Two by Two

  "Are you making a pass at me?"

  "Maybe."

  "Is that a yes or a no?"

  "How about I finish my glass of wine first."

  I smiled, and later, when our bodies were intertwined, I found myself thinking that as hard as the previous week had been, it ended in an absolutely perfect way.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Past Is Never Quite Past

  A few years ago, when feeling nostalgic, I reflected on some of the most meaningful days of my life. I recalled my high school and college graduations, the day I proposed and my wedding day, and of course, the day that London was born. And yet, none of those moments had been surprises, because I'd known they were coming.

  I also recalled the memorable firsts of my own life, just as I recalled those firsts with London. My first kiss, the first time I slept with a woman, my first beer, and the first time my dad let me slide behind the wheel of a car. I remembered my first real paycheck and the near reverential feeling I had as I walked through the first home I'd purchased.

  And yet, there were other priceless memories, memories that were neither first nor expected, but perfect in their spontaneous joy. Once, when I was a kid, my dad shook me awake in the middle of the night and brought me outside to watch a meteor shower. He'd laid a towel on the grass and as we stared up at the sky, watching trails of white racing across the sky, I sensed in the excited way he would point them out the love he felt for me, but so often had trouble expressing. I remembered the time that Marge and I stayed up all night laughing and giggling as we devoured an entire bag of chocolate chip cookies, the first night I really understood that she and I would always have each other. I thought back to the evening when my mom, after two glasses of wine, spoke about her own childhood in a way that allowed me to see her as the child she once was, someone I could have imagined as a friend.

  Those moments have stayed with me forever, partly because of their simplicity, but also because they were revelatory. Nor were they ever quite repeated, and I can't shake the thought that if I ever tried to replicate them, the original memories would slip through my fingers like sand, lessening the hold I have on them now.

  On Monday morning Vivian was out the door at half past seven, carrying with her a duffel bag. "I want to squeeze in a workout if I can," she said. "I feel like I'm getting softer by the minute."

  London and I followed a few minutes later, dressed in shorts and T-shirts. We were heading to the club for my daughter's first tennis lesson, and when I saw men dressed in ties on the road beside me, I felt like I'd been kicked out of the only club where I'd ever wanted to be a member. Without work, I felt like I'd lost a major part of my identity, and if I didn't turn it around, I was going to lose myself entirely.

  Time for more cold calls.

  As soon as I parked the car, London spotted some girls from the neighborhood and skipped toward them onto the court. I made my way to the bleachers with a pad of paper and typed the words plastic surgeons into the search engine of my phone. Like attorneys, they were an area that Peters avoided--he considered them prima donnas and cheapskates--but my thinking was that doctors had money and the intelligence to understand how advertising could benefit their practice. There were a number of them in the Charlotte area divided among various offices--a good sign--and I began experimenting with a few opening lines, hoping to find just the right combination of words to keep the office manager--or the doctor, if I got that lucky--on the phone long enough to get interested enough to set an appointment.

  "Can you believe how damn hot it is already?" I heard beside me, in a sharp New Jersey accent. "I swear to God I'm going to melt."

  When I turned, I saw a man maybe a few years older than me, built like a block, with dark hair and bronzed skin. Above his suit, he wore aviator sunglasses with mirrored lenses.

  "Are you talking to me?"

  "Of course I'm talking to you. Aside from you and me, it's like an estrogen convention out here. We're the only two guys within a hundred yards of this place. I'm Joey the Bulldog Taglieri, by the way." He scooted closer and held out his hand.

  "Russell Green," I said, shaking it. "Bulldog?"

  "University of Georgia mascot, my alma mater, and I've got a big neck. The nickname stuck. Nice to meet you, Russ. And if I have a heart attack or stroke out here, do me a favor and call 911. Adrian should have warned me that there wouldn't be a lick of shade out here."

  "Adrian?"

