Two by Two

CHAPTER 4: The Summer of My Discontent

Lately, I’ve come to believe that having a child jumbles our sense of time, stirring together past and present as if in an electric mixer. Whenever I looked at London, the past was often propelled to the front of my thoughts as memories took hold.

“Why are you smiling, Daddy?” London would ask me.

“Because I’m thinking about you,” I’d answer, and in my mind’s eye, I would see her as an infant asleep in my arms, or her revelatory first smile, or even the first time she rolled over. She was a little more than five months old and I’d put her down for a nap on her tummy while Vivian went to a yoga class. When London woke, I did a double take while I realized she was lying on her back and smiling up at me.

Other times, I would remember her as a toddler and the cautious way she crawled or held the table as ballast while she was learning how to stand; I remember holding her hands as we paraded up and down the hallway before she could walk on her own.

There is much, however, that I missed, especially when it came to firsts. I missed her first word, for instance, and was out of town when London lost her first baby tooth. I missed the first time she ate baby food from a jar, and yet, it didn’t much change my excitement when I eventually witnessed those things. For me, after all, it was still a first.

Sadly, though, there is much that I don’t remember. Not everything can be reduced to a single event. When exactly did she move from toddling to walking? Or how did she move from that first word to speaking in short sentences? Those periods of incremental and inevitable improvement now seem to blur together and it sometimes feels as though I turned my back for an instant, only to discover a new version of London had taken the place of the old one.

Nor am I sure when her room and toys and games changed. I can visualize the nursery in amazing detail, right down to the wallpaper border that featured images of baby ducks. But when were the blocks and stuffed animals in the shape of caterpillars put back into a box that now sits in the corner? When did the first Barbie make her appearance, and how did London begin to imagine Barbie’s fantasy life, one that included the color of clothing Barbie must wear when she’s in the kitchen? When did London begin to change from being a daughter named London, to London, my daughter?

I occasionally find myself aching for the infant and toddler I’d once known and loved. She’s been replaced now with a little girl who had opinions about her hair, asked her mom to paint her nails, and would soon be spending most of her day at school, under the care of a teacher I had yet to meet. These days, I find myself wishing I could turn back the clock so I could more fully experience London’s first five years: I’d work fewer hours, spend more time playing on the floor with her, and share her wonder as she focused on the flight path of butterflies. I wanted London to know how much joy she added to my life and to tell her that I did the best I could. I wanted her to understand that even though her mother was always with her, I loved her as much as any father could possibly love a daughter.

Why then, I sometimes wonder, do I feel as if that’s not enough?

The phone didn’t ring.

Not in the first week, nor the second, nor even the third. While I’d met with more than a dozen different potential clients and all had expressed initial interest, my office phone remained mute. Even worse, as the month neared its end, none of them would make additional time to speak with me when I reached out to them, and their secretaries eventually reached the point where they asked me to stop calling.

Peters.

His fingerprints were all over this, and I thought again about Vivian’s warning to me. “If he thinks you’re trying to poach his clients, he’ll do whatever it takes to run you out of business.”

By the beginning of July, I was both depressed and worried, a situation made worse by the most recent credit card bill. Vivian had obviously taken my words to heart about her life not changing; she’d been running errands like crazy, and since I’d let the cleaning lady go, the house had become a regular disaster. After work, I’d have to spend an hour picking up around the house, doing laundry, vacuuming, and cleaning the kitchen. I had the sense that Vivian seemed to view my taking over of the domestic duties-and the credit card bill-as some kind of worthwhile penance.

Our conversations since I’d started my business had been superficial. I said little about work; she casually mentioned once that she’d begun putting out feelers about finding some part-time work. We talked about our families and made small talk about friends and neighbors. Mostly, though, we talked about London, always a safe topic. We both sensed that the slightest offense or misspoken word might lead to an argument.

The Fourth of July fell on a Saturday, and I wanted nothing more than to spend the day decompressing. I wanted to tune out concerns about money or bills or clients who ignored my calls; I wanted to stop the little voice in my head that had begun to wonder whether I should get a second job or start looking for jobs in other cities again. What I wanted was to escape adulthood for a day and then cap the holiday weekend off with a romantic evening with Vivian, because it would make me feel like she still believed in me, even if her faith was getting wobbly.

