If You Only Knew(96)

I’ve known Owen long enough to catch that note in his voice. Not so bad is his term for everything’s going to hell.

And that last line borders on romantic. Maybe. His voice still gets to me, the deep, gentle timbre. I no longer remember the sound of my father’s voice, but I think it was similar.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Ah, nothing. You free for dinner one of these nights?”

I pause. But there’s no reason for me not to see Owen and Ana-Sofia, just because I’m sleeping with Leo. “Sure. Let’s see. Thursday?”

“I can’t that day. Giving a lecture at Columbia. How about Friday?”

Friday is date night. Everyone knows that. “Um...maybe. Can I get back to you?”

“Of course.” There’s a pause. “I miss you.”

“I miss you guys, too.” I don’t, I realize. Once, I counted days in between when I could call them again, so as not to appear too needy and lonely. Just a good, good friend.

“This would just be you and me. Is that okay?” Owen says. “Ana-Sofia has something that night.”

“Oh, okay. I’ll get to see Natalia, though, right?”

“Well, I was thinking a restaurant. We’ve found a great nanny.”

Yeah. And being alone with my ex and his child, playing family, is probably not healthy. “Sounds good.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Owen, is everything okay?”

“Yes, yes, of course. I’m still at the hospital. I just... I don’t know. I really miss you. I don’t think I’ve ever gone so long without seeing you.”

“Except for when you were with Doctors Without Borders,” I remind him.

“Right. Remember that time when I called and you were at a wedding? I was so screwed up with time zones.”

“I remember.” That was back when we were in love. When he called from somewhere in Indonesia, and I smothered my cell phone and scurried out of the blue-and-ivory splendor of St. Thomas Church and onto Fifth Avenue so I could talk to him, hear his voice, tell him how much I loved and missed him. And he told me those things back.

Yeah.

That was years ago. Five, maybe? We were still newlyweds then.

“I have to go,” I tell him. “I have a date.”

“Oh! Uh, okay. Sorry, Jenny. Have fun. Let me know about Friday. Take care, honey. Bye.”

Honey. Force of habit, or just affection. I call my brides honey all the time.

I hang up, bemused. While I wouldn’t wish anything bad to befall my ex-husband, I can’t deny that it feels kind of great to have him miss me. To be the one with plans.

Speaking of, two very attractive gentlemen are waiting for me downstairs, so downstairs I go.

* * *

After dinner, Evander’s mother calls. Leo talks to her in a low voice for a few minutes, then looks over at me. “Can you drive Evander home?”

“Sure.” I’ve only had the one glass of wine. “Is your car in the shop?”

“No. Let’s go, Wonderboy.”

It’s a given that Loki comes. Leo doesn’t seem to go anywhere without him. We drive through Cambry-on-Hudson to a scruffier section of town, closer to the gravel quarry. Evander gives me directions, not Leo, which surprises me. I thought he drove Evander home from time to time.

The James residence is a two-family house; down the sidewalk is a cluster of teenagers who yell and curse and roughhouse in the loud way of teenagers, then go silent as Leo and Evander get out of the car and go into the house.

The kids turn their attention to me, and the loud talking resumes. Their message is clear—look at us, be afraid of us, we own this street. I smile. It goes unreturned.

But Leo is only gone a minute.

“How is it for Evander, do you think, being a musical prodigy in a neighborhood like this?” I ask when he gets back in the car.

“Tough,” he says. “His parents aren’t sure they want him to keep on playing.”

“You’re kidding!”

“I wish I was. I’m trying to make it easy with the free lessons and taxis and keeping him for dinner, but it might be a matter of time.”

“So he can, what? Sell drugs with these kids?” I point to the knot of children, the smell of pot thick in the air.

“That would be racial profiling, Jenny.”

“Half those kids are white, and can you not smell that? That’s marijuana, dear boy.”

He runs a hand through his glorious hair and sighs.

“I thought you drove Evander home every week,” I said.

“No. I don’t drive students. Too much liability.”

That makes sense. But he’s tense, his fingers tapping on his knees, as if he’s playing the piano. “So what’s the pre-college program?” I ask.

“It’s a weekend school for prodigies. Very intense, but if he gets in, he’s almost guaranteed to be accepted at Juilliard for college.”

“He’s that good?”

“He’s that good. He’s quite possibly great.”

Imagine that. It would be incredible to go see Evander playing at Carnegie Hall someday, to be able to say I knew him when he was little. My husband was his teacher.

Not that I’m getting ahead of myself.