  "My ex. Number three, by the way. She dropped this responsibility in my lap yesterday 'cause she knew it was important to me and God knows, she's not in the favor-granting business these days. She knows I'm supposed to be in court at nine thirty, but does she care? Ask me if she cares? She doesn't care. It's not like she had to see her mother. Who cares if her mother's in the hospital? She's in the hospital every other week because she's a hypochondriac. It's not like the doctors ever find anything wrong with her. That woman's probably going to live to be a hundred." He gestured at my pad of paper. "You preparing your opening remarks?"

  "Opening remarks?"

  "What you say to the jury? You're a lawyer, aren't you? I think I've seen you at the courthouse."

  "No," I said. "Wrong guy. I'm not a lawyer. I'm in advertising."

  "Yeah? What firm?"

  "The Phoenix Agency," I said. "It's my own firm."

  "No kidding? The guys I use are a bunch of idiots if you ask me."

  My ears perked up. "What firm are you using?"

  He mentioned the name and I recognized it as a national firm that specialized in attorney commercials, which meant that for the most part, commercials were pretty much cookie-cutter, with the same images and only slight variations to the script. Before I could dwell on it, he changed the subject.

  "How long have you been a member of the country club?"

  "Four years or so?"

  "Do you like it? I just joined."

  "Considering I don't golf, I do. The food's good and the pool is a summer hangout. You can meet a lot of interesting people here."

  "I'm with you on the golf thing. Tried it for a year, threw out my back, and ended up giving the clubs to my brother. I joined for the tennis. I know I don't look like it, but I'm not half bad. College scholarship, dreams of going pro, but my serve only had so much speed 'cause of my height. That's the way it goes, I guess. So now, I figured I'd get my daughter started young so that when she's a teenager, we'd have something to do together when she starts to hate me. She's the one out there with the turquoise top, by the way. Dark hair, long legs. Which one is yours?"

  I pointed out London, who was standing on the back line with several other girls. "Over there," I said. "Second from the left."

  "She's going to be a tall one, too. That's good."

  "We'll see whether she even likes it. It's her first day picking up a racket. You said you're an attorney?"

  "Yeah. Personal injury, the occasional class-action suit. I know what you're probably thinking about lawyers like me, and I really don't care. No one likes personal injury attorneys until they really need one, and then all of a sudden, I'm their best friend and their savior. And not just because I almost always get my clients the money they deserve. But because I listen. Half of this business is about listening. I learned that when I was in family law, before wife number one ran off with the neighbor and I figured out that I needed to earn a lot more money. Family law wasn't cutting it. Word of advice? Always get a prenup."

  "Good to know."

  He motioned toward my pad. "Plastic surgeons, huh?"

  "I was thinking of expanding into that area."

  "Yeah? I've made a fortune off a few of them. They may as well have been using hacksaws on a few of my clients. You want my advice with those guys? As someone who's dealt with them in the past?"

  "Go ahead."

  "They have God complexes but are terrible at business, so play to their egos and then promise them you can make them rich. Trust me. That'll get their attention."

  "I'll keep that i
n mind."

  He waved at the court. "I'm not sold on the tennis pro out there just yet. What do you think?"

  "I don't know enough to even venture a guess."

  "You can tell he's played, but I don't get the sense he's coached little kids before. They're a whole different ball of wax. Attention spans like gnats. The key is to keep things moving along or the kids will get restless."

  "Makes sense. Maybe you should coach."

  He laughed. "Now that would be something, huh? Nah, not for me. Never coach your own kid. That's one of my rules. She'd probably end up hating me even more than she already will. So what's your interest in this? Do you play?"

  "No," I said. "This was my wife's idea."

  "And yet, here you are."

  "Here I am," I agreed, and Joey turned his attention back to what was happening on the court. I continued to jot opening lines but knew I'd have to do a lot more research before I was ready for a presentation. Every now and then, Joey would make a comment about foot positions or the proper arc to take when hitting the ball, and we'd drift back into small talk for a couple more minutes.

