Two by Two

CHAPTER 22: The Eye of the Storm

As a kid, I always loved thunderstorms.

Marge thought I was a kook, but when thunderstorms approached, I would feel an electric sense of anticipation, akin to what my dad felt before the World Series. I would insist on turning out all the lights and would move the armchairs closer to the big picture window in the living room. Sometimes, I would even toss a bag of popcorn into the microwave, and, together, Marge and I would snack while we watched the “show.”

In the darkness, we would sit riveted as lightning split the sky in two or flickered in the clouds like strobe lights. During the best storms, the strikes would be close enough for us to feel the static electricity, and I would notice Marge gripping the armrest of her chair. Always, though, we would count how many seconds passed between a flash of lighting and the thunder, tracking the progress of the storm as the center drew near.

In the South, thunderstorms don’t usually last very long. Typically, they would pass in thirty or forty minutes, and when the last rumble of thunder faded away we would reluctantly rise from our chairs and turn on the lights, going back to whatever it was we’d been doing before.

Hurricanes were a different story, however. My ever-cautious dad always boarded up the big picture window, so we couldn’t watch the full extent of the spectacle. But I remained fascinated by the apocalyptic winds and torrential rain… and especially the approach of the eye-that surreal moment when the winds abated entirely and it was sometimes even possible to see blue skies overhead. But the calm is only temporary, for the back half of the hurricane still lies in wait and with it, sometimes even greater destruction.

Which, I wonder, is more analogous to life? Or, rather, to my life that terrible year? Was it a series of violent storms, bursting in quick succession? Or was it a single massive hurricane, with an eye that lulled me into believing I’d survived intact, when, in fact, the worst was yet to come?

I don’t know.

All I know for certain is that I hope never to experience another year like it, for as long as I live.

London loved her birthday party. The bouncy castle was a hit, she clapped with delight when she saw the cake, and she had fun playing with her friends, especially Bodhi. Emily brought him by, but didn’t stay, claiming that she needed to meet with the gallery owner to finalize some things for her upcoming show. Another one of the kids’ parents had already promised to bring Bodhi home. She apologized for not sticking around, but I think we were both eager to avoid any awkwardness with Vivian.

Earlier that morning, while Vivian was ferrying London around-she’d driven the SUV from Atlanta-I made a trip to the pet store and set up the aquarium in her room; I chose several colorful fish, and stuck a bow on the glass. When Vivian and London returned from art class, I had London close her eyes as I led her to the threshold of her room. She squealed when she opened them and catapulted across the room toward the aquarium.

“Can I feed them?”

“Of course,” I said. “I’m sure they’re hungry. Let me show you how much food to give them, okay?”

I tapped some food into the lid of the plastic container and handed it to her. She poured it into the fish tank, mesmerized as the fish raced to the surface and started devouring the food. When I glanced over my shoulder at Vivian, I saw that she had her arms crossed, her mouth a tight crease.

At the party, however, Vivian was all smiles with everyone, including me and my entire family. She asked my mom to pitch in when she cut the cake, and when London opened a box filled with Barbie accessories from Marge and Liz, she urged London to go over and give them a hug, which London did.

Marge leaned in afterward, muttering under her breath. “She’s acting as though nothing has changed between the two of you at all,” which upon reflection made me even more nervous than Vivian’s earlier, chilly demeanor.

After the party, Vivian took London to the mall; with Halloween coming up, she took it upon herself to help London choose a costume. I used that time to clean up the house, filling garbage bags with paper plates and cups, and wrapping a tray of leftovers to put in the fridge. With that completed, I decided it might be best to make myself scarce for the rest of the evening, and left for my office.

I worked into the evening, focusing on the presentations for the law firms that had contacted me. As London’s bedtime approached, I texted Vivian, asking if it was time to read to London, only to receive a terse response a while later that London was already asleep.

I stayed late at the office that night, but rose early on Sunday to go for a run and shower. I was having breakfast and coffee when I heard Vivian moving around in the guest room upstairs. Though I lingered in the kitchen, wondering if she might want to talk about how well the party had gone, she never made an appearance.

I returned to the office to finish the presentations-they were all fairly similar-aware that the truce between Vivian and me had ended, but unclear as to the reason. Was she was jealous that London had loved the aquarium-something I’d selected without Vivian’s input? But then Vivian had been cool toward me for nearly a week, I reasoned.

I texted Vivian as soon as I got to the office, asking what time she planned to leave. She didn’t respond until nearly five, informing me that she’d be leaving in half an hour and forcing me to scramble to get home in time.

When I arrived, London came running and jumped in my arms.

“I fed my fish, Daddy! And they were so hungry! And I let Mr. and Mrs. Sprinkles see them, too. I held them right next to the glass.”

“Have you given them names yet?”

She nodded. “They’re all so pretty, so I knew what their names should be. Let me show you.”

She pulled me up the steps to her room and pointed out the various fish, reciting their names: Cinderella, Jasmine, Ariel, Belle, Mulan, and Dory “because that’s who they remind me of.”

