Reggie said, “You don’t have to do this. It’s not like we ever went out to dinner before.”
He was right; Nick and I even dodged him in the lunchroom. I said, “Only because you were the department head, Reg. If we’d invited you to dinner, you might’ve thought we were brownnosing. I realize now that was silly. You’re not the kind of guy who’d think we had ulterior motives,” I spun.
Nick added, “And you don’t have to bring a date this time. There’ll be other opportunities. Right, Faith?”
“Plenty,” I lied.
“You have girlfriends, right?” Reggie asked me. “Any eligible bachelorettes who might like to meet Reggie O’Sullivan?”
“Umm. Just not off the top of my head. I’ll definitely give it some thought.”
He always called me Frankel, but this time he said, “I really appreciate it, Faith. I know you think I can be an asshole, and maybe I’m not the first guy you’d set up with a friend, but I’m a good guy when you get to know me.”
But all things occupational and social were on hold because it was the snowiest February on record. Classes were canceled, with the campus increasingly unreachable each time another foot of snow fell. We’d see the sun for a day between blizzards, then down came another wallop, cars and hydrants and backyard furniture buried, icicles dangling two stories down. I checked daily on my mother, whether she had power and food. And when had Joel last plowed her driveway?
“Just once, after the first storm.”
“Do you need him to come back?”
I thought she was going to say yes, please, at the same time expressing disappointment with his unreliability and blue-collar career choice. Instead, she gushed, “What a winter! Everyone needs him every other day! And you know he gets more to sand the same driveway? Was this not the best year ever to invest in a plow?” Her voice went conspiratorial. “He finally got some help, a dispatcher. Do you know who she is?”
“Who who is?”
“The girl who answers his phone. Any leads?”
I did know who she was because I’d asked. It was Leslie, the ex-sister-in-law of Stuart. “No one I’ve met,” I said.
“Are you telling me everything you know?”
“Of course not.”
“A lot of mothers would resent that. But I get how a sister and brother might keep some secrets from their mother. It’s normal, I’m sure.”
“What secrets do you think I’m keeping from you?”
“Maybe things that would hurt my feelings?”
I said, “Her name is Leslie and she’s mailing out invoices for him. Would that hurt your feelings?”
“I meant things you might be protecting me from.”
She meant my father and his adulterous life. I told her I had nothing to report because he and I didn’t talk.
“We e-mail, you know.”
I said, “Ma, shouldn’t you be communicating through your lawyer?”
Ignoring that, she asked, “Have you met her?”
“Leslie?”
“No, the woman who gives your father what I never could.”
“I haven’t. Nor do I want to.” I walked to the kitchen window. Nick was sweeping the roof of his car with our kitchen broom. “Would you believe it’s snowing again?” I asked her.
“One thing, hon—a favor?”
I expected, thanks to my change of subject, that her request would involve sidewalks or gutters or fresh milk. But what she said was “I want you to meet this woman.”
“To what end? What could I tell you that wouldn’t be painful?”
In chummier fashion than I expected, she explained, “Usually, when a husband cheats, the wife knows the other woman—either she lives next door or works in the same office. But I know nothing! Maybe you could snap a picture.”
“But if I tell Dad I want to meet Tracy, it’ll look as if I’m giving them my blessing.”
“Who said anything about giving them your blessing? You could size her up without being cordial. I’ve seen you do that—remember Stuart’s mothers? Bring Nick. Didn’t he go through a divorce with his parents?”
“No. His mother died.”
“Same thing,” she said.
“Come next Saturday,” my father had said, after conferring with Tracy. We were on our way, Nick driving and I with the street and house number in hand. But how could it be this big brick columned and porticoed one with so many cars in the driveway and more spilling out onto the street? We parked as close as the overflow allowed, wondering if we had the wrong night. I called my father’s cell phone and he answered. “Did you say 38 Wingate Terrace? We’re here, but there seems to be a party going on.”
The massive oak front door opened, exposing a two-story atrium with a live ficus tree straining toward the skylight and wall-size tapestries above champagne-colored marble tiles. “You made it!” a woman cried. She was wearing an outfit that was all at once pants and tunic, black and white, opaque across personal places and translucent elsewhere, with rhinestone—or were they diamond?—earrings nearly grazing her shoulders.
I said, “I’m Faith. Henry’s daughter. And this is Nicholas Franconi.”
“I know who you are! Come in! Caesar! Take their coats! Did you bring shoes? Never mind, just take off your boots. You won’t be the only ones in stocking feet!”
Who was Caesar, and was he appraising my business-casual turtleneck and skirt? And who were these people milling about in the room beyond, all dressed up and holding blue drinks? Our greeter hadn’t introduced herself, but it was clear this was our hostess—auburn haired, coral lipped, not even forty, and stunning by anyone’s standards: Tracy.
“Darling!” she called toward the crowd at the bar. “Faith and her friend are here!” And to us, “The bartender designed a special drink just for tonight!”
“The occasion being . . . ?” asked Nick, unwinding his scarf as Caesar waited with outstretched arms.
“A preopening, prerepresentation. Meet the artist in his milieu. And, of course, meet . . . you two.”
I said, “I had no idea. I hope you didn’t . . .” Hope she didn’t what? Worry that we’d be baffled and underdressed?