"Nothing like last week, that's for sure. Things are a lot calmer in the office. For a few minutes there, I felt like I had time to actually settle in at my desk and take a breath."

I smiled. "My day was pretty interesting."

"Yeah?"

"Have you ever heard of a guy named Joey Taglieri?"

She frowned. "You mean the attorney?"

"That's him."

"I've seen his commercials. They run in the mornings."

"What do you think about them?"

"About what?"

"The commercials."

"I don't really remember much about them. Why?"

I told her what we'd talked about and my thoughts in the aftermath.

"Are you sure you want to do that?" she asked, sounding skeptical.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you think that it's kind of lowbrow? Lawyer commercials? Didn't Peters stop taking on attorneys because other clients didn't approve?"

"Yeah, but it's not as though I've got any other clients to worry about. I just want to get something going, you know? And he clearly spends a lot on advertising."

She nodded and took a sip of her wine. "Yeah, okay. If that's what you think is best."

Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but because she seemed to be in a better mood than she had been lately, I cleared my throat. "Have you found a day care center for London yet?"

"When have I had the chance?"

"Would you like me to start getting some recommendations?"

"No," she said, sounding put out. "I'll do it. It's just..."

"Just what?"

"Do we really have to sign her up now? She'd have to give up piano and tennis and art, and you've been able to get her everywhere she needs to be so far."

"They have activities at day care."

"I'm just saying that with her being so upset on Saturday night, I'm not sure it's such a good idea. School's going to be starting in a few weeks anyway."

"It's not a few weeks," I said, doing a quick calculation. "It's five more weeks."

"And this is about our daughter. What's best for her. Once school starts, you'll have plenty of time to concentrate on your business. Just keep doing what you're doing and when you have a meeting, drop her off at your mom's house."

"My mom can't watch London every day. She told me she has other things to do."

"She said that? Why didn't you tell me?"

Because you pretty much ignored me all week, nor did you ask about my work at all. "This isn't about my mom, Vivian. I was trying to talk to you about day care."

"I hear you. I get it. You think ditching your daughter with a bunch of strangers is a good idea so you can be free to do what you want instead."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to. It amounts to the same thing. You're being selfish."

"I'm not being selfish."

"Of course you are. She's our daughter. She's struggling."

"One time," I said. "She had a temper tantrum because you were out of town."

"No. She was upset because her entire world has changed, and now you want to make it even worse. I can't understand why you think it's such a great idea to dump her. Don't you like spending time with her?"

I felt my jaw clench and I exhaled slowly, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Of course I do. But you said I would have to watch her for a week, two at the most."

"What I also said was that I wanted to do what's best for our daughter! I haven't had the time to find the right place, and now by the time I do find it and get her signed up, school will be about to start and what would be the point?"

"She'll still need a place to go after school lets out," I said.

"I'll talk to London about it, okay?"

"You'll talk to London about day care?"

"I assume that you haven't. I have no idea how she'd feel about it."

"She's five years old," I said. "She doesn't know enough to know what to think about day care."

"Mommy? I'm hungry."

I turned and saw London in the doorway of the kitchen. Vivian glared at me and I knew we were both wondering how much she'd heard.

"Hey sweetheart," Vivian said, immediately lightening her tone. "Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. Want to help me set the table?"

"Okay," London said, and Vivian moved to the cupboard. She and London set the table; I served and brought the food over.

After London had taken a few bites, she smiled at me.

"Dinner is really good, Daddy."

"Thanks, sweetheart," I said, feeling my heart warm just a little.

My marriage with Vivian might be a little shaky at present and my business going nowhere fast, but at least, I thought to myself, I was learning how to cook.

It didn't make me feel any better.

CHAPTER 10.

Moving Forward

When I was a kid, summers were the most glorious time of life. Because my parents believed in hands-off, free-range parenting, I'd usually be out the door before ten and wouldn't return until dinner. There were no cell phones to keep track of me and whenever my mom called a neighbor to ask where I was, the neighbor was often just as clueless as to her own child's whereabouts. In fact, there was only one rule as far as I could tell: I had to be home at half past five, since my parents liked to eat dinner as a family.