Downstairs, Vivian was already waiting by the door. She hugged and kissed London goodbye. Then she half turned in my direction, uttered a perfunctory “Bye,” without making eye contact, and walked out the door.

I should have simply let her go. Instead, after a beat, I followed her out. By then, she was already opening the door to the SUV.

“Vivian? Hold up.”

She turned, her expression stony as I approached.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Russ,” she answered, sounding anything but.

“You seem angry.”

“Are you seriously asking me this?” Vivian whipped off her sunglasses. “Of course I’m angry. And disappointed.”

“Why? What did I do?”

“Do you really want to get into this now?” She glared at me over the open car door.

“I just want to know what’s going on…”

She closed her eyes, as though steeling herself, and when they opened again, I could see rage flaring behind them.

“Why are you dragging London along when you go out with your girlfriend?”

Her question caught me so off guard it took me a second to comprehend what she was talking about. “You mean Emily?”

“Of course I mean Emily!”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” I sputtered. “London and Bodhi are friends.”

“So the two of you take them to the zoo? And the aquarium? Like some kind of double date?” she spat out. “Do you know how confusing that is for her? Why would you do such a thing?”

“I’m not trying to confuse her…”

“Do you know what London did yesterday? When we went to art class? She ran up and hugged Emily. In front of everyone!”

“London hugs everyone…”

“SHE HUGGED HER!” Vivian shouted. Her cheeks flushed. “I thought you were smarter than that! I thought you were better than that! You don’t see me insisting that London hang out with Walter and me, do you? I haven’t even told London about Walter. She doesn’t even know he exists! I haven’t even told her that we’re getting divorced!”

“Vivian-”

“Don’t!” she snapped. “I don’t want to hear you try to justify why the four of you have been gallivanting around town like you’re a family now. You sure didn’t wait long, did you?”

“Emily’s just a friend,” I protested.

“Are you honestly going to stand here and try to convince me that you see Emily just because London and Bodhi are friends?” she said, sneering. “Tell me this: Are you hanging out with the parents of London’s other friends, too?”

“No, but-”

“And you don’t think about her? You don’t call her? You’re not turning to her for support?”

I couldn’t deny it and my expression must have given me away.

“I’ve been trying my best to keep London out of this,” she went on. “While you… You don’t seem to have given any thought as to what might be best for London. Or what she might be thinking or feeling. You’re just thinking about yourself and what you want-same old story. You haven’t changed at all, have you, Russ?”

With that, Vivian got into the SUV and slammed the door. She backed out and roared away while I stood there, frozen and reeling inside.

I couldn’t sleep that night.

Was Vivian right? Had I only been thinking about myself? I replayed all the times I’d seen Emily; I retraced the steps that had led us to the zoo and the aquarium. And I asked myself, if London had a different best friend, would I have visited those places with that friend’s parents?

In my heart, I knew the answer was no, which made me wonder how much I’d been lying to myself.

I felt the repercussions of Vivian’s anger a few days later, while sitting in Taglieri’s office. He’d called me because he had an update on the divorce negotiations.

“I was finally able to spend time on the phone with Vivian’s attorney,” he said, “going through the proposed agreement section by section.” He sighed. “I don’t know what’s going on between you and Vivian, but I was anticipating a little give-and-take, as is the norm in these kinds of negotiations. What I didn’t expect was for her to escalate her demands.”

“She wants more?” I felt a numbness spreading through me at his words.

“Yup.”

“Of what?”

“Everything. More alimony. More money when it comes to dividing joint property.”

“How much exactly?’

When he told me I blanched. “What if I don’t have it?”

“Well, for starters… I’d put the house up for sale.”

While I’d been dreading Vivian’s next move, I felt as if I’d been sucker-punched.

“She also said to tell you that Vivian will be here for Halloween weekend, and that she would prefer if you didn’t stay in the house this time.”

“Why didn’t Vivian just tell me that herself?”

“Because Vivian has decided that henceforth, she wants all communications to go through the attorneys. She doesn’t want to speak with you directly.”

“Anything else?” I said, in a daze.

“She also wants to bring London to Atlanta the weekend of November thirteenth.”

“And if I say no?”

“She’ll probably go straight to the court. And Russ…” Taglieri eyed me seriously. “This isn’t something worth fighting about, because you won’t win. Unless she’s an unfit mother, she has the right to see her daughter.”

“I wouldn’t have fought it. I’m just… blown away.”

“Do you want to talk about what it is that set her off?”

“Not really,” I said. What was the point? “What’s she saying about London?”

“For now, she wants to have her every other weekend. In the future, though, she’s insisting on sole custody.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Which is yet another reason to put your house up for sale. Even though I’ve slashed my rates for you, fighting her is going to make this an expensive proposition.”