But holiday or not, Saturday morning was Vivian’s Me Time, and soon after waking, she was out the door to yoga class, after which she would go to the gym. I gave London some cereal and the two of us went to the park; in the afternoon, the three of us attended a neighborhood block party. There were games for the kids, and Vivian hung with other mothers while I sipped on a couple of beers with the fathers. I didn’t know them well; like me, until recently, they’d tended to work long hours, and my thoughts continually wandered to my looming financial fiasco, even as they spoke.

Later, while the fireworks blossomed in the sky above the BB &T Ballpark, I continued to feel the tension in my neck and shoulders.

On Sunday, I felt no better.

Again, I hoped for a day to unwind, but after breakfast, Vivian told me she had some errands to run and would be gone most of the day. The tone she used-both casual and defiant-made clear that she would be out of the house for most of the day, and was more than ready for an argument if I wanted one.

I didn’t. Instead, with my stomach in knots, I watched her hop in the SUV, wondering not only how I was going to hold myself together, but how I was going to keep London entertained for an entire day. In that moment, however, I remembered a slogan I’d conceived in the first year of my advertising career.

When you’re in trouble and need someone in your corner…

I’d written it into a commercial for a personal injury attorney and even though the guy was disciplined by the bar and eventually lost his license to practice, the ad had caused a flood of other local attorneys to advertise with our firm. I was responsible for most of them; the go-to guy when it came to any form of legal advertising and it made Peters a ton of money. A couple of years later, an article appeared in The Charlotte Observer and noted that the Peters Group was considered to be the ambulance chasers of the advertising world, and a few banking and real-estate executives began to balk at the association. Peters reluctantly pulled the plug on those same clients, even though it pained him, and years later, he would sometimes complain that he’d been extorted by those same banks he had no trouble exploiting, at least when it came to the fees he charged them.

Still, I was in trouble and I needed someone in my corner… and I made the spur-of-the-moment decision to visit my parents.

If they’re not in your corner, you’re in real trouble.

It’s hard for me to imagine my mom without an apron. She seemed convinced that aprons were as essential as a bra and panties when it came to women’s wear, at least when she was at home. Growing up, she’d be wearing one when Marge and I came down to breakfast; she put one on immediately after walking in the door after work, and she’d continue wearing one long after dinner had been concluded and the kitchen had been cleaned. When I’d ask her why, she’d say that she liked the pockets, or that it kept her warm, or that she might have a cup of decaffeinated coffee later and didn’t want to spill it on her clothes.

Personally, I think it was just a quirk, but it made buying her Christmas and birthday gifts easy, and over the years, her collection had grown. She had aprons in every color, every length and style; she had seasonal aprons, aprons with slogans, aprons that Marge and I had made her when we were kids, aprons with the name “Gladys” stenciled onto the fabric, and a couple of them even had lace, though she considered those too racy to wear. I knew for a fact that there were seven boxes of neatly folded aprons in the attic, and two entire cabinets in the kitchen were dedicated to her collection. It had always been something of a mystery to Marge and me how our mom went about selecting her Apron of the Day, or even how she could find the one she wanted amidst all the others.

Little about her apron-wearing habit had changed after she’d stopped working. My mom had worked not because she loved her job but because our family needed the money, and once she stepped away, she joined a gardening club, volunteered at the senior center, and was an active member of the Red Hat Society. Like Vivian and London, it seemed as though she had something planned every day of the week, things that made her happy, and it was my distinct impression that the aprons she’d been selecting over the last few years reflected a more cheerful disposition. Plain aprons had been banished to the bottom of the drawer; at the top were aprons patterned with flowers and birds, and the occasional slogan such as Retired: Young at Heart but Older in Other Places.

When I arrived with London in tow, my mom was wearing a red and blue checkered apron-without pockets, I couldn’t help but notice-and her face lit up at the sight of my daughter. Over the years, she’d begun to resemble less the mother I’d known and more the kind of grandmother that Norman Rockwell might have created for the cover of The Saturday Evening Post. She was gray-haired, pink-cheeked, and soft in all the right places, and it went without saying that London was equally thrilled to see her.