I can't remember exactly how I used to spend those days. I have recollections in snapshot form: building forts or playing king of the hill on the high part of the jungle gym or chasing after a soccer ball while attempting to score. I remember playing in the woods, too. Back then, our home was surrounded by undeveloped land, and my friends and I would have dirt-clod wars or play capture the flag; when we got BB guns, we could spend hours shooting cans and occasionally shooting at each other. I spent hours exploring on my bicycle, and whole weeks would pass where I'd wake every morning with nothing scheduled at all.

Of course, there were kids in the neighborhood who didn't lead that sort of carefree existence. They would head off to camp or participate in summer leagues for various sports, but back then, kids like that were the minority. These days, kids are scheduled from morning to night, and London was no exception, because parents demanded it.

But how did it happen? And why? What changed the outlook of parents in my generation? Peer pressure? Living vicariously through a child's success? Resume building for college? Or was it simply fear that if their kids were allowed to discover the world on their own, nothing good would come of it?

I don't know.

I am, however, of the opinion that something has been lost in the process: the simple joy of waking in the morning and having nothing whatsoever to do.

"What's the problem with the commercials?" Joey Taglieri asked, repeating my question to him. It was Tuesday morning, tennis lesson number two. Still angry at me from the night before, Vivian had left that morning without speaking to me.

"The problem is they're boring," he said. "It's just me, talking to the camera in an overstuffed office. Hell, I fall asleep watching them and they cost me a fortune."

"How would you make them different?"

"When I was a kid, my family lived in Southern California for a few years when my dad was still in the Marines. Hated it there, by the way. So did my mom. As soon as he retired, my family moved back to New Jersey. Both my parents were from there. You ever been to New Jersey?"

"I think I flew out of Newark a couple of times."

"That doesn't count. And don't believe all that crap you see on reality TV about Jersey either. It's a great place. I'd raise my daughter there if I could, but her mom's here and even if she's a coldhearted shrew, she's pretty good as a mom. But anyway, back to Southern California. There was this car dealer named Cal Worthington. Ever heard of him?"

"Can't say that I have."

"Old Cal Worthington had the greatest commercials of all time. Every commercial would introduce him and his dog Spot except that Spot was anything but a dog. Spot might be monkey or a lion or elephant or whatever. There was even a killer whale once. Old Cal had a snappy little jingle that was impossible to forget, with a refrain that went, Go see Cal, go see Cal, go see Cal. Hell, I was eight years old and didn't give a crap about cars and I wanted to go to the dealership just to meet the guy and maybe see a few exotic animals. That's the kind of commercial I want."

"You want elephants in your commercials? And killer whales?"

"Of course not. But I do want something that people remember, something that makes some injured guy in a Barcalounger sit up and say to himself, 'I gotta see that guy. I want him to represent me.' "

"The problem is that legal commercials are regulated by the bar."

"Don't you think I know that? I also know that North Carolina generally falls on the advertising-is-free-speech side when it comes to regulations. If you're in advertising, you should know that, too."

"I do," I said. "But there's a difference between coming across as a professional and competent attorney that you can trust, and a low-class ambulance chaser."

"That's exactly what I said to the idiots who made the commercial. And still, they came back with something that's best described as let's put the viewers into a coma. Have you even seen them?"

"Of course I have. And actually, they're not that bad."

"Yeah? What's the office phone number then?"

"Excuse me?'

"The office phone number. It's there on the screen the whole time. If the commercials were so great, what's the number?"

"I don't know."

"Bingo. And that's the problem."

"They probably remember your name."

"Yeah. And that's another problem. Taglieri isn't exactly the most southern of names, you know, and that might turn some people off."

"There's not much you can do about your name."

"Don't get me wrong. I'm proud of my family name. I'm just noting another problem I have with the commercials. There's too much of my name and not enough of the phone number."

"Gotcha," I said. "What do you think about other forms of advertising? Like billboards, websites, Internet ads, radio ads?"

"I don't know," he said. "I haven't much thought about it. And I only have so much money to spend."

"That makes sense," I said, suspecting that any more questions would do more harm than good. On the court, I watched London trying to volley with another girl, but there was more chasing after tennis balls than actual volleys.

"What does your wife do?" Joey asked into the silence.

"She works in PR," I said. "She just started a new job for one of the big developers around here."

"None of my wives worked. Of course, I work too much. Opposites attract and all that. Did I mention that you should always have a prenup?"

"Yes."

"It allows for none of the financial torture that those of the fairer sex like to inflict."