On the work front, at least, things were improving. In the weeks following London’s birthday party up until the end of the month, I landed four out of the five legal firms as new clients. Though it meant I was suddenly drowning in work-as were my tech guy and the camera crew-my work with Taglieri had vastly shortened my learning curve. Meanwhile, the plastic surgeon’s campaign kicked off while Marge and Liz were in Costa Rica, and he was thrilled with the results he was seeing.

As for London and me, we’d settled into a steady rhythm. The stitches in her forehead came out and when a follow-up X-ray confirmed there were no broken bones, the splint eventually came off, too. She wasn’t ready for her piano lessons yet, but she managed fine in art class. On our next date night, I took her out to a fancy dinner at a place called Fahrenheit, which offered glittering Charlotte city views and elegant handwritten menus-the kind of place that Vivian would have loved.

As Halloween approached, I didn’t see much of Emily.

For better or for worse, Vivian’s comments had gotten to me. While I’d tried to convince myself that our relationship was platonic, I knew it was more than just a friendship. I was definitely attracted to her, and in the evenings, I would find myself staring at the phone and wondering if I was somehow damaging London by wanting to reach out to Emily.

Don’t get me wrong. I still called Emily almost every night, unwilling or unable to give up that comforting ritual. But in the back of my mind, I could hear Vivian’s voice, and I sometimes hung up feeling confused and guilty. I knew I wasn’t ready for a relationship, but was I acting as if I were, by calling so frequently? And what did I really want in the long run when it came to Emily? Could I be content to simply remain friends? Would I be happy for her if she started dating someone else? Or would I feel a twinge at the thought of what might have been, maybe even succumb to jealousy?

Deep down, I knew the answer. Aside from Marge, I considered Emily to be my closest friend… and yet I hadn’t told her what Vivian had said. Why couldn’t I be honest with her about the conflict roiling within me? Perhaps a part of me felt that I’d been lying to Emily all along about my intentions. I wanted more than friendship. Not now, but down the road.

And as selfish as it may seem, I didn’t want to risk losing her before that, which left me even more conflicted about what exactly I should do.

The day before Halloween, I made arrangements to check into a hotel.

Marge and Liz had arrived home from Costa Rica late Wednesday night, and I didn’t feel good about hitting them up for a place to stay. Nor did I want to stay with my parents; though I knew they wouldn’t have minded, I didn’t want them to know about my further deteriorating relationship with Vivian. At London’s birthday party, Vivian’s cheerful façade had led my mom to pull me aside and try to convince me that Vivian still had feelings for me. That was a conversation I didn’t want to face again.

Taglieri texted that Vivian would be arriving early on Friday night, probably around seven, which meant there would be no date night with London. Instead, London and I ate at home. Afterward, she ran up the stairs to check on the hamsters and her fish while I started to clean the kitchen.

I heard Vivian push through the door twenty minutes later.

“Hello!” she sang out. “I’m here!”

My heart started to race as if I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t, simply by being in my own house. Meanwhile, Vivian breezed in like she was the one who still lived here.

Vivian poked her head into the kitchen, looking for London.

“She’s in her bedroom,” I said. “She ran up there to check on her critters.”

“Okay,” she said, nodding. “Did she eat?”

I thought you told your attorney that we weren’t supposed to communicate directly. But okay, I’ll play along. “Yeah, she’s had dinner. No bath yet. I didn’t know if you were going to take her to a movie or…”

“I haven’t decided yet. I’ll talk to her.” She paused. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, thrown once again by her casual demeanor. “I’m fine. You looking forward to trick-or-treating?”

“It’ll be fun. I picked up an amazing costume for London. It’s Belle from Beauty and the Beast, but extra glittery.”

“She’ll love that,” I agreed. “She named one of her fish Belle.”

“Make sure you come by in time to see it.”

“You want me to come by?”

She rolled her eyes, but in them I saw only disbelief, not anger-as though I were merely clueless, rather than hateful. “Of course, Russ. She’s your daughter. It’s Halloween. And besides, you need to be here to hand out candy for the kids who come by the house. What did you think was going on tomorrow night?”

As usual, Vivian had managed to keep me guessing.

I hadn’t seen Marge and Liz since London’s birthday party, so I swung by my parents’ the next afternoon, before the trick-or-treating got underway. I noticed right off that Marge had slimmed down even more. She looked fantastic, but it was on the tip of my tongue to tell her not to lose much more weight, as it might make her face look too severe. Liz, too, looked like she’d shed some pounds, though not as much.

Marge and Liz enveloped me in hugs as soon as I stepped through the door.

“So this is what you look like after a vacation, huh?” I said to Marge, giving a low whistle.

“I know, pretty fab, huh? I weigh as much as I did in college now.”

“You look great, too, Liz. Are you sure the two of you weren’t secretly at Canyon Ranch the whole time?”

“Thank you. But no,” she said. “It was all just good old-fashioned hiking and sightseeing. And like Marge, I kept my servings of rice and beans to a minimum.”

“I’m jealous. I’ve stopped losing weight, even though I’m still running.”