Even better, both Liz and Marge were at the house. After a quick hug and kiss from all of them, their attention shifted completely to my daughter, and I pretty much became invisible. Liz scooped her up almost as soon as London burst through the front door and all at once London was talking a mile a minute. Marge and Liz hung on her every word, and as soon as I heard the word cupcakes, I knew that London would be occupied for at least the next couple of hours. London loved to bake, which was odd since it was something that Vivian didn’t particularly enjoy, what with all the white flour and sugar.

“How was your Fourth?” I asked my mom. “Did you and Dad see the fireworks?”

“We stayed in,” she said. “Crowds and traffic are just too much these days. How about you?”

“The usual. Neighborhood block party, and then we went to the ballpark.”

“So did we,” Liz said. “You should have called us. We could have made plans to meet.”

“I didn’t think about it. Sorry.”

“Did you like the show, London?” Marge asked.

“They were super pretty. But some of them were really loud.”

“Yes, they were.”

“Can we go start the cupcakes now?”

“Sure, sweetie.”

Strangely, my mom didn’t follow the three of them. Instead, she hovered near me, waiting until they were in the kitchen before finally smoothing the front of her apron. It was what she always did when she was nervous.

“You okay, Mom?”

“You need to talk to him. He needs to go to the doctor.”

“Why? What’s up?”

“I’m worried he might have the cancer.”

My mom never said simply “cancer.” It was always the cancer. And the idea of the cancer terrified her. It had taken the lives of her parents as well her two older siblings. Since then, the cancer had become a regular topic of conversation with my mom, a bogeyman waiting to strike when it was least expected.

“Why would you think he has cancer?”

“Because the cancer makes it hard to breathe. That’s the same thing that happened to my brother. First, the cancer takes your breath, and then it takes the rest of you.”

“Your brother smoked two packs of cigarettes a day.”

“But your dad doesn’t. And the other day, he had trouble catching his breath.”

For the first time, I noticed the natural pinkness in her cheeks had faded.

“Why didn’t you tell me? What happened?”

“I’m telling you now,” she said. She drew a long breath. “On Thursday, after work, he was on the back porch. I was cooking dinner, and even though it was blazing hot outside, your father got it in his head to move the planter with the Japanese maple in it from one end of porch to the other, so it wouldn’t get so much sun.”

“By himself?” There wasn’t a chance I could shift the thing an inch. It must have weighed a few hundred pounds. Maybe more.

“Of course,” she answered, as if I was dumb to even ask. “And after he’d moved it, it took him a few minutes to catch his breath. He had to sit down and everything.”

“It’s no wonder. Anyone would breathe hard after that.”

“Not your father.”

She had a point, I admitted. “How was he afterward?”

“I just told you.”

“How long did it take him to get back to normal?”

“I don’t know. A couple of minutes maybe.”

“Did he have to lie down on the couch or anything like that?”

“No. He acted like nothing was wrong with him at all. Got himself a beer in fact and put on the ball game.”

“Well, if he seemed fine…”

“He needs to go to the doctor.”

“You know he doesn’t like doctors.”

“That’s why you need to tell him. He won’t listen to me anymore. He’s as stubborn as a drain clogged with gizzards and bacon grease, and he hasn’t been to the doctor in years.”

“He probably won’t listen to me either. Did you tell Marge to ask him?”

“She told me that it was your turn.”

Thanks, Marge. “I’ll talk to him, okay?”

She nodded but by her distracted expression, I knew she was still thinking about the cancer.

“Where’s Vivian? Isn’t she coming?”

“It’s just London and me this afternoon. Viv’s running some errands.”

“Oh,” my mom said. She knew what running errands meant. “Your dad should still be in the garage.”

Thankfully, the garage offered shade, lowering the temperature to something barely tolerable for a man like me, who was used to an air-conditioned office. My dad, on the other hand, probably didn’t even notice, or if he did, wouldn’t complain. The garage was his sanctuary, and as I entered, I marveled at how organized and cluttered it was at exactly the same time. Tools hung along the wall, boxes of wires and assorted gizmos I couldn’t name, and a homemade workbench with drawers full of every kind of nail, screw, and bolt in existence. Engine parts, extension cords, garden equipment; it all had a place in my dad’s world. I’ve always believed that my dad would have been most comfortable in the 1950s, or even as a pioneer.