  When the session ended, Joey shook my hand a second time.

  "Are you going to be out here tomorrow?" When I nodded, he went on. "Me, too. See you then."

  I left the bleachers and met London as she was exiting the court. Her face was red from the heat.

  "Did you have a good time?" I asked her.

  "Mom really thinks I should play. She told me this morning."

  "I know she does. I was asking what you thought about it."

  "It was hot. Who was that you were talking to?"

  "Joey."

  "Is he your friend?"

  "We just met. Why?"

  "Because you were acting like you were friends."

  "He's a nice guy," I said, and as I we walked toward the car, I reflected on what he'd said about his advertising firm being a bunch of idiots.

  And, of course, that I'd see him again tomorrow.

  I got London a snack, knowing she needed to cool off before art class. At the same time, my thoughts drifted to the advertising I'd done for attorneys, prior to Peters pulling the plug. I remember filming commercials in wood-shelved offices filled with law books, and recommending targeted spends on cable channels between the hours of nine and noon, when injured people might be watching.

  These days, with most of the commercials nationwide put together by a single national firm, there was an opportunity for a niche in the market, if I wanted to go that route. I suspected I could get better deals at the cable companies since I had long working relationships with the key players, something the national firm didn't have. In the long run, it might not be good for my firm--I might have to go the Peters route and eventually give them up--but that day was a long way off, and I didn't want to think about it. Instead, I kept my focus on the fact that Taglieri might--just might--be open to a possible switch.

  It took London less time than I thought to be back to normal, and she talked about Bodhi for most of the drive. As soon as she walked through the door of the studio, she turned and I lowered myself. She wrapped her arms around my neck and squeezed.

  "I love you, Daddy."

  "Love you, too," I said.

  When I stood, I watched as she rushed toward a young blond boy and when they were close, they hugged each other, too.

  Cute.

  Then, all at once, I frowned. On second thought, I wasn't sure what to think about my little girl already hugging boys. I had no idea what was normal in such situations.

  After a quick wave to the art teacher, I left for the coffee shop with my computer, figuring I'd start looking into the latest trends in legal advertising as well as any regulations that may have changed since my last advertising campaign.

  I ordered a coffee, found a seat, and opened my computer. I pulled up some preliminary information and was reviewing it when I heard a voice coming from off to the side.

  "Russ?"

  It was impossible not to recognize her. Her chestnut hair brushed her shoulders, and was styled in a way that accented her naturally high cheekbones, while her hazel eyes were as striking as they'd always been.

  "Emily?" I asked.

  She started toward the table, holding a cup of coffee. "I thought that was you in the studio," she said. "How are you? Long time no see."

  "I'm doing well," I said, rising from the table. Surprising me, she leaned in for a quick hug, which triggered a flood of happy memories. "What are you doing here? Why were you in the studio?"

  "My son's in the class," she said. "Takes after his mom, I guess." Her smile held genuine warmth. "You look great."

  "Thanks. You, too. How are you doing?" Up close, I noticed that her eyes were flecked with gold, and I wondered whether I'd never noticed before.

  "I'm doing okay."

  "Just okay?"

  "Yeah, you know. Life."

  I understood exactly what she meant and though she'd tried to hide it, I thought I heard in her tone a flicker of sadness. The next word came out almost automatically, even as I realized that spending time with a person you once loved and slept with can get complicated if one isn't careful. "Would you like to join me?"

  "You sure? You look busy."

  "I'm just doing some research. No big deal."

  "Then I'd love to," she said. "But I can only stay a few minutes. I've got some things I want to ship to my mom and depending on the line, it can take forever."

  When we were seated, I looked at her, amazed that it had been almost eleven years since our breakup. Like Vivian, she hadn't seemed to have aged at all, but I pushed the thought away, steering myself back to safer ground. "How old is your son?"

  "Five," she answered. "He'll be starting kindergarten in the fall."

