“I’m just afraid that our son is about to make the worst error of his life. That this is all some romantic whim.”
In the silence that follows, Logan thinks of Olla standing in her kitchen, telephone receiver pressed to her ear. The room is cozy, low-ceilinged; copper pots and dried herbs, tied into bunches with twine, hang from the beams. She will be twirling the phone cord around her index finger, a lifelong habit. Other images, other memories: the way she pushes her eyeglasses up to her forehead to read small print; the reddish spot that flares on her forehead whenever she is angry; her habit of salting her food without tasting it. Divorced, but still the keepers of shared history, the inventory of each other’s lives.
“Let me ask you something,” Olla says.
“All right.”
“You’re all over the news. You’ve been working toward this your whole life. The way I see it, you’re getting more than you ever could have asked for. Are you enjoying any of this? Because it doesn’t sound as if you are.”
The question is peculiar. Enjoying it? Is that what one is supposed to do? “I haven’t thought about it that way.”
“Then maybe it’s time you should. Put aside the big questions for a while and just live your life.”
“I thought I was.”
“Everyone does. I miss you, Logan, and I liked being married to you. I know you don’t believe that, but it’s true. We had a wonderful family, and I’m very proud of all you’ve accomplished. But Bettina makes me happy. This life makes me happy. In the end, it isn’t very complicated. I want you to have that, too.”
He has nothing to say; she has him dead to rights. Does he feel hurt? Why should he? It is only the truth. It occurs to him suddenly that this is precisely what Race is asking from him. His son wants to be happy.
“So we’ll see you Sunday?” Olla asks, steering the conversation back to firmer ground. “Four o’clock—don’t be late.”
“Race told me the same thing.”
“That’s because he knows you the same as I do. Don’t be insulted—we’re all used to it by now.” She pauses. “Come to think of it, why don’t you bring someone?”
He’s not sure what to make of this curious suggestion. “That isn’t the province of ex-wives, generally speaking.”
“I’m serious, Logan; you have to start somewhere. You’re a celebrity. Surely there’s someone you can invite.”
“There isn’t. Not really.”
“What about what’s-her-name, the biochemist.”
“Olla, that was two years ago.”
Olla sighs—a wifely sound, a sound of marriage. “I’m only trying to help. I don’t like to see you like this. It’s your big moment. You shouldn’t do it alone. Just think about it, all right?”
The call over, Logan broods. The sun has set, darkening the room. “Like this”? What is he like? And “celebrity”: the word is strange. He is not a celebrity. He is a man with a job who lives alone, who comes home to an apartment that looks like a suite at a hotel.
He pours himself a glass of wine and walks to the bedroom. In the closet he finds his suit coat and, in an outer pocket, Nessa’s card. She answers on the third ring, slightly breathless.
“Miss Tripp, it’s Logan Miles. Am I disturbing you?”
She seems unsurprised by the call. “I just came back from a run. Give me a moment, will you? I need to get a glass of water.”
She puts down the phone. Logan listens to her footsteps, then hears a tap running. Is he hearing anything—anyone—else? He doesn’t think so. Thirty seconds and she returns.
“I’m glad you called, Professor. Did you see the article? I suppose you must have.”
“I thought it was very good.”
She laughs lightly. “You’re lying, but that’s all right. You didn’t give me very much to work with. You’re a secretive man. I wish we could have spoken longer.”
“Yes, well, that’s the reason I called, you see. I was wondering, Miss Tripp—”
“Please,” she interrupts, “call me Nessa.”
He feels suddenly flustered. “Nessa, of course.” He swallows and wades in. “I know it’s short notice, but I was wondering if, perhaps, you’d like to join me for a party this Sunday at four o’clock”
“Why, Professor.” She sounds coyly amused. “Are you asking me on a date?”
Logan knows it at once: he is making a fool of himself. He has no idea if she is even available. The invitation is preposterous.
“I have to warn you,” he says, backing away, “it’s a birthday party for a couple of five-year-olds. My grandsons, actually.” How smooth of you, he thinks, telling her you’re a grandfather. With every word, he feels like he is digging his own grave. “Twins,” he adds, rather pointlessly.
“Will there be a magician?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Because I’m very fond of magicians.”
Is she making fun of him? This was a terrible idea. “Of course, I understand if you’re not free. Perhaps another time—”