My dad was a large man, with broad shoulders, muscular arms, and a mermaid tattoo on his forearm, a remnant from his stint in the navy. During my childhood, he’d loomed like a giant. Though he was a plumber who’d worked for the same company for almost thirty years, it seemed like he could repair anything. Leaking windows or roofs, lawnmower engines, televisions, heat pumps; it didn’t matter to him; he had an innate knowledge of exactly the part he’d need to get whatever was broken working perfectly again. He knew everything there was to know about cars-as long as they were built before everything was computerized-and spent his weekend afternoons tinkering on the 1974 Ford Mustang he had restored twenty years ago and still drove to work. In addition to the workbench, he’d built numerous things around the house: the back deck, the storage shed, a vanity for my mother, and the cabinets in our kitchen. He wore jeans and work boots no matter what the weather, and had a colorful style of profanity that emphasized verbs, not adjectives. It went without saying that he cared little for pop culture and had never seen a single minute of anything that could be considered reality TV. He expected dinner on the table promptly at six, after which he’d put on a ball game in the family room. On the weekends, he worked in the garden or in the garage in addition to taking care of the lawn. He wasn’t a hugger, either. My dad shook hands, even with me, and I was always conscious of the calluses and strength in his grip.

When I found him, he was half under the Mustang, with only his bottom half showing. Talking to my dad in the garage was often like talking to a poorly stored mannequin.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Who’s there?”

In his midsixties, my dad had begun to lose his hearing.

“It’s me, Russ.”

“Russ? What the hell are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d bring London over to say hi. She’s inside with Mom and Marge and Liz.”

“Cute kid,” he said. From my dad, that was about as gushy a compliment as he’d ever offer, even though he adored her. Truth was, he loved nothing better than to have London sit in his lap while he was watching a ball game.

“Mom says you couldn’t catch your breath the other day. She thinks you should see a doctor.”

“Your mom worries too much.”

“When was the last time you saw a doctor?”

“I don’t know. A year ago, maybe? He said I was fit as a fiddle.”

“Mom says it was longer than that.”

“Maybe it was…”

I watched his hand pick through a series of wrenches by his hip and then vanish under the car. It was my cue to ease up, or at the very least change the subject. “What’s up with the car?”

“Small oil leak. Just trying to figure out why. I think the filter might be faulty.”

“You would know.” I, on the other hand, wouldn’t have been able to find the oil filter. We were different, my dad and me.

“How’s business?” he asked.

“Slow,” I admitted.

“I figured it might be. Tough thing, starting your own business.”

“Do you have any advice?”

“Nope. I’m still not even sure what it is that you do.”

“We’ve talked about this a hundred times. I come up with advertising campaigns, script commercials, and design print and digital ads.”

He finally rolled out from beneath the car, his hands and fingernails grease-stained.

“Are you the one who does those car commercials? The ones where the guy is always yelling and screaming about the latest great deal?”

“No.” I’d answered this question before, too.

“I hate those commercials. They’re too loud. I use the mute button.”

It was one of the reasons I tried to talk dealership owners out of raising their voices-most viewers hit the mute button.

“I know. You’ve told me.”

He slowly began to rise. Watching my dad get up was like watching a mountain forced upward by the collision of tectonic plates.

“You said London was here?”

“She’s inside.”

“Vivian, too, I guess.”

“No. She had some things to do today.”

He continued to wipe his hands. “She doing women stuff?”

I smiled. For my dad-an old-fashioned sexist at heart-women stuff described pretty much everything my mom did these days, from cooking and cleaning to clipping coupons and grocery shopping.

“Yes. Women stuff.”

He nodded, thinking that made perfect sense, and I cleared my throat. “Did I tell you that Vivian’s thinking of going back to work?”

“Hmm.”

“It’s not because we need the money. She’s been talking about this for a while, you know. With London starting school, I mean.”

“Hmm.”

“I think it will be good for her. Something easy, something part-time. She’d be bored otherwise.”

“Hmm.”

I hesitated. “What do you think?”

“About what?”

“Vivian thinking of going back to work. My new agency.”

He scratched at his ear, buying time. “Did you ever think that maybe you shouldn’t have quit your job in the first place?”