“How are things?” Marge asked. “When I talked to Mom last night, she said you landed some new clients? Let’s go out back and talk for a while.”

“All right. Let me say hi to Mom and Dad and I’ll meet you outside in a few.”

Visiting with my parents took fifteen minutes-Mom didn’t bring up the cancer, thank goodness-and I found my sister and Liz on the back patio, both of them drinking tall glasses of sweet tea.

For the next hour, we talked about their trip-the zip-lines, Arenal volcano, hikes through the cloud forest and near the coast-and I caught them up on all that had been going on in my world. Just as that part of the conversation was coming to a close, my mom popped her head out and asked Liz if she’d mind giving her a hand in the kitchen.

“So… you were told you had to communicate through attorneys, but then she showed up at the house and acted as if everything were normal?”

I nodded. “Don’t ask me to explain it. I’m just thanking God for small favors.”

“What I still don’t understand is why Vivian got London for both her birthday and on Halloween. You should get London for some of the fun things, too.”

“It’s just the way the weekends are falling.”

Marge didn’t seem satisfied with this explanation, but apparently decided to let it drop. “How do you feel about selling the house?”

“I guess I’m torn. We don’t need a place that big-to be honest, we never really did-but at the same time, there are a lot of memories there. Anyway, I don’t have much of a choice. Even though my business is finally taking off, it’s not like I’ll have enough in the bank to pay Vivian off when we sign the papers.” I paused. “It’s hard for me to believe it’s been almost two months since she walked out the door. In some ways, it seems like yesterday. In other ways, it feels like forever.”

“I can’t imagine,” Marge said. She turned her head and covered her mouth, coughing from somewhere deep in her chest.

“You’re still sick?”

“No,” she answered. “This is just a remnant from the bronchitis. Apparently it can take the lungs months to heal, even when the inflammation is gone. I felt pretty good in Costa Rica, but right now, I need a vacation from my vacation. Liz kept us on the go the whole time-I’m still wiped out. And my knees are killing me from all the hiking.”

“Hiking is good exercise, but it’s rough on the joints,” I conceded.

“Speaking of which, let me know if you and Emily ever want to go hiking with Liz and me. It’ll be like old times.”

“I will,” I said. At my answer, Marge tilted her head.

“Uh-oh. I’m sensing there’s trouble in paradise. Is there anything you’re not telling me?”

“Not really,” I hedged. “I just don’t know where the relationship is going.”

Marge scrutinized me. “Why can’t you just be happy with what you have with her right now? Because it seems to me like she’s been a rock to you these past couple of months.”

“She has.”

“Then just appreciate her for that, and let it be what it’s going to be.”

I hesitated. “Vivian thinks that hanging out Emily and the kids is confusing to London. And she’s right.”

Marge made a skeptical face, but in the end she folded her hands on the table and leaned toward me. “So don’t bring London and Bodhi,” she said pointedly. “Why don’t you just try going out with her?”

“Like on a date?”

“Yes,” Marge said. “Like a date.”

“What about London?”

“Liz and I would be more than happy to babysit. And besides, didn’t you just say that London was going to be in Atlanta in a couple of weeks? Seize the day, little brother.”

On Halloween night, Vivian was unusually warm, even insisting that she take a photo of me with London on her phone, which she then texted to me right away. I handed out candy to the neighborhood kids. There were so many coming by the house, I sat in the rocking chair on the front porch so I wouldn’t have to keep getting up from the couch.

The next morning, I woke to a text from Vivian that said she’d be leaving around six, and could I try to be home by then?

On the way out the door that evening, she pulled me into a hug and whispered to me that I was doing a great job with London.

The first couple of weeks of November blurred together in a string of eighteen-hour days, marked by the routines that had become second nature. I exercised, worked, took care of London-who started back with piano lessons-cooked, cleaned, and made nightly calls to Emily. Thanks to my new clients, I was so busy that I didn’t even have time to swing by my parents the following weekend, nor visit with Marge and Liz even once. A few things from that period do stand out in my memory, however.

The week after Halloween, I had a Realtor come by so I could put the house up for sale. She walked through and asked a lot of questions; toward the end, she suggested that I rearrange the furniture, to show the rooms to better effect. One by one, at her suggestion, the pieces ended up back where Vivian had originally placed them. Before she left, she retrieved a mallet from her car and pounded a bright red realty sign into the yard out front.

The sight of the sign made something sink inside me, and out of instinct, I called Emily. As usual, she brought me back onto solid ground, even encouraging me with the prospect of turning to a fresh page in my life, in a new home. Maybe it was the prospect of Vivian taking London to Atlanta for the weekend, but as the conversation was winding down, I found myself thinking about Marge’s suggestion that I ask Emily out. Before I could gather my courage, however, Emily spoke up.

“Russ, I’ve been meaning to ask you-would you like to accompany me to the opening of the art show I told you about? The one that’s going to include a few of my paintings?”

