of our friends, out to dinner at a mid-level franchise steak house, which was the best the area had to offer at the time. 

Instead of a credit card, he paid the check with crisp one hundred dollar bills. Which, I would learn over the course of the evening, was how he paid for everything.

Doug held court, regaling us with stories about business, about travel, that he delivered with the polished smoothness of river rock. A hilarious gondolier in Venice who sang Italian versions of Michael Jackson songs. Making millions on a commercial property because an analyst had misread his lousy handwriting. Meeting a masseuse in Lyon who he was surprised to discover was actually a prostitute. He did not avail himself of her sexual services, but still tipped her handsomely, presumably in crisp hundred-franc bills.

I could tell he was used to people hanging on his every word. He let dramatic pauses linger, without fear that someone else would fill his magisterial silence with lesser noises of their own.

Once, and only once, I tried to interject a quip into one of Doug’s stories and both he and Carrie shot me the identical cold, lockjawed stare.

Carrie’s husband was named Daniel and he insisted on both syllables. He was clearly unhappy as he followed her into the restaurant. And as she stopped to hug my red-headed acquaintance — who to turned out to be named Gavin — Daniel didn’t join the conversation. He stood, annoyed, a few feet away, and turned his attention to his iPhone.

And this was the difference. Doug would never have stood off to the side, head down, scrolling through his emails. And not just because that technology wasn’t yet even a gleam in Steve Jobs’ eye. When Doug walked into a room, he took it over. But this room threatened to engulf Daniel.

It wasn’t that he was physically unimposing. I think we both would have agreed that he could easily kick my ass. Dark-complected and thick-bodied, he gave the impression of a power lifter who had passed his prime but remained strong, once-chiseled features smoothed over by layers of soft fat. His pristine Chatham blue Polo shirt and freshly pressed tan slacks made him look confident and successful.

When he shook my hand, with a predictably firm grip, my attention was drawn to his Cartier watch. Two fierce Oriental dragons threatened each other with their claws, set against a blood-red face.

“Nice,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said, grinning. “The dragons are hand-engraved.”

“Most of the best dragons are,” I agreed.

“I got him that for his fortieth birthday,” Carrie explained.

“Yes,” said Daniel, his grin tightening, “she did.”

And there it was. An unmistakable insecurity born of the nagging feeling that he wasn’t the lead actor in his own life, but played a supporting role in hers. If his life was good — and his life was very good — none of it was his doing. During the course of our dinner, Carrie would endlessly praise Daniel, for his support, for his understanding, but what she didn’t get was that he needed to feel that he had earned what he had. And what he didn’t get was that it was this need that weakened him.

“Oh, man!” I said with mock regret to Carrie. “I never would have broken up with you if I had known that such a cool watch hung in the balance!”

It was a risky joke, easily interpreted at a jab, but delivered with such seemingly innocent, Scotch-infused warmth that Carrie laughed. And, just as important, Daniel didn’t.