My dad, as much of a man’s man that he was, wasn’t a risk taker. For him, having a steady job and receiving a regular paycheck more than outweighed any potential reward of running his own business. Seven years ago, the former owner of the plumbing business had offered to let my dad buy it; my dad had passed on the offer, and the business was purchased by another, younger employee with entrepreneurial dreams.

To be frank, I hadn’t expected him to offer me much in the way of career advice. That, too, was outside my dad’s comfort zone, but I didn’t hold it against him. He and I had led different lives; where I’d gone to college, he’d graduated from high school and spent time on a destroyer in Vietnam. He’d married at nineteen and was a father by twenty-two; his parents had died in a car accident a year after that. He worked with his hands while I worked with my mind, and while his view of the world-black and white, good and bad-may have seemed simplistic to some, it also provided a road map for how a real man was supposed to lead his life. Get married. Love your wife and treat her with respect. Have children, and teach them the value of hard work. Do your job. Don’t complain. Remember that family-unlike most of those people you might meet in life-will always be around. Fix what can be fixed or get rid of it. Be a good neighbor. Love your grandchildren. Do the right thing.

Good rules. Actually, they were great rules and for the most part, they’d stayed intact throughout his life. One, however, had fallen by the wayside, and was no longer on his list. My dad had been raised Southern Baptist, and Marge and I had gone to services on both Wednesday evenings and Sundays throughout our youth. We’d gone to vacation Bible school every summer, and my parents never questioned whether or not to go to church. Like the other rules, it wasn’t abandoned until soon after Marge told my parents that she was gay.

I can only imagine how nervous Marge must have been. We’d been raised in a church that believed homosexuality was a sin, and my parents marched to the beat of that very same drummer; maybe even more so, because they were from a different generation. My dad ended up meeting with the pastor, a real fire-and-brimstone kind of guy. The pastor told my dad that Marge was choosing a life of sin if she surrendered to her nature, and that they should bring her in to pray, in the hope of finding God’s grace.

My dad was a lot of things-hard at times, gruff, profane-but he also loved his kids. He believed in his kids, and when Marge told him that she hadn’t chosen a lifestyle-that she’d been born that way-he nodded once, told her that he loved her, and from that day onward, our family stopped attending services.

There are a lot of people in the world, I think, who could learn a lot from my dad.

“You look like crap,” Marge said to me. We’d retreated to the back porch with a couple of cupcakes while Mom, Liz, and London continued to bake another batch. My dad was in the family room, enjoying the cupcakes while watching the Atlanta Braves, no doubt waiting for London to join him. She always called him Papa, which I thought was sort of cute.

“You always know just what to say to make a guy feel great.”

“I’m being honest. You’re pasty.”

“I’m tired.”

“Oh,” she said. “My mistake. It’s not like I know you, and can tell when you’re lying. You’re stressed.”

“A little.”

“New business not going well?”

I shifted in my seat. “I guess I thought it would be a little easier to get clients. Or at least one client.”

“They’ll come. You just need to give it time.” When I didn’t respond, she went on. “How’s Vivian handling it?”

“We don’t really talk about it much.”

“Why not? She’s your wife.”

“I don’t want her to worry. I figure I’ll talk to her when there’s something good to tell her.”

“See? That’s where you’re wrong. Vivian should be the one person you can talk to about anything.”

“I guess.”

“You guess? You two really need to work on your communication skills. See a counselor or whatever.”

“Maybe we should schedule an appointment with Liz. Being that she’s a therapist, I mean.”

“You couldn’t afford her. You’re not making any money.”

“That makes me feel a lot better.”

“Would you rather I blow smoke up the old back door?”

“As delightful as that sounds, I’ll pass.”

She laughed. “The point is, I’ve seen it happen over and over.”

“Seen what happen?”

“The same mistakes people make when starting a business,” she said, taking another bite. “Too much optimism on the revenue front and not enough pessimism when it comes to either business or household expenses. In your case, credit cards.”

“How would you know that?”

“Hello? Vivian and her errands? The bill arriving in the middle of the month? This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation.”

“The balance was a little high,” I finally admitted.

“Then take some advice from your sister with the CPA. Cancel it. Or at least put a limit on it.”

“I can’t.

“Why not?”

“Because I told her that her life wasn’t going to change.”

“Why on earth would you say something like that?”

“Because there’s no reason she should have to suffer.”

