Two by Two(84)

"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."