Nicholas Sparks - Two by Two

“I’ll have her back here Sunday about seven,” Vivian said. “And of course, you can call anytime and I’ll put her on the phone.”

“I’ll try not to be a nuisance about it.”

“You’re her father ,” Vivian said. “You’re not a nuisance .” She looked away before continuing. “And just so you know, she’s not going to meet Walter this weekend. It’s too soon for him to meet her. I wouldn’t do that to her.”

I nodded, surprised-and yes, undeniably grateful.

“Do you have any big plans?” I asked, somehow eager to prolong their departure.

“There are a lot of things to do there. I think we’ll play it by ear. But I should probably be going. I don’t want it to be too late when we get to the apartment.”

This time, there was no hug. As she turned away, however, her eyes caught the sight of the realty sign and she paused. Then, with a resolute flick of her hair over her shoulder, she moved to the open door and the driver closed it behind her.

I watched the limo pull away, feeling strangely bereft. Despite everything that had happened to this point, there always seemed to be another way to remind me that I’d lost the future I’d once imagined.

I don’t know why the thought of attending Emily’s gallery opening made me nervous. Emily and I had coffee together practically every weekend, we talked on the phone most nights, and I’d spent an evening drinking wine on her back patio. We’d spent whole days on expeditions with the kids. Moreover, we would be attending an event at which her work, not mine, would be on display-so if anyone should be nervous, it stood to reason it should be her.

Even so, my heart was beating faster than usual and my mouth had gone slightly dry when Emily answered the knock at her front door. One look at her framed in the doorway didn’t help. I wasn’t sure how artists were supposed to look at their openings, but gone was any trace of the easygoing mom with whom I was so familiar; in her place stood a ravishing woman in a strappy black cocktail dress, her hair tumbling in a glossy waterfall past her shoulders. I noticed she was wearing just enough makeup to make it seem she was wearing none at all.

“You’re right on time,” she said, leaning in for a quick hug. “And don’t you look sharp.”

I’d gone with what Vivian referred to as a Hollywood Look : black blazer, black slacks, and a black V-neck sweater.

“I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to wear,” I admitted, still feeling the imprint of her brief hug.

“Let me just make sure the babysitter has everything she needs. Then we can go, okay?”

I watched as she climbed the stairs and heard her speaking to the babysitter. At the top of the stairs, she hugged and kissed Bodhi before returning to the foyer.

“Shall we?”

“Absolutely,” I said, certain that she was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. “But only on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You have to give me some pointers on gallery-opening etiquette.”

She laughed, the carefree sound loosening the knot of tension in my diaphragm.

“We’ll talk on the way,” she said, moving toward the foyer closet and grabbing a cashmere wrap. “But let’s scoot out of here before Bodhi realizes he forgot something critical and it takes another twenty minutes before we can escape.”

I opened the front door and watched as she led the way, noting how the dress hugged her figure just right. My eyes drifted lower until I flashed on the memory of the night she’d helped me with my bowtie, which made me flush and lift my gaze.

I backed the car onto the street and steered it in the direction of downtown, where the gallery was located.

“So, is this show a big deal for you?” I asked. “I know you’ve been working like crazy to get all the paintings ready.”

“It’s not a major exhibit at MoMA or anything like that, but the owner of the gallery does a nice job. He’s been in business for a long time, so once a year, he invites his best customers to a private showing. A few of them are prominent regional collectors. Usually, there are six or seven artists, but this year, I think he said he’s showcasing the work of nine artists. Two sculptors, a glass artist, an artist who works in ceramics, and five painters.”

“And you’re one of them.”

“I’m one of the painters every year.”

“How many does he represent?”

“Thirty, maybe?”

“See? And you’re so humble, I never would have known.”

“I’m humble because my paintings don’t sell for much money. It’s not like anything I’ve done will ever see the inside of Sotheby’s or Christie’s. Of course, most of the artists whose work sells for a gazillion dollars are dead.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

“You’re preaching to the choir,” she teased.

“And what role do you play at the opening?”

“Well, it’s kind of like a mixer, and I’m one of several hosts. There will be wine and appetizers, and I’ll hang around in the general vicinity of my work, in case any of the guests have questions or want to talk to me.”

“What if they want to buy a piece?”

“Then the guest will talk to the gallery owner. It’s not really my place to discuss what a painting is worth. As much as I was joking about the big bucks, I don’t like to think of art in terms of money. People should buy a piece because they love it. Because it speaks to them.”

“Or because it looks good hanging on the wall?”

“Or that,” she said, smiling.

“I’m excited to see what you’ve done. I’m sorry I didn’t make it to the gallery before now…”

“Russ, you’re a busy single dad,” she said, giving my arm a reassuring squeeze. “I’m just glad you agreed to come with me tonight. It’ll give me someone to talk to when no one is looking at my work. It’s a little dispiriting to stand next to your work and watch people ignore it, or avert their gaze so you won’t try to talk to them.”

“Has that ever happened to you?”

“Every time,” she said. “Not everyone who shows up will like my work. Art is subjective.”

“I like your work. What I’ve seen on your walls, I mean.”

She laughed. “That’s because you like me.”

I looked over at her. “True enough.”

By the time we reached the gallery, any trace of nervousness had passed. As ever, Emily made being around her easy, because she was so clearly comfortable with me. I had forgotten how liberating that feeling of acceptance was, and when we paused at the door, I found myself staring at her and wondering how different my life would have been had I married her rather than Vivian.

Emily caught me staring and tilted her head. “What are you thinking about?”

I hesitated. “I was thinking how glad I am that London and Bodhi are friends.”

She squinted at me, a skeptical gleam in her eye. “I’m not sure you were thinking about the kids just then.”

“No?”

“No,” she said with a knowing smile, “I’m pretty sure you were thinking about me.”

“It must be a wonderful thing to be able to read minds.”

“It is,” she said. “And for my next trick, watch this: I’m going to enter the gallery without even touching the door.”

“How are you going to do that?”

She feigned disappointment. “You’re not even going to open the door for me? I thought you were a gentleman.”

I laughed and pulled open the door for her. The interior of the building was brightly lit, with the look of an industrial loft; a large open space, with several groups of wall partitions that rose partway to the ceiling. Paintings were mounted on the partitions, and I could see about twenty people clustered among the artwork, most holding glasses of wine or champagne flutes. Waiters and waitresses circulated, bearing silver trays of appetizers.