“You know how crazy that sounds, right? Shopping less is not equivalent to suffering. And besides, you’re supposed to be partners, both of you on the same team, especially when things get tough.”

“We are on the same team. And I love her.”

“I know you love her. If anything, you love her too much.”

“There’s no such thing.”

“Yeah, well… I’m just saying that she’s not always the easiest person to be married to.”

“That’s because she’s a woman.”

“Do I have to remind you whom you’re talking to?”

I hesitated. “Do you think I made a mistake? By going out on my own?”

“Don’t start second-guessing yourself now. Unless you were willing to move halfway across the country, you didn’t have a choice. And besides, I have the feeling that it’s all going to work out for the better.”

It was exactly what I needed to hear. And yet as she said it, I couldn’t help wishing that Vivian had said it, not my sister.

“I take it the cooking classes are still going well?” I said to Liz half an hour later. For Christmas last year, I’d bought her a couple of classes at a place called the Chef’s Dream, but she’d enjoyed it so much, she had continued on her own. By then, I was on my second cupcake. “These are great.”

“Those are more your mom’s doing. We don’t really do a lot of baking. Right now, we’re learning French cuisine.”

“Like snails and frog legs?”

“Among other things.”

“And you eat it?”

“They’re better than the cupcakes, believe it or not.”

“Have you talked Marge into going yet?”

“No, but that’s okay. And I enjoy having a bit of alone time. Besides, it’s only one night a week. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Speaking of Marge, she thinks I’m a doormat.”

“She’s just worried about you,” Liz said. With long brown hair, oval eyes the color of coffee, and an easygoing demeanor, she was more the class secretary type than head cheerleader type, but I’d always thought that made her even more attractive. “She knows you’re under a lot of pressure and she worries about you. How’s Vivian these days?”

“She’s okay, but she’s feeling the pressure, too. I just want her to be happy with me.”

“Hmmm.”

“That’s it?”

“What else am I supposed to say?’

“I don’t know. Challenge me? Give me advice?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because, among other things, you’re trained as a counselor.”

“You’re not my patient. But even then, I’m not sure I could help.”

“Why not?”

“Because counseling isn’t about changing someone else. It’s about trying to change yourself.”

On our way to the car, I held London’s hand.

“Don’t tell Mommy I had two cupcakes, okay?”

“Why?

“Because it’s not good for me and I don’t want her to be sad.”

“Okay,” she said. “I won’t. I promise.”

“Thanks, sweetie.”

London and I returned at six to an empty house with a batch of vanilla cupcakes.

When I texted Vivian, asking where she was, she replied Still have a couple of things to do-will be home in a little while. It felt annoyingly cryptic, but before I could text again, London was tugging on my sleeve and leading me toward the pink three-story Barbie Dreamhouse she’d stationed in the corner of the living room.

London adored Barbie, was over the moon for Barbie. She had seven of them, two pink Barbie convertibles, and a plastic tub filled with more outfits than a fully stocked department store. That every doll had the same name seemed not to matter to London at all; what fascinated me even more was that every time Barbie moved from one room in the pink three-story Dreamhouse to another or changed activities, London believed that a wardrobe change was imperative. This occurred roughly every thirty-five seconds, and it went without saying was that the only thing that London enjoyed more than changing Barbie’s wardrobe was having Dad do it for her.

For the next hour and a half, I spent four full days changing Barbie’s outfits, one right after the other.

If that doesn’t make sense, I have to admit that it didn’t make much sense to me either. It probably has something to do with the theory of relativity-time being relative and all that-but London didn’t seem to care whether I was bored or not as long as I kept the outfits a-changing. Nor did she seem to care whether I understood her reasoning as to the particular outfit she wanted. Somewhere around the three-day mark on that late afternoon, I remember reaching for a green pair of pants when London shook her head.

“No, Daddy! I told you that she needs to wear yellow pants when she’s in the kitchen.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s in the kitchen.”

Oh.

Eventually, I heard Vivian’s SUV pull into the drive. Unlike my Prius, it got horrible gas mileage, but it was large, safe, and Vivian had insisted she’d never drive a minivan, even though it was far more economical.

