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.”