“Please,” I said. “You don’t have to leave. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to upset you.”

“I’m not the one who’s upset,” she said. “You are.”

With that, Vivian rose from the table and strode for the exit. When she was gone, I sat in shock for a couple of minutes before finally signaling for the waiter to bring the check. Rehashing the conversation, I wondered whether I really had been too loud, or whether it had been an easy excuse for Vivian to bring the lunch to an early conclusion.

There was, after all, no reason for her to stay.

Not only was she in love with another man, as far as the weekend went, she’d gotten everything she’d wanted from me.

CHAPTER 16

The Sun Also Rises

I liked Liz as soon as I met her, but I’ll admit that I was amazed that my parents felt the same way. While they accepted the fact that Marge was gay, I often sensed that they weren’t exactly comfortable with the women Marge dated. There was a generational aspect to it – they’d both grown up in an era in which alternative lifestyles were typically kept in the closet – but it also had to do with the kind of women that Marge originally seemed to favor. They struck me as a bit on the rough side and were often prone to profanity in casual conversation, which had a tendency to make both my mom and dad go red in the face.

Marge told me that she’d met Liz at work. Accounting offices, I think most would agree, aren’t your usual pickup joints, but Liz had recently joined a new practice and was in need of an accountant. Marge happened to have an opening in her afternoon schedule, and by the time Liz left the office, they’d made arrangements to meet for a glass of wine before dropping by an art opening in Asheville.

“You’re going to an art gallery?” I remember asking Marge. We’d met at a bar after work, the kind of place with neon beer signs and the slightly rancid smell of too many spilled drinks. At the time, it was one of Marge’s favorite watering holes.

“Why wouldn’t I go to an art gallery?”

“Maybe because you don’t like art?”

“Who says I don’t like art?”

“You did. When I tried to show you some pictures of Emily’s art, you said – and I quote – ‘I don’t like art.’ ”

“Maybe I’ve matured in the past few years.”

“Or maybe Liz just blew your socks off.”

“She’s interesting,” Marge admitted. “Very smart, too.”

“Is she pretty?”

“What does that matter?”

“I’m just curious.”

“Yes. She’s very pretty.”

“Let me guess. The art opening was her idea?”

“As a matter of fact, it was.”

“Does she drive a motorcycle? And favor leather jackets?”

“How would I know?”

“What does she do?”

“She’s a marriage and family therapist.”

“You don’t like therapists either.”

“I didn’t like my therapists. Well, the last one was okay, but I didn’t much like the others. Of course, there were a few years there where I was pretty angry, and I’m not sure I would have liked any therapist.”

“Have you told Liz about your anger issues?”

“That’s all in my past. I’m not like that anymore.”

“Good to know. When can I meet her?”

“It’s a little early, don’t you think? We haven’t even gone out yet.”

“All right. So after you do go out, when can I meet her?”

It ended up being a little less than two weeks. I invited the two of them over to my apartment, and grilled a few steaks on my pint-sized patio. Liz brought dessert, and the three of us split a bottle of wine. It took me all of thirty seconds to feel at ease with Liz, and it was clear that she already cared deeply for my sister. I could see it in the attentive way she listened whenever Marge spoke, her easy laughter, and how attuned she seemed to Marge’s hidden, emotional side. When it finally came time for them to leave, Marge pulled me aside.

“What do you think of her?”

“I think she’s fantastic.”

“Too fantastic for me?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t totally get what she sees in me.”

“Are you kidding? You’re awesome. You had her laughing all night long.”

Marge didn’t seem convinced but she nodded anyway. “Thanks for having us over. Even if you did burn the steaks.”

“They were purposely charred,” I explained. “It’s supposed to add flavor.”

“Oh, it did. Burned is often the goal of world-class chefs.”

“Goodbye, Marge,” I said. “And you’re welcome.”

“Love you.”

“That’s only because I put up with you.”

Marge didn’t introduce Liz to my parents until another month had passed. It was a Saturday afternoon, and within minutes of her arrival, Liz disappeared into the kitchen to help my mom, the two of them chatting as if they were old friends. My dad sat with Marge, watching a ball game. I was sitting with them too, not that either of them seemed to notice.

“What do you think, Dad?” Marge asked during one of the commercials.

“About what?”

“Liz,” Marge said.

“She seems to be getting along with your mom pretty well.”