She sounded a bit nervous, and I could almost picture her smoothing her hair behind her ear, the way she always did when she was anxious. “I mean, it’s fine if you can’t, but since the opening is the weekend when London’s going to be in Atlanta, I thought…”

“I’d love to,” I interrupted. “I’m so glad you asked.”

As the weekend of November thirteenth approached, I helped London prepare for her trip to Atlanta, which took more time than I thought it would. London was excited at the idea of visiting Vivian in her new apartment, and packed and repacked her suitcase four or five times. She fretted for days over what to bring, ultimately packing several different outfits, in addition to Barbies, coloring books, crayons, and the book Two by Two. Vivian had texted that she would pick London up at five, which I interpreted to mean she’d drive both ways. Of course, I’d forgotten about Spannerman’s private jet, but I was reminded of that as soon as the limousine pulled to a stop in front of the house.

I carried London’s bag to the car and handed it to the driver. By then, London had crawled into the limousine and was already exploring the plush interior.

It hurt to see her leaving, even if she was with her mom.

“I’ll have her back here Sunday about seven,” Vivian said. “And of course, you can call anytime and I’ll put her on the phone.”

“I’ll try not to be a nuisance about it.”

“You’re her father,” Vivian said. “You’re not a nuisance.” She looked away before continuing. “And just so you know, she’s not going to meet Walter this weekend. It’s too soon for him to meet her. I wouldn’t do that to her.”

I nodded, surprised-and yes, undeniably grateful.

“Do you have any big plans?” I asked, somehow eager to prolong their departure.

“There are a lot of things to do there. I think we’ll play it by ear. But I should probably be going. I don’t want it to be too late when we get to the apartment.”

This time, there was no hug. As she turned away, however, her eyes caught the sight of the realty sign and she paused. Then, with a resolute flick of her hair over her shoulder, she moved to the open door and the driver closed it behind her.

I watched the limo pull away, feeling strangely bereft. Despite everything that had happened to this point, there always seemed to be another way to remind me that I’d lost the future I’d once imagined.

I don’t know why the thought of attending Emily’s gallery opening made me nervous. Emily and I had coffee together practically every weekend, we talked on the phone most nights, and I’d spent an evening drinking wine on her back patio. We’d spent whole days on expeditions with the kids. Moreover, we would be attending an event at which her work, not mine, would be on display-so if anyone should be nervous, it stood to reason it should be her.

Even so, my heart was beating faster than usual and my mouth had gone slightly dry when Emily answered the knock at her front door. One look at her framed in the doorway didn’t help. I wasn’t sure how artists were supposed to look at their openings, but gone was any trace of the easygoing mom with whom I was so familiar; in her place stood a ravishing woman in a strappy black cocktail dress, her hair tumbling in a glossy waterfall past her shoulders. I noticed she was wearing just enough makeup to make it seem she was wearing none at all.

“You’re right on time,” she said, leaning in for a quick hug. “And don’t you look sharp.”

I’d gone with what Vivian referred to as a Hollywood Look: black blazer, black slacks, and a black V-neck sweater.

“I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to wear,” I admitted, still feeling the imprint of her brief hug.

“Let me just make sure the babysitter has everything she needs. Then we can go, okay?”

I watched as she climbed the stairs and heard her speaking to the babysitter. At the top of the stairs, she hugged and kissed Bodhi before returning to the foyer.

“Shall we?”

“Absolutely,” I said, certain that she was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. “But only on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You have to give me some pointers on gallery-opening etiquette.”

She laughed, the carefree sound loosening the knot of tension in my diaphragm.

“We’ll talk on the way,” she said, moving toward the foyer closet and grabbing a cashmere wrap. “But let’s scoot out of here before Bodhi realizes he forgot something critical and it takes another twenty minutes before we can escape.”

I opened the front door and watched as she led the way, noting how the dress hugged her figure just right. My eyes drifted lower until I flashed on the memory of the night she’d helped me with my bowtie, which made me flush and lift my gaze.

I backed the car onto the street and steered it in the direction of downtown, where the gallery was located.

“So, is this show a big deal for you?” I asked. “I know you’ve been working like crazy to get all the paintings ready.”

“It’s not a major exhibit at MoMA or anything like that, but the owner of the gallery does a nice job. He’s been in business for a long time, so once a year, he invites his best customers to a private showing. A few of them are prominent regional collectors. Usually, there are six or seven artists, but this year, I think he said he’s showcasing the work of nine artists. Two sculptors, a glass artist, an artist who works in ceramics, and five painters.”

“And you’re one of them.”

“I’m one of the painters every year.”

“How many does he represent?”

“Thirty, maybe?”

“See? And you’re so humble, I never would have known.”

“I’m humble because my paintings don’t sell for much money. It’s not like anything I’ve done will ever see the inside of Sotheby’s or Christie’s. Of course, most of the artists whose work sells for a gazillion dollars are dead.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

“You’re preaching to the choir,” she teased.

