"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 nave back then. Now, I'm old but still nave."

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 cliched... 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."

"You know I'm kidding. They're a great couple. I'm not sure I've ever seen them argue. They just sort of go with the flow."

"That's a good thing. And your parents? Are they still working?"

"Mom retired, but Dad's still at it full time."

"Still working on his car?"

"Every weekend."

"And your mom?"

"She's now a member of the Red Hat Society, and she wants to plant tulips." When Emily furrowed her brow, I told her about the week before.

"You know you can't be mad at her for that. She already fulfilled her parenting duties."

"That's what Marge said. Marge wouldn't help me either."

"And yet, you got everything done anyway."

"Marge said that, too."

She let out a long breath. "It's amazing where life has taken us, huh? Since we knew each other? Of course, we were just kids back then."

"We weren't kids."

She smiled. "Are you kidding? Maybe, technically, we were old enough to vote, but I can definitely remember some youthful exuberance on your part. Like the time you decided to see whether you could eat that monstrous steak, so you could get your picture on the wall of the restaurant. How big was that steak again?"

The memory came back in a rush. We'd been out at the lake with a group of friends, and I spotted the restaurant sign just off the highway, advertising that in addition to my photo on the wall, there would be no charge for the meal. "Seventy-five ounces."

"You didn't even make it halfway."

"I was hungry when I started..."

"You were also drunk."

"Maybe a little."

"Good times." She laughed. She lingered before me before finally gesturing toward my computer. "But unfortunately, I should probably get going. You need to work, and I've really got to get that stuff shipped off today."

I became aware of the fact that I didn't want her to go, even if it was probably a good idea. "You're probably right."

She stood from the table. "It was nice seeing you again, Russ."

"You, too," I said. "It's been fun catching up."

"I'll see you later."

"Later?"

"When the class ends?"

"Of course," I said. "I knew that."

As she used her shoulder to push open the door, I couldn't help but notice that she glanced back at me and smiled before finally vanishing from sight.

I spent the next hour in the coffee shop researching on the Internet and was able to find two commercials for the law offices of Joey Taglieri, one of which was no longer airing. They were professional, informative, and, I had to admit, nearly the same as the kind of legal commercials I used to film. I also watched commercials from almost a dozen other law firms in town, concluding that, if anything, Taglieri's commercials were no better or worse than any of the others.

Why, then, had Joey Taglieri thought of them as idiots?

If the commercials weren't that bad, however, I still didn't think Taglieri was getting his money's worth when it came to the overall campaign. His website was distinctly out of date and lacked pizzazz, and a phone call to a buddy let me know there was nothing going on in the way of Internet advertising. Another couple of calls let me know that he didn't advertise in print or on billboards either. I wondered if he'd be open to those ideas while doing my best not to get too excited.

A call to my office helped there was zippo, nada, zilch in the way of messages and after leaving the coffee shop, I collected London from art class. She proudly pointed out a bowl she'd made, and I waved at Emily on my way out the door. She smiled and raised a hand she was talking to the teacher at the time and after bringing London home, I was unsure how best to spend the next few hours until dance class. It was too hot to bring London outside, and her day was already so full, I suspected that she might simply want to relax and play for a while.

In the end, I decided to make Vivian dinner. I perused a few cookbooks, recognizing that many of the recipes were beyond my culinary capabilities. There was, however, a recipe for Chilean sea bass, and a quick search of the cupboards indicated I had most of the ingredients. Perfect. I brought London to dance and while the class was no doubt disappointing the grim Ms. Hamshaw, I swung by the grocery store and picked up the rest. Dinner was well under way by the time Vivian walked through the door.

With rice pilaf and green bean almondine going on the stove, I couldn't step away.

"I'm in the kitchen," I called out, and soon afterward I heard Vivian's footsteps behind me.

"Wow," she noted, walking toward me. "It smells great in here. What are you making?"

When I told her, she leaned over the pots on the stove. "What's the occasion?"

"No occasion. Just thought I'd try something new. And after dinner, I figured that I'd get the bike out so you could watch London ride."

She opened the cupboard and pulled a glass from it, then the wine from the fridge. "Let's do it tomorrow, okay? I'm tired and London's had a big day. She seems wiped out already."

"Fair enough," I said.

She poured herself a glass. "How did she do at tennis?"

"About the same as everyone else. First day, learning to hold the racket at the proper end, all the basics. There were a couple of girls from the neighborhood, so she seemed happy to be there."

"I think tennis will be good for her. It's a great sport to socialize."

"And the girls look cute in those shorts, I might add."

"Ha, ha. How about art class? And dance?"

"She had fun at art, but as for dance, I don't think she likes it very much."

"Give it time. Once she starts competing, she'll love it."

I wondered who Vivian imagined would be bringing her to the competitions, but kept my thoughts to myself. "Were you able to get a workout in?"

"I squeezed it in at lunch," she answered. "A pretty good one, in fact. I felt great the rest of the afternoon."

"Good for you," I said. "And how was your day?"