"Hmm."

"It's not because we need the money. She's been talking about this for a while, you know. With London starting school, I mean."

"Hmm."

"I think it will be good for her. Something easy, something part-time. She'd be bored otherwise."

"Hmm."

I hesitated. "What do you think?"

"About what?"

"Vivian thinking of going back to work. My new agency."

He scratched at his ear, buying time. "Did you ever think that maybe you shouldn't have quit your job in the first place?"

My dad, as much of a man's man that he was, wasn't a risk taker. For him, having a steady job and receiving a regular paycheck more than outweighed any potential reward of running his own business. Seven years ago, the former owner of the plumbing business had offered to let my dad buy it; my dad had passed on the offer, and the business was purchased by another, younger employee with entrepreneurial dreams.

To be frank, I hadn't expected him to offer me much in the way of career advice. That, too, was outside my dad's comfort zone, but I didn't hold it against him. He and I had led different lives; where I'd gone to college, he'd graduated from high school and spent time on a destroyer in Vietnam. He'd married at nineteen and was a father by twenty-two; his parents had died in a car accident a year after that. He worked with his hands while I worked with my mind, and while his view of the world black and white, good and bad may have seemed simplistic to some, it also provided a road map for how a real man was supposed to lead his life. Get married. Love your wife and treat her with respect. Have children, and teach them the value of hard work. Do your job. Don't complain. Remember that family unlike most of those people you might meet in life will always be around. Fix what can be fixed or get rid of it. Be a good neighbor. Love your grandchildren. Do the right thing.

Good rules. Actually, they were great rules and for the most part, they'd stayed intact throughout his life. One, however, had fallen by the wayside, and was no longer on his list. My dad had been raised Southern Baptist, and Marge and I had gone to services on both Wednesday evenings and Sundays throughout our youth. We'd gone to vacation Bible school every summer, and my parents never questioned whether or not to go to church. Like the other rules, it wasn't abandoned until soon after Marge told my parents that she was gay.

I can only imagine how nervous Marge must have been. We'd been raised in a church that believed homosexuality was a sin, and my parents marched to the beat of that very same drummer; maybe even more so, because they were from a different generation. My dad ended up meeting with the pastor, a real fire-and-brimstone kind of guy. The pastor told my dad that Marge was choosing a life of sin if she surrendered to her nature, and that they should bring her in to pray, in the hope of finding God's grace.

My dad was a lot of things hard at times, gruff, profane but he also loved his kids. He believed in his kids, and when Marge told him that she hadn't chosen a lifestyle that she'd been born that way he nodded once, told her that he loved her, and from that day onward, our family stopped attending services.

There are a lot of people in the world, I think, who could learn a lot from my dad.

"You look like crap," Marge said to me. We'd retreated to the back porch with a couple of cupcakes while Mom, Liz, and London continued to bake another batch. My dad was in the family room, enjoying the cupcakes while watching the Atlanta Braves, no doubt waiting for London to join him. She always called him Papa, which I thought was sort of cute.

"You always know just what to say to make a guy feel great."

"I'm being honest. You're pasty."

"I'm tired."

"Oh," she said. "My mistake. It's not like I know you, and can tell when you're lying. You're stressed."

"A little."

"New business not going well?"

I shifted in my seat. "I guess I thought it would be a little easier to get clients. Or at least one client."

"They'll come. You just need to give it time." When I didn't respond, she went on. "How's Vivian handling it?"

"We don't really talk about it much."

"Why not? She's your wife."

"I don't want her to worry. I figure I'll talk to her when there's something good to tell her."

"See? That's where you're wrong. Vivian should be the one person you can talk to about anything."

"I guess."

"You guess? You two really need to work on your communication skills. See a counselor or whatever."

"Maybe we should schedule an appointment with Liz. Being that she's a therapist, I mean."

"You couldn't afford her. You're not making any money."

"That makes me feel a lot better."

"Would you rather I blow smoke up the old back door?"

"As delightful as that sounds, I'll pass."

She laughed. "The point is, I've seen it happen over and over."

"Seen what happen?"

"The same mistakes people make when starting a business," she said, taking another bite. "Too much optimism on the revenue front and not enough pessimism when it comes to either business or household expenses. In your case, credit cards."

"How would you know that?"

"Hello? Vivian and her errands? The bill arriving in the middle of the month? This isn't the first time we've had this conversation."

"The balance was a little high," I finally admitted.

"Then take some advice from your sister with the CPA. Cancel it. Or at least put a limit on it."

"I can't.

"Why not?"

"Because I told her that her life wasn't going to change."

"Why on earth would you say something like that?"

"Because there's no reason she should have to suffer."

"You know how crazy that sounds, right? Shopping less is not equivalent to suffering. And besides, you're supposed to be partners, both of you on the same team, especially when things get tough."