“And what role do you play at the opening?”

“Well, it’s kind of like a mixer, and I’m one of several hosts. There will be wine and appetizers, and I’ll hang around in the general vicinity of my work, in case any of the guests have questions or want to talk to me.”

“What if they want to buy a piece?”

“Then the guest will talk to the gallery owner. It’s not really my place to discuss what a painting is worth. As much as I was joking about the big bucks, I don’t like to think of art in terms of money. People should buy a piece because they love it. Because it speaks to them.”

“Or because it looks good hanging on the wall?”

“Or that,” she said, smiling.

“I’m excited to see what you’ve done. I’m sorry I didn’t make it to the gallery before now…”

“Russ, you’re a busy single dad,” she said, giving my arm a reassuring squeeze. “I’m just glad you agreed to come with me tonight. It’ll give me someone to talk to when no one is looking at my work. It’s a little dispiriting to stand next to your work and watch people ignore it, or avert their gaze so you won’t try to talk to them.”

“Has that ever happened to you?”

“Every time,” she said. “Not everyone who shows up will like my work. Art is subjective.”

“I like your work. What I’ve seen on your walls, I mean.”

She laughed. “That’s because you like me.”

I looked over at her. “True enough.”

By the time we reached the gallery, any trace of nervousness had passed. As ever, Emily made being around her easy, because she was so clearly comfortable with me. I had forgotten how liberating that feeling of acceptance was, and when we paused at the door, I found myself staring at her and wondering how different my life would have been had I married her rather than Vivian.

Emily caught me staring and tilted her head. “What are you thinking about?”

I hesitated. “I was thinking how glad I am that London and Bodhi are friends.”

She squinted at me, a skeptical gleam in her eye. “I’m not sure you were thinking about the kids just then.”

“No?”

“No,” she said with a knowing smile, “I’m pretty sure you were thinking about me.”

“It must be a wonderful thing to be able to read minds.”

“It is,” she said. “And for my next trick, watch this: I’m going to enter the gallery without even touching the door.”

“How are you going to do that?”

She feigned disappointment. “You’re not even going to open the door for me? I thought you were a gentleman.”

I laughed and pulled open the door for her. The interior of the building was brightly lit, with the look of an industrial loft; a large open space, with several groups of wall partitions that rose partway to the ceiling. Paintings were mounted on the partitions, and I could see about twenty people clustered among the artwork, most holding glasses of wine or champagne flutes. Waiters and waitresses circulated, bearing silver trays of appetizers.

“Lead the way,” I said. “You’re the star tonight.”

Emily scanned the room and we started toward a patrician-looking, gray-haired gentleman. This turned out to be Claude Barnes, the owner of the gallery. With him were two couples, both of whom had driven in from other cities to attend the show.

I snagged a couple of glasses of wine from a passing waiter and handed one to Emily while we engaged in small talk. I saw Emily point toward a set of partitions in the rear of the gallery and after the conversation came to an end, we ambled over.

I took a few minutes to examine her paintings, thinking to myself that they were not only arrestingly beautiful, but mysterious. While the paintings I’d seen in her home had been abstract, in these, I saw more realistic elements. The colors practically exploded off the canvas, and were coupled with stark brushwork. One painting in particular continued to draw my eye.

“These are spectacular,” I said, meaning it. “I can’t imagine how much work they required. Which is the one that was giving you fits?”

“This one,” she said, pointing to the one that had caught my eye.

I studied it up close, then took a few steps back, examining it from various angles. “It’s perfect,” I said.

“I still don’t think it’s done,” she said, shaking her head, “but thank you.”

“I mean it,” I said. “I want to buy it.”

“Okaay…” she said, at once doubtful and flattered. “Are you sure? You don’t even know how much it costs.”

“I want to buy it,” I repeated. “Really.” When she saw I was sincere, she actually blushed.

“Wow. I’m honored, Russ. I’ll see if I can get Claude to give you the ‘friends and family’ discount.”

I took a sip of my wine. “Now what?”

“We wait and see if anyone comes by.” She winked. “And if they do, let me do the talking, okay? I don’t want be a modern-day Margaret Keane.”

“Who?”

“Margaret Keane was an artist whose husband took credit for her work for years. They made her life story into a movie called Big Eyes. You should see it.”

“Why don’t we watch it together one evening?”

“Deal.”

As the gallery continued to fill, I listened to Emily explain her work to interested patrons. My role, if I had one, was to take photographs using people’s phones. It seemed like practically everyone who came by wanted a picture with Emily, presumably because she was the artist, but after a while I noticed that none of the other artists seemed nearly as popular.

While Emily was chatting with various guests, I wandered among the exhibits of the other artists. A few of the sculptures caught my attention, but they were so large and abstract, I couldn’t imagine how they could possibly look good in someone’s home. I also liked the work of some of the other painters, though in my opinion Emily’s work was better.

