“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.”

“You sound jaded.”

“On the contrary. I love women.”

“Would you ever get married again?”

“Of course. I’m a big believer in marriage.”

“Really?”

“What can I tell you? I’m a romantic.”

“So what happened?”

“I tend to fall in love with the crazy ones, that’s what happened.”

I laughed. “I’m glad I don’t have that problem.”

“You think so? She’s still a woman.”

“And?”

I had the sense Joey was trying to read me. “Hey,” he finally said, “as long as you’re happy, then I’m happy for you.”

On Wednesday night after dance class, London was predictably glum as she crawled into the car.

“Tonight, since Mom’s away, how about we have pizza for dinner?”

“Pizza isn’t good for you.”

“As long as you don’t eat it all the time, it’s fine. When was the last time you had pizza?”

She thought about it. “I can’t remember. When is Mommy getting home again?”

“She’ll be home tomorrow, sweetie.”

“Can we call her?”

“I don’t know if she’s busy, but I’ll send a text okay?”

“Okay,” she said. In the backseat, she seemed smaller than usual.

“How about we go out for pizza anyway, just you and me? And after that, we’ll stop and get ice cream?”

Though she didn’t say yes, she didn’t say no either, and we ended up at a place that made a decent thin-crust pizza. While we were waiting, Vivian called using FaceTime, and after that, London’s mood began to lift. By the time we hit Dairy Queen she was chatting away happily. She spent most of the ride home talking about her friend Bodhi and his dog Noodle, and how he’d invited her over to his house so he could show her his light saber.

My first thought was that my daughter was far too young to be shown any boy’s light saber; the next thought, which came an instant later, was that it was likely one of the playdates that Marge had suggested I set up, and that the light saber wasn’t a metaphor but an actual play sword inspired by the Star Wars movies.

When we got home, London ran up the stairs to see Mr. and Mrs. Sprinkles and though I expected her to stay up there for a while, she appeared in the living room a few minutes later.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Can we go bike riding again?”

I stifled a groan. I was tired and wanted nothing more than to stay glued to the couch.

“Of course we can,” I said instead, and as I stood, I suddenly remembered that Vivian had said that she’d wanted to watch London ride her bike the night before, but she must have forgotten.