Part 20 (1/2)

”To Trance. It's a club.”

Henry knows it's a club, Philip's club. ”So he just dropped you off and went home?”

”I can't hear you,” she yells, then volunteers, ”Philip gets off at two.”

He thinks of what a mother might ask an unmarried daughter in this uncommitted city: Are you chasing this boy? Shouldn't you let him make the first, second, and third moves? Instead he says, ”You know best. I'm here. Come for breakfast.”

”Don't worry, you,” she says.

He runs a deep bath, turns on the Jacuzzi jets, sinks in. Yo-Yo Ma and Emanuel Ax are playing Beethoven through the newly installed bathroom speakers. He closes his eyes and smiles. When was the last time he entertained a thought close to Life is good? Immediately, this unaccustomed peace concerns him. He searches his mind for anxieties that will protect and balance his good fortune. There's always Thalia's psychos.e.xual judgment, which might not be as sound as it could be. There's Denise to worry about ... no, worry is too strong; Denise is a potential burden and pain in the a.s.s. But then again, without her reentry there would be no Thalia at a parental crossroads. And most a.s.suredly no Todd.

He runs more hot water. What about the promises he made to himself with respect to good deeds in early retirement? He should get going on the pro-bono work, on volunteering, on finding a legal clinic where the indigent need help with their tax returns. He leaves the tub and returns with the legal thriller he was reading in lonelier days. He'll buy smoked salmon when Zabar's opens, or find some frozen Belgian waffles he'll dress up with berries and whipped cream. Once again he thinks of Celeste. All of this would please her. Odd how an unusual number of blessings have rained down on him since he lost Celeste. Immediately, he chastises himself for the quasi-religious thought of fairy dust sprinkled by the dead. He thinks of Leif's box of flowers, unattended, and feels a twinge of pity for someone less fortunate than himself.

His landline rings at 9:00 A.M., and it's Todd asking jovially, ”Do you want the good news or the bad news first-and relatively speaking, the bad news isn't half-bad.”

”You choose.”

”The good news is patently obvious: Lillian adores you. She adores me-no change there, except now she can sleep at night. There's the worry that you'll drop me for someone who has a sw.a.n.kier job, but she's not going to dwell on that. She's dying to see your house and meet Thalia, but I'm not supposed to tell you that. Of course I didn't say a word about Leif and the engagement plot. How did it go, by the way?”

”I don't know. We spoke for thirty seconds from the club where her deejay friend works.”

”With or without Leif?”

”He was invited but declined. Not his scene. I'm sure she figures it's something like a last fling before the publicity blitz begins.”

”Did she come home?”

”Can't say. I know her friend wasn't getting off work until two.”

”Welcome to your new life-wondering if the kid made it home safely.”

Henry says, ”Not unwelcome, my new life.”

”What's a decent hour to call down there?”

Henry laughs. ”Now who's worrying about her safe return?”

Todd says, ”You give me too much credit. It's the t.i.ttle-tattle I'm after.” He reminds Henry that he hasn't heard the bad news yet, so here it is: Denise wants to throw them a c.o.c.ktail party.

”Because?”

”Because she's thrilled that her matchmaking succeeded, and it would be a reason to reach out to some friends who aren't speaking to her.”

”Did you tell her that widows should wait a year before they throw parties?”

”I didn't. But I did say, 'I don't think that's necessary. We can just have a quiet little get-together'-don't shoot me-'just the three of us.' That was my guilty conscience doing the inviting. If you don't want to come, that's fine. Although she did say she refuses to lose you as a friend after all those years of being estranged.”

Henry says, ”Or maybe we're in a contest for Thalia, and Denise wants to keep an eye on the compet.i.tion.”

”It could be both-she wants to win and she needs a friend. She said you were the nicest man she ever married.”

”How kind of her to notice,” says Henry.

Of course he would run into Sheri Abrams at the smoked fish counter at Zabar's. Without being asked, he volunteers that everything is great. The person he's seeing is named Todd. ”You'd like him. I've met his mother.”

Because Sheri appears unmoved, he elaborates. ”And with Thalia living in my house, I recognize that I'm acting like a father. I have to think about things like, Did she get home last night?” Her blank reaction puzzles him, until he sees that his ex-shrink is sharing a shopping basket with a tweed-jacketed man who has the very fine white hair and pink scalp of the Mayflowered.

Henry offers his hand and states his name. The man looks to Sheri for what can only be permission to speak. She says, a warning, ”Henry and I have a professional relations.h.i.+p.”

”Not to worry,” Henry says. ”I'm an ex-patient now.”

”It's always a tricky situation,” says the man.

”How's that?”

”We share office s.p.a.ce.”

”You've seen his name next to the buzzer a million times: Axel Rice, marriage and family counseling.” She traces the air between herself and her companion. ”But this is a new development.”

”And shopping for smoked fish together is tricky how?” Henry asks.

”I used to be married to another tenant,” says Dr. Rice.

”Who not only has her dermatology practice in the building, but lives there,” Sheri adds.

Henry can't help smiling. ”And didn't I date her in high school?”

Sheri doesn't laugh. ”You seem good,” she allows. ”Really good”

”I'm in love,” he tells her.

There is still no word from downstairs by noon. He's set the table, read the entire Sunday Times, rewrapped and re-refrigerated the two varieties of smoked salmon. At 12:30 Thalia calls upstairs, groggily. ”Let me jump in the shower, then I'll come up. Am I keeping you from anything?”

”Nope. I bought bagels at H and H this morning.”

”Ten minutes,” she says.

Just before one she lets herself in through the kitchen door, wrapped in the faded periwinkle robe, hair wet, her feet half into untied running shoes. She hands Henry the florist's box. ”Pour vous. I only have one vase, and it's currently in use. Give these to your sweetheart.”

”Or his mom.”

”I sense progress,” she says as she slumps onto the nearest stool. ”Do tell.”

”You first. Sesame, poppy, or sourdough?”

”Just coffee to start.”

Over the hissing and frothing of milk he hears, ”Checking coats wasn't such a terrible day job, was it? I was a relatively happy person when you met me, right?”

Henry asks, ”That bad? Those talking points you mentioned?”