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 na?ve back then. Now, I’m old but still na?ve.”
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 clichéd… 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 against 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.”