For Seth

This morning at 10:30 a.m. PDT in California's San Fernando Valley, family and friends are gathering to pay their respects to Seth Rappaport.

A passerby found Seth's body at the bottom of a swimming pool last Saturday, August 26. A handsome, wise-cracking native of Boston, Seth was only 36--the picture of prime health. He had won several bodybuilding championships in recent years.

I've known Seth since 1995, when I first joined Guardsmark. For a while, he had been the company's wellness poster child. The employee newsletter had featured articles of Seth transforming his physique from flabby to firm to phenomenal. (Okay, so I personally preferred the middle phase, where he simply looked fit . . . But to each his or her own.)

We've certainly spoken over the years, but we weren't close by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, it wasn't until September 2002 when Seth and I developed any kind of personal relationship.

That's when I started dating Tony. And one of the first things I learned about Tony was that Seth had played a significant role in his life.

A lot of people make such vague, grandiose statements like that. But Seth truly had that life-changing effect on Tony.

It was Seth who met Tony at the airport when this skinny graduate from the University of Pennsylvania arrived in Los Angeles to start a career in the security industry. It was Seth who showed him the ropes of the company and taught him how to take care of customers. It was Seth who introduced Tony to weightlifting. (Well, initially, it was Julie, Seth's then-girlfriend, now-fiancee, because Tony wasn't quite cool enough to work out with Seth yet.) It was Seth who helped introduce Tony to the L.A. social scene.

I heard about almost all of this on my first date with Tony.

From that point on, my relationship with Seth changed. We viewed one another with a new respect because of our mutual love for Tony.

This past Monday, the news of Seth's death devastated Tony. He immediately began researching flights to California and reached out to his circle of friends in California, including Julie, to find out how he could help. For three days, he lived in emotional purgatory, waiting for more information so he could finalize his travel plans and take action.

Throughout this time, I could only watch in silence.

We rarely spoke. Partly because work was keeping me busy. Partly because . . . who knows? Tony would let me know his tentative travel plans, but little else.

As I type, Tony is in a plane, flying to California to join his friends in remembering and celebrating Seth Rappaport.

The situation leaves me at a loss as to how to emotionally support the man I love. I'm not part of that circle. That was his previous life. I feel I've been excluded because I can't possibly understand.

To an extent, that's entirely correct: I can't understand the exact nature of the loss that Tony and his friends are grappling with. Their memories and their experiences form a special bond. I can listen to stories, but I can't laugh or cry and relive the moments they shared with Seth.

As I try to understand Tony and his pain, I can't help but think about my own experiences with Seth.

Naturally, much of my reference comes from Tony. I've heard him talk about Seth and the other members of their circle--Marci, Richard, Julie, Ashley. I know Marci and have met both Richard and Julie. All adored Seth as much as Tony.

Tony and I had talked about visiting California one day, but we never got around to it. Seeing Seth was one of our primary motivations. And now we'll never have that chance.

As I think about the remaining members of Tony's California network, I realize that Seth was truly the glue that held everyone together. That was his legacy: his ability to attract people and to bring them together.

The man was a true bon vivant. He lived every single day to its fullest extent, embracing life with a passion that few possess.

In that respect, he reminds me of Lord Byron, who some consider a greater writer than Shakespeare because he didn't simply write about the human condition: he experienced life as fully as a human could.

That was Seth.

As I go about my daily routine, thinking about this project or that deadline and putting off my novel or those thank-you notes, I realize the emptiness of my actions.

No one expected Seth's life to end at 36. Certainly not Seth. But he lived every one of his days true to himself, rather than waiting until some unknown date in the future to truly start living.

I admire and respect Seth for his passion and for his ability to bring people together.

Not a bad legacy to leave behind.

I honestly can't say that I've achieved as much in almost as many years.

So here's to you, Seth, for your example and your inspiration. Your spirit lives on in the hearts of the many individuals you've touched . . . including myself.

The most romantic words I've ever heard

Next week, my boyfriend and I celebrate our four-year anniversary. It's a big deal. How many marriages survive four years these days?

Wonderful though our relationship may still be, the romance ain't what it used to be. (And frankly, it was never that romantic--at least, not in the traditional sense.)

Let me 'splain.

I'm not criticizing Tony. He's just never been that romantic. At the beginning of our relationship, he brought me a long-stemmed rose. His friends flipped when they found out: the gesture was completely foreign to him.

He told me about their reaction at the time, and he admitted that it wasn't typical behavior. "I've never really felt a girl was worth it before," he said.

Naturally, I bit--hook, line, sinker.

Fast forward four years.

He's still amazingly attentive, but spontaneous flowers are a rarity. These days, flowers are more an element of home decor, rather than an expression of affection.

For Valentine's Day last year, he took me out to a lovely restaurant in Greenwich--exceptional food and ambience. My card? He sent an electronic greeting featuring a cat that made kissing noises with its rectum. (But the card was so him, all I could do was roll my eyes and laugh.)

Tony recently left his corporate job to pursue other dreams. Two nights ago, we were talking about different opportunities he was exploring. I offered my two cents' worth, and I quizzed him about how his short- and mid-term goals aligned with his long-term plans.

In the midst of this conversation, he said, "My ultimate goal to is reach a point where you can stop what you're doing and focus on writing your book."

My heart caught in my throat.

I was stunned and speechless that this brilliant, talented man had that much faith in me and in my literary talents.

That one moment meant more to me than all the roses and Godiva chocolates in the world.