“Your mom is home, sweetheart,” I offered, expelling a sigh of relief as London raced for the door. As soon as she opened it, I heard her call out “Mommy!” I straightened up the play area before following her. By the time I reached the front steps, Vivian was already holding London, the rear hatch open, and I did a quick double take. Her hair, I saw, was noticeably shorter, now shoulder length and closer in style to what it had been when I’d first met her.

She smiled up at me, squinting in the waning summer sunlight. “Hey hon!” she called out. “Would you mind grabbing some of the bags?”

I descended the steps, listening as London chattered away, telling Vivian about her day. When I was close, Vivian lowered London to the ground. By her expression, I knew she was waiting for a reaction.

“Wow,” I said, offering her a quick kiss. “This brings back memories.”

“You like?” she asked.

“You look beautiful. But how you did you pull this off on Sunday? Where on earth would even be open?”

“There’s a salon downtown that offers Sunday appointments. I’ve heard great things about one of the hairdressers there and I decided to give her a try.”

Why she hadn’t mentioned it that morning, I had no idea. She’d also, I noticed, gotten a manicure, and hadn’t mentioned that either.

“I love it, too, Mommy,” London said, breaking into my thoughts.

“Thanks, sweetie,” she said.

“I made cupcakes at Nana’s today.”

“You did, huh?”

“And they’re so good, Daddy had two of them.”

“Really?”

My daughter nodded, obviously forgetting all about her promise to me. “And Papa had four!”

“They must be delicious.” Vivian smiled. She reached into the car, pulling out a couple of the lighter bags. “Would you mind being a helper with the groceries?”

“Okay,” London said, reaching for them. While London made her way toward the steps, I noted in Vivian a hint of mischievousness, her good mood evident.

“Two cupcakes, huh?”

“What can I say?” I shrugged. “They were tasty.”

She began reaching for more bags, handing four to me. “It sounds like the two of you had a good time today.”

“It was fun,” I agreed.

“How are your parents?”

“They’re all right. Mom’s worried about Dad having the cancer again. She said he had trouble catching his breath the other day.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“There’s more to the story, but I’m pretty sure it’s nothing to worry about. He seemed fine to me. Mom’s right, though. He does need to get a checkup.”

“Let me know when you round up the team of wild horses you’ll need to drag him in there. I want to get a photo.” She winked before glancing at the front door, her way of flirting. “Would you mind bringing in the rest of it?” she asked. “I want to visit with London.”

“Of course,” I said.

She kissed me again and I felt the flicker of her tongue against my lips. Definitely flirting. “There are some more bags in the backseat, too.”

“No worries.”

I began reaching for the bags of groceries as she walked away. Absently glancing toward the backseat, I expected to see more of the same.

But it wasn’t groceries. Instead, the backseat was stacked with bags from various high-end department stores and I felt my stomach lurch. No wonder my wife was in such a good mood.

Trying my best to ignore the sensation in my gut, it took me three trips to unload the SUV. I set the department store bags on the dining room table and I was just about finished putting away the groceries when Vivian wandered into the kitchen. Opening the cupboard, she pulled out a couple of glasses and retrieved a bottle from the wine refrigerator below the cabinet.

“I assume you need a glass even more than I do,” she said while pouring. “London told me you played Barbies with her.”

“She played. I was in charge of wardrobes.”

“I feel your pain. I was there yesterday.” She handed me a glass and took a sip from her own. “How are Marge and Liz?”

Though the shift in tone was subtle, I nonetheless detected a lack of interest in her question. Vivian’s feelings for Marge mirrored Marge’s for Vivian, which was one of the reasons why Vivian tended to get along better with Liz. That being said, although Vivian and Liz were civil and polite to one another, they weren’t exactly close either.

“They’re fine. London really enjoys spending time with them.”

“I know she does.”

I nodded toward the dining room table. “I see you went shopping.”

“London needed some summer dresses.”

My daughter, like my wife, would leave the house dressed as though she’d strolled out of a catalog. “I thought you already bought her summer clothes.”

She sighed. “Please don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Fuss at me about shopping again. I’m so tired of hearing it.”

“I haven’t fussed at you.”

“Are you kidding?” she asked, a hint of frustration surfacing. “That’s all you ever do, even when I take advantage of a sale. And besides, I also had to buy a couple of new suits for my interviews this week.”

For a second I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right. “You have interviews this week?”