Emily and I nibbled steadily on appetizers as the crowds ebbed and flowed. The flow of visitors reached its peak around 8:00 p.m., and then began to dwindle. While the show was supposed to be over at 9:00 p.m., Claude didn’t lock the doors until the last guest left at 9:45 p.m. “I think that went well,” he said, as he approached. “A number of the guests expressed interest in your work. It wouldn’t surprise me if you sold out in the next few days.”

Emily turned to me. “Are you sure you still want to buy that painting?”

“I do,” I said, conscious that it was a luxury I could ill afford right now. But somehow, I didn’t care. Claude frowned slightly, aware, no doubt, that a steep discount request would be coming. The frown vanished as quickly as it had come.

“Are there any other pieces you’re interested in? From the other artists?”

“No,” I said. “Just the one.”

“Can we talk about this tomorrow, Claude?” Emily asked. “It’s getting a little late, and I’m too tired to talk business.”

“Of course,” he said. “Thank you for everything you did tonight, Emily,” he said. “You’re always so good at these things. Your personality endears you to others.”

Standing close to Emily, I knew that Claude was right.

“What would you like to do now?” I asked on the way to the car. “If you’re tired, I can bring you home.”

“Are you kidding?” she asked. “I’ve got a babysitter, and I said I wouldn’t be home until midnight. I only told Claude that I was tired so we could get out of there. Once Claude starts talking, it’s sometimes hard to get him to stop. I love the guy, but I only have a babysitter once in a blue moon and I’m going to take advantage of it.”

“Do you feel like having dinner? We might be able to find something that’s still open.”

“I’m stuffed,” she said, “But how about a cocktail?”

“Do you have a favorite watering hole?”

“Russ, I’m the mother of a five-year-old. I don’t get out much. But I’ve heard that Fahrenheit has stunning views and fire pits. And since it’s chilly tonight, sitting by a fire sounds perfect.”

“I just took London there for date night.”

“Great minds think alike.”

Soon thereafter, we found ourselves at Fahrenheit’s rooftop bar, warming ourselves before a glowing fire pit and taking in the carpet of city lights below. I ordered two glasses of wine from a passing cocktail waitress.

Emily sat swaddled in her cashmere wrap, eyes half closed, her expression serene. She looked extraordinarily beautiful in the rosy glow of the firelight, and when she noticed me staring, she gave a lazy smile.

“I remember that look,” she said. “You used to stare at me like that way back when… a million years ago.”

“Yeah?”

“Sometimes it gave me goose bumps.”

“But not anymore, right?”

Her coy shrug told me otherwise.

“I know I’ve said that I’m glad you’ve come into my life…”

When I stopped, she raised her eyes to look at me. “But?”

I decided to tell the truth. “I’m not sure I’m ready for a relationship.”

For a moment she said nothing. “All right,” she murmured finally, with the faintest echo of regret.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“Because I’ve been calling too much. Maybe leading you to think that I was ready when I know I’m not. I’m still an emotional wreck at times. I still think about Vivian way too much. Not that I want her back, because I’ve realized that I don’t. But she’s still front and center, in a way that’s not healthy. And you’ve been so generous-listening to me when I’m down, offering endless emotional support. And best of all, making me laugh…”

When I trailed off, I could feel her eyes inspecting me. “Have I ever complained that you call too much? Or that your confidences are a burden?”

I shook my head, feeling as if some epiphany were trying to surface in my chaotic brain, like an air bubble rising through water. “No,” I said, “you haven’t.”

“You’re describing a scenario in which you haven’t offered me anything in return. But you have.” The reddish tints in her dark hair glinted in the firelight as she pushed it away from her face. Leaning toward me, she said, “I like hearing from you, whether you’re in a good mood or not. I like knowing that I can talk to you about anything, that you’ll understand because we once shared a history. I like feeling that you know the real me, faults and all.”

“You don’t have any faults,” I said. “None that I can see, anyway.”

She gave a snort of disbelief. “Are you kidding? No one’s perfect, Russ. I like to think I’ve learned some lessons over the past decade, and maybe, I’m more patient than I used to be. But I’m far from perfect.”

The waitress delivered our wine, and in the silence that followed, our thoughts seemed to take a more serious turn. Emily took a sip of wine, and when she turned toward me again, I thought I saw a flash of vulnerability cross her face.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know I’m probably putting a damper on the evening.”

“Not at all,” she said. “It means so much that you’re honest with me, Russ. I think that’s what I like most about you. You’re not afraid to tell me things-that you’re hurting, that you’re afraid of failure, that you’re not ready for a relationship. You don’t realize how hard it is for some people to say such things. David never could. I never knew what he was really feeling-half the time, I don’t think he even did. But with you, it’s different. You’re so open. I always admired that about you, and it hasn’t changed.” She paused, as if uncertain whether to go on. “I really like you, Russ. You’re good for me.”

“That’s the thing, Emily. I don’t just like you… I think I’m in love with you.”

My words seem to electrify her. “You think?”

