"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 did
n'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.