“Why do you think I’ve been running around like crazy all day?” She shook her head, seemingly amazed I hadn’t figured it out. “And that reminds me-you’ll be able to watch London, right? On Tuesday afternoon and Wednesday morning? For maybe three hours each day or so? I’m supposed to interview with a slew of different executives at the company.”

“Um… yeah, I guess,” I said, still trying to wrap my head around the word “interviews.” “When did this happen?”

“I found out today.”

“On a Sunday? On a holiday weekend?”

“Believe me, I was as surprised as you are. They weren’t even in the office on Friday. I was on my way to my hair appointment when they let me know.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“Because after that, I was rushing from here to there and I could barely believe it myself. Isn’t it incredible? I think we should celebrate tonight, but first how about I show you what I bought?”

Without waiting for an answer, she led the way to the dining room and pulled out both suits-one gray and one black-draping them over the chairs. “What do you think?”

“They’re very stylish,” I said. I tried to avoid the sight of the price tags but I couldn’t help it. My stomach did another flip-flop, then flopped again. Dollar signs danced in my head.

“The fabric is fabulous and I love the cut,” she said. “And I got these, as well, to go with them.” Reaching for another bag, she pulled out four blouses, setting them first against one suit, then the other. “The blouses match both suits-I was trying to save as much money as I could.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that. Instead: “I’m still a little confused as to how the interviews came about. Last I heard, you were just putting out feelers.”

“I got lucky,” she said.

“What does that mean?”

“I called Rob a couple of weeks back and told him I was thinking about getting back into the PR game and he promised he’d let me know if he heard of anything. After that, I called my old boss from New York. Remember him?”

I nodded, wondering why she even needed to ask. We saw the guy practically every night before turning off the television.

“Anyway, he said he’d see what he could do. I didn’t expect much, but I guess he talked to his manager, and his manager ended up calling me back. And, it just so happens that he knew a guy who knew a guy, and I guess my name got passed along to the right people because last Monday, I was talking to one of the vice presidents about a job and she asked me to put in a résumé and three letters of recommendation.”

“You’ve been working on this since Monday? And never mentioned it?”

“I didn’t think it would amount to anything.”

“It sounds to me like you had to have some idea this might be coming.”

“Oh, please. Like I could have predicted any of this.” She began laying the blouses over one of the chairs. “And anyway, I had to scramble for a third recommendation. I wanted someone locally prominent, but I wasn’t sure he’d agree. But sure enough, he came through and I got my paperwork in by Wednesday.”

“And you said the job is in PR?”

“I’d be working directly for the CEO, not so much the company. I guess he does a lot of press conferences and interviews. A lot of his developments are on the coast, and environmentalists are always up in arms. Plus, he’s got a super PAC now, and he’s getting more involved in politics and wants to make sure he’s always on message.”

“Who’s the CEO?”

She paused, running her fingers along one of the suits. “Before I tell you, just keep in mind that I haven’t even been offered the job yet. And I don’t know whether I’d take it, even if they do offer me a position. I don’t have all the details yet.”

“Why won’t you tell me?”

“Because I don’t want you to get upset.”

“Why would I be upset?”

She began slipping the bags back over the suits. “Because you know him. Actually, you’ve worked on some of the advertising campaigns for his company.”

I connected the dots almost immediately. “It’s not Walter Spannerman, is it?”

She seemed almost sheepish. “Actually, it is.”

I remembered how miserable he’d made me; I also remembered his penchant for hiring beautiful women, so the fact that he was interested in Vivian didn’t shock me in the slightest. “You know he’s awful, right? And so is his company.”

“That’s why he wants an in-house PR person.”

“And you’d be okay working with a guy like that?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t met him yet. I just hope I can impress him.”

With the way you look, I’m sure he’ll be impressed, I thought. “How many hours a week are they thinking?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” she answered. “It’s a full-time position. And there’s probably going to be some travel, too.”

“Overnight?”

“That’s what travel usually means, doesn’t it?”

“What about London?”

“I don’t know anything yet, okay? Let’s cross that bridge when we get there. If we get there. For now, can we just plan to celebrate? Can you do that for me?”

“Of course,” I said, but even as I said the words, I thought about Spannerman and his relationship with Peters and found myself wondering who exactly Vivian had called for that final recommendation.

But she wouldn’t have done something like that, would she?