The One In My Heart

ZELDA HAD INVITED A MIX of our neighbors, her social friends, and her friends from the music industry. The Somersets arrived exactly fifteen minutes after the time specified on the invitation. Zelda introduced them to a couple of longtime neighbors, while I went and fetched glasses of wine.

Bennett’s parents looked strained—and I probably appeared no more at ease. But we made a good show of comity and politesse. I asked after their well-being. They admired our living room decor—a hodgepodge, really, pieces of pop art Pater had left me, posters on atomic structure, and our collection of Middle-earth miscellany.

Bennett rang the bell half an hour into the party. I met him in the hall and took his coat. “They’re here.”

He was in a glen-plaid three-piece suit worn without the jacket, and a dark blue silk tie patterned with tiny skulls. I remembered what he’d said once about dressing down for his father. This time he’d dressed up, to shield and buttress himself.

I gave his hand a squeeze. “You can leave anytime you want.”

“I’m your boyfriend,” he said softly. “I’m staying till the end.”

My heart turned over. “Look forward to a very long ninety minutes, then. Let’s get started.”

I led him to Zelda, for him to wish her a very happy birthday. She happened to be talking to Mrs. Vanderwoude, who lived three doors down from us, and introduced him as my date.

Mrs. Vanderwoude gasped. “I just came back from the Moira McAllister exhibit at MoMA. That’s you, isn’t it, all over that room?”

And so it begins.

Mrs. Vanderwoude was old and deaf and spoke at the top of her lungs. Half the guests glanced our way. But not the Somersets, who stood with their backs to the room, seemingly absorbed in a bright yellow-and-blue pop-art painting.

“I did some modeling when I was younger,” Bennett answered. “It took a lot of odd jobs to get me through college.”

Mrs. Vanderwoude turned her face rather coquettishly. “Must have been something, working with a great artist like that.”

“Yes, it was. A memorable experience.”

It was a you-are-getting-this-much-and-not-a-bit-more answer. Perfect civility, delivered with a smile, no less. But the underlying severity was not lost on Mrs. Vanderwoude. She put away her coy expression and ate a Brie puff from her plate before she asked, “So, how long have you and Evangeline been going out?”

Bennett glanced at me. “Not long enough. I hate to think of all the years I wasted without her.”

“Cool it, lover boy,” I murmured, even as I prayed for his words to be true. “There’s a reason my friends think you’re in an off-Broadway show.”

“But Bennett is actually a surgeon,” Zelda hastened to add.

“Beauty and brains—just what Evangeline has been waiting for all these years,” said Bennett.

I shook my head and took his hand in mine. “Come on. Let me introduce this pinnacle of modern manhood to some more people.”

The general public often had a mistaken idea of the lonesome scientist toiling away in a lab. Modern science not only required a great deal of teamwork, but also a lot of glad-handing in the never-ending search for funding. So I was no stranger to negotiating a crowd.

Still, this party was real work.

Within a short time, thanks to Mrs. Vanderwoude, news of Bennett’s notoriety had spread. Some of the guests moved around surreptitiously to get a good look at him. Others were first shown his pictures by a phone passed around, and then they too craned their necks in his direction.

We the happy couple shouldered on against this high tide of curiosity. Nobody was openly rude. Nobody, after Mrs. Vanderwoude, even brought up MoMA. Which somehow made the atmosphere more oppressive, and the interactions more tiring.

I could only imagine how trying it must be for Bennett to know that not only had everyone in the room seen the pictures, but that they were likely speculating on his relationship with Moira and making all the shallower assumptions.

Not to mention being keenly aware, at the same time, that his parents were in the room and undoubtedly hating every second of it.

At last, our paths crossed before the appetizers.

“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad,” said Bennett, his voice even, friendly.

They nodded, Mr. Somerset coolly, Mrs. Somerset with undeniable anxiety.

“Sorry about MoMA, by the way.”

“That’s all right,” his mother said immediately.

“We got a call from Vanity Fair this morning,” said Mr. Somerset. “They want to do a feature story about you and Ms. McAllister.”

I might have grimaced openly.

Bennett was unmoved. “This is right in their wheelhouse, so Vanity Fair will do what Vanity Fair will do. I just hope it won’t bring negative attention on you, Professor,” he said to me.

I was surprised and touched by his concern. “I’m okay. I’m more worried about what happens tonight when you go to work.”