  "My daughter, too," I said. "Where will he be going?"

  When she mentioned the name of the school, I raised an eyebrow. "What a coincidence. That's where London's going, too."

  "It's supposed to be great."

  And expensive, I thought. "That's what I hear, too," I said. "How are your mom and dad doing?" I asked. "I haven't talked to them in years."

  "They're doing well. My dad is finally retiring next year."

  "From AT&T?"

  "Yup--he was a lifer. He told me he wants to get an RV and travel the country. Of course, Mom wants nothing to do with that, so she's going to continue to work at the church until my dad's whimsy passes."

  "St. Michael's?"

  "Of course. Both my parents worked at the same place their entire lives. That just doesn't happen anymore. How about you? Are you still working for the Peters Group?"

  I raised an eyebrow. "I'm impressed you remembered. But no, I left there a few months ago and went out on my own."

  "How's it going?"

  "It's going," I hedged.

  "That's exciting. I remember you telling me you wanted to be an entrepreneur."

  "I was young and naive back then. Now, I'm old but still naive."

  She laughed. "How's Vivian?"

  "She's doing well. She just started working again. I didn't realize you knew her."

  "I don't. I saw her at the studio a few times earlier this summer, but she never stayed for the class. She was always dressed in workout clothes."

  "Sounds like her. How's... your husband?"

  "You mean David?" She tilted her head.

  "Sure," I said. "David."

  "We're divorced. As of last January."

  "I'm sorry to hear that."

  "I'm sorry, too."

  "How long were you married?"

  "Seven years."

  "May I ask what happened?"

  "I don't know," she said. "It's hard to explain. To say we drifted apart sounds cliched... Lately, when people ask, I just tell them that the marriage worked until it didn't, but that isn't the answer most people want to hear. It's like they want to be able to gossip about it later, or boil it down to a single incident." As she spoke, she rubbed her thumb agai
nst her index finger. "How long have you and Vivian been together?"

  "We're coming up on nine years now."

  "There you go," she said. "Good for you."

  "Thanks."

  "So Vivian started working again?"

  I nodded. "She's working for a big developer here in town. Public relations. How about you? Are you working?"

  "I guess you can call it that. I still paint."

  "Really?"

  "My ex was good about that. Encouraging me, I mean. And it's been going well. I mean, I'll never be a Rothko or Pollock, but I'm represented by one of the galleries downtown and I sell ten or twelve pieces a year."

  "That's fantastic," I said, meaning it. "You always had such talent. I remember watching you paint and wondering how you knew what to do with the colors and the..." I trailed off, trying to recall the right word.

  "Composition?"

  "Yes. Are you still doing modern?"

  She nodded. "Sort of. I work in abstract realism."

  "You know I have no idea what that means, right?"

  "Basically, I start with realistic scenes as a base, but mostly I follow the brush... adding vibrant colors or geometric shapes, or random splatters and swirls and drips until I feel that it's done. Of course, a painting is never really done; I have pieces I've been tinkering with for years because they're just not right. The problem is, I'm not always sure how to make them right."

  "Sounds very artsy." I grinned.

  She laughed, the sound exactly what I remembered.

  "As long as it would look good hanging on most people's walls and makes a person think, I'm pleased with the result."

  "Oh, just that?"

  "That's what the gallery owner likes to say when he's trying to sell one of my pieces, so yes."

  "I'd love to see your work."

  "You can stop by the gallery any time," she said. She gave me the name and I committed it to memory. "How's Marge doing? I always wanted a big sister like her."

  "She's doing well--still with Liz, of course."

  "The same Liz I met when we were dating?"

  "Yeah. They've been together ever since. Almost eleven years now."

  "Wow," she said. "Good for them. What's Liz like?"

  "Kind, and thoughtful and supportive. I have no idea what she sees in Marge."

  There was a glimmer of reproach in Emily's expression. "Be nice."