“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.”