“No,” I said with growing certainty. “I am in love with you. It feels strange to say that when I know I’m not really ready to take further steps, but that’s how I feel.” For a moment I stared into the fire, trying to summon my courage. “I’m not the kind of guy you should love. You can do a lot better than me. Maybe in time…”

Saying the words hurt more than I anticipated and I broke off, feeling a knot forming in my throat.

In the silence, Emily stared at me. Then she reached over and laid her open hand on my leg, beckoning for me to take it. I did, feeling a flood of warmth and encouragement as her fingers intertwined with my own.

“Did you think that I might be in love with you, too?”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not just saying it, Russ. I know what love feels like. Maybe I’ve always loved you-God knows I loved you once with every fiber of my being. I don’t think that kind of feeling just goes away-it leaves its mark on you.” She held my gaze, her voice gentle. “I’m okay with waiting until you’re ready. Because I like what we have now. I like that you’ve become one of my closest friends. And I know how much you care for me. Do you remember what I said about friendship? ‘It’s about someone who walks into your life, says I’m here for you, and then proves it.’”

I nodded.

“You might not believe it, but you’ve been doing that for me. I don’t know if I’m ready for a relationship either. What I do know is that I want you in my life, and that the thought of losing you-again-would break my heart.”

“Where does that leave us, then?”

“How about we just sit by the fire, you and me, and enjoy tonight. We can be friends tonight and tomorrow and for as long as you’d like. And you keep calling and we keep talking and having coffee when the kids are at art. And like everybody in the world, we’ll just take things one day at a time.”

I stared at her, marveling at her wisdom, and how simple she made it all seem.

“I love you, Emily.”

“I love you, too, Russ.” She gave my hand a squeeze. “It’s going to be fine,” she said earnestly. “Trust me.”

Later that night, I lay awake in bed. Emily and I had lingered for another hour by the fire, letting the meaning of everything that had been said sink in. When I dropped her off at home, I felt the urge to kiss her, but was afraid of upsetting our newfound balance.

Emily sensed my hesitation and simply leaned in for a hug. We held each other for a long time beneath her porch light, and the intimacy of that moment struck me as more real and more meaningful than anything else she could have done.

“Call me tomorrow, okay?” she whispered, releasing me, but not before raising a tender hand to my face.

“I will.”

And with that, she turned and went inside.

The last two weeks of November were some of the happiest in my recent memory. My anniversary passed without incident; neither Vivian nor I mentioned it when she FaceTimed with London, and it wasn’t until after the call had ended that I even remembered it at all. At work, I was proving to be hugely productive on behalf of my new clients. London returned from Atlanta on Sunday night, and though she’d had a good time, she slipped back into her routine without a fuss. I spoke to Emily every day, and worked out a deal with Claude to buy her painting, which I then mounted in the family room. I saw Marge, Liz, and my parents the following weekend, the day after Marge and Liz had met with the fertility specialist. While we were all seated in the family room together, they told my parents about their plans.

“It’s about time!” my mom cried, jumping up to hug them both.

“You’ll be good parents,” my dad added. He sounded as gruff as always before he embraced Marge and Liz in turn. With hugs from my dad as rare as solar eclipses, I know they were touched.

Through Taglieri, I learned that Vivian wanted London in Atlanta for the Thanksgiving weekend. Actually, she wanted London beginning on Wednesday evening, through Sunday. I wasn’t happy about that, but again, the every-other-weekend pattern just happened to nail every holiday. Vivian arrived on Wednesday to pick up London in the limo and whisk her off to the jet again. As I watched them pull away, I thought about how quiet the house would be without my daughter for the next four days.

The house was quiet that weekend. Because no one, not even me, was there at all.

Instead, that was the weekend when once more, my world began to collapse around me.

But this time, it was even worse.

How did it happen?

Like it always seems to happen: seemingly without warning.

But, of course, in retrospect there had been warnings all along.

It was Saturday morning, November twenty-eighth, two days after Thanksgiving. I’d spent the previous evening with Emily, dining out and visiting the Charlotte Comedy Zone. Once again, I was tempted to kiss her at the end of the evening, but settled instead for another long and glorious hug, one that confirmed my desire to keep her in my life for a long, long time. My feelings for her were already displacing thoughts of Vivian in a way that I hadn’t anticipated, and that I hoped would continue. I felt undeniably lighter and more positive about the future than I had in months, if not years.

The call came in on early Saturday morning. It wasn’t yet six a.m. when the house phone began to ring, and the sound itself was ominous. My cell phone was on airplane mode, and no one would call the house at that hour unless something terrible had happened. I knew even before I picked up the phone that it was my mother on the other end, and I knew that she was calling to tell me that my father was in the hospital. He’d had a heart attack. Or something worse. I knew she would be frantic, probably in tears.

But it wasn’t my mom on the other end of the line.

It was Liz, calling about my sister.

Marge, she told me, had been admitted to the hospital.

She’d been coughing up blood for an hour.