"We are on the same team. And I love her."

"I know you love her. If anything, you love her too much."

"There's no such thing."

"Yeah, well... I'm just saying that she's not always the easiest person to be married to."

"That's because she's a woman."

"Do I have to remind you whom you're talking to?"

I hesitated. "Do you think I made a mistake? By going out on my own?"

"Don't start second-guessing yourself now. Unless you were willing to move halfway across the country, you didn't have a choice. And besides, I have the feeling that it's all going to work out for the better."

It was exactly what I needed to hear. And yet as she said it, I couldn't help wishing that Vivian had said it, not my sister.

"I take it the cooking classes are still going well?" I said to Liz half an hour later. For Christmas last year, I'd bought her a couple of classes at a place called the Chef's Dream, but she'd enjoyed it so much, she had continued on her own. By then, I was on my second cupcake. "These are great."

"Those are more your mom's doing. We don't really do a lot of baking. Right now, we're learning French cuisine."

"Like snails and frog legs?"

"Among other things."

"And you eat it?"

"They're better than the cupcakes, believe it or not."

"Have you talked Marge into going yet?"

"No, but that's okay. And I enjoy having a bit of alone time. Besides, it's only one night a week. It's not that big of a deal."

"Speaking of Marge, she thinks I'm a doormat."

"She's just worried about you," Liz said. With long brown hair, oval eyes the color of coffee, and an easygoing demeanor, she was more the class secretary type than head cheerleader type, but I'd always thought that made her even more attractive. "She knows you're under a lot of pressure and she worries about you. How's Vivian these days?"

"She's okay, but she's feeling the pressure, too. I just want her to be happy with me."

"Hmmm."

"That's it?"

"What else am I supposed to say?'

"I don't know. Challenge me? Give me advice?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Because, among other things, you're trained as a counselor."

"You're not my patient. But even then, I'm not sure I could help."

"Why not?"

"Because counseling isn't about changing someone else. It's about trying to change yourself."

On our way to the car, I held London's hand.

"Don't tell Mommy I had two cupcakes, okay?"

"Why?

"Because it's not good for me and I don't want her to be sad."

"Okay," she said. "I won't. I promise."

"Thanks, sweetie."

London and I returned at six to an empty house with a batch of vanilla cupcakes.

When I texted Vivian, asking where she was, she replied Still have a couple of things to do will be home in a little while. It felt annoyingly cryptic, but before I could text again, London was tugging on my sleeve and leading me toward the pink three-story Barbie Dreamhouse she'd stationed in the corner of the living room.

London adored Barbie, was over the moon for Barbie. She had seven of them, two pink Barbie convertibles, and a plastic tub filled with more outfits than a fully stocked department store. That every doll had the same name seemed not to matter to London at all; what fascinated me even more was that every time Barbie moved from one room in the pink three-story Dreamhouse to another or changed activities, London believed that a wardrobe change was imperative. This occurred roughly every thirty-five seconds, and it went without saying was that the only thing that London enjoyed more than changing Barbie's wardrobe was having Dad do it for her.

For the next hour and a half, I spent four full days changing Barbie's outfits, one right after the other.

If that doesn't make sense, I have to admit that it didn't make much sense to me either. It probably has something to do with the theory of relativity time being relative and all that but London didn't seem to care whether I was bored or not as long as I kept the outfits a-changing. Nor did she seem to care whether I understood her reasoning as to the particular outfit she wanted. Somewhere around the three-day mark on that late afternoon, I remember reaching for a green pair of pants when London shook her head.

"No, Daddy! I told you that she needs to wear yellow pants when she's in the kitchen."

"Why?"

"Because she's in the kitchen."

Oh.

Eventually, I heard Vivian's SUV pull into the drive. Unlike my Prius, it got horrible gas mileage, but it was large, safe, and Vivian had insisted she'd never drive a minivan, even though it was far more economical.

"Your mom is home, sweetheart," I offered, expelling a sigh of relief as London raced for the door. As soon as she opened it, I heard her call out "Mommy!" I straightened up the play area before following her. By the time I reached the front steps, Vivian was already holding London, the rear hatch open, and I did a quick double take. Her hair, I saw, was noticeably shorter, now shoulder length and closer in style to what it had been when I'd first met her.

She smiled up at me, squinting in the waning summer sunlight. "Hey hon!" she called out. "Would you mind grabbing some of the bags?"

I descended the steps, listening as London chattered away, telling Vivian about her day. When I was close, Vivian lowered London to the ground. By her expression, I knew she was waiting for a reaction.

"Wow," I said, offering her a quick kiss. "This brings back memories."

"You like?" she asked.

"You look beautiful. But how you did you pull this off on Sunday? Where on earth would even be open?"

"There's a salon downtown that offers Sunday appointments. I've heard great things about one of the hairdressers there and I decided to give her a try."