by Amy Poeppel
He appreciated Bridget’s generosity. In return, Will liked to think he was a good friend, a trustworthy music partner, and an outstanding houseguest. In one week, he’d failed on all three fronts. As a bad friend, he hadn’t told her that Caroline quit. As a dishonest music partner, he had attempted to solve the problem without even consulting her first. And finally, having Emma sleep over the night before was a leap into inconsiderate houseguest behavior. Regarding that last mistake, he really couldn’t help himself.
The Monday after their first date, he’d gone back to New York for the week, and as soon as he got to his apartment, with the sign still advertising Will’s tenuous grip on his living situation, he found he couldn’t stop thinking about Emma. He waited a few days, not wanting to seem overly eager, and then he sent her a text: Glad we met. Hope to see you again sometime.
His phone had pinged a few minutes later. Thinking about you, she wrote.
Only three little words, but he read them over several times. Really? he’d finally answered. A weak response, but she replied right away: You coming this weekend? He wanted to say yes, but he had lessons to make up from the week before and a gig that Saturday. Besides, he wasn’t ready to face Bridget to tell her about the debacle with Caroline and the email he’d gotten back from Gavin.
He and Emma texted back and forth the whole week and into the next one, shamelessly flirting with each other. Then, at the end of the second week, he was standing on the street outside the Mannes School of Music, ready to teach a lesson, when he’d heard the ping. He opened her text to find she’d sent a picture of her breasts. It was the sexiest thing that had ever happened to him.
He called Bridget right away and told her he was coming up for the holiday weekend.
* * *
He’d arrived at Bridget’s house late the night before, had a glass of wine with her and the kids, and headed up to the loft. He texted Emma to let her know he was back in town.
Come over, she wrote back.
It didn’t seem right to abscond with Bridget’s Volvo in the middle of the night.
No car, he wrote. Tomorrow?
There was a pause, and then she wrote, On my way.
Emma left early for work that morning, leaving Will to replay every moment of their night together over in his head, like a fantasy reel. She was stunning and fun. Had they made too much noise? And—much more pressing—how soon could he see her again?
Will felt pressure to go downstairs, but he was stalling; he dreaded the conversation he had to have with Bridget.
When he finally got out of bed and looked out the window, he saw her walking around outside with a man; it took a minute for Will to recognize the Realtor he’d met in the grocery store. He’d never even given Bridget the man’s card, so he couldn’t imagine why he’d shown up. Another mistake Will would need to apologize for.
He took a shower and went out with Hudson, looking for Bridget, who emerged from the barn, sweaty but smiling. “Hey!” she called out, walking over to where he was standing by the porch door. “I have to tell you my brilliant idea.”
Feeling the intensity of the sun, Will wondered how they would all get through the hottest part of the day without air-conditioning. “What was that pushy Realtor doing here?”
“Mark? He said you told him about the house.”
“I’m so sorry, Bridget. I didn’t invite him over. I just took his card—”
Bridget waved off his concern and opened the porch door. “I told him I didn’t know if I was selling, but he gave me a hideous list of problems I have to deal with so the place doesn’t end up condemned. It would be nice to revive the barn.”
“We could make a list,” he said, wanting to be helpful and thinking that the barn was the least important problem. “The skylight’s leaking in the entry, and the slider door to the loft isn’t sliding anymore. It’s gotten jammed or something.”
They went into the house while she waved him off again. “Listen, I’m so glad you’re here because I have this idea. Do you have Caroline Lee’s number?”
Will’s stomach dropped. “Why?”
“I want the trio to play at my dad’s wedding, and I was wondering which piece would be most meaningful, and then I figured it out: My dad keeps talking about that retreat he went on and the piece he wrote there. So, I was thinking, what if you arrange it for piano trio?”
Will wished he hadn’t waited so long to discuss the crisis he’d both caused and partially averted.
“Uch, I’m so thirsty,” Bridget said, going into the kitchen, getting two glasses, and filling them with ice from the trays. “The piece is called Synchronicity. He’d be thrilled to hear us play it, don’t you think?”
Will took a breath, held his hands together, and said, “Look, here’s the thing about the trio—”
“I know I’m asking a lot,” she said, “but you’re so good at arranging, and it would be special to play a piece he wrote so long ago.” She filled the glasses with water and handed him one. “I know you have doubts about Caroline, but this will get us going in a positive way.”
Will, overcome by regret, held up a finger and tried again. “About the trio—”
“And I know how busy Caroline is,” said Bridget. She drank half the glass of water. “But I think she’d be honored to play for my father.”
How to break the news? he wondered.
“You won’t believe this,” Bridget said. She leaned in and whispered, “Kevin spent last night with Isabelle. Kevin! He came wandering out of her bathroom in a towel.”
“You said she was spending a lot of time in the barn.” Will was glad the topic had changed, giving him a respite.
“Kevin,” she said again. “It was awkward, let me tell you.”
“I’m sure she didn’t mean to be disrespectful,” he said, feeling guilty about his own sleepover with Emma.
“She’s a grown woman, I know, but this place feels like a circus.”
Behind Bridget, out the window, there was a flock of guinea hens pecking around in the grass, and Hudson stood at the window, watching them with his tail wagging.
“Why do you have hens now?” Will asked.
“Kevin brought them for tick control.”
Farther out in the field, the sheep were hard at work getting the grass under control. Will liked the herd with their fat, stocky bodies and bleating tenor voices. But the growing menagerie did give Bridget’s circus comment some validity, although “zoo” might have been a more fitting term.
She leaned over and whispered again, “I’m so upset about Oscar and Matt. They’re really at an impasse.”
Will wasn’t a fan of marriage, but the possible breakup of Oscar and Matt’s was indeed a shock. “Can’t they talk it out? Or go to therapy?” he said. “They need to have an honest conversation.” The irony of his statement did not escape him.
Bridget frowned. “Matt’s cheating, and he’s lying about it, so I don’t think there’s much to talk about unless he comes clean. Matt isn’t who we thought he was.”
Will considered that and felt somehow it was a lazy explanation. “Speaking of honest conversations,” he said, feeling the heat along with the guilt as he took a seat at the table, “I need to tell you something.”
Bridget sat down next to him, a knowing smirk on her face. “If this is about Emma sleeping over, you don’t have to—”
“I wasn’t sure if you knew.”
Bridget pointed to the pot rack.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’d hoped we were subtler than that.”
“No, I’m happy for you,” said Bridget. “I just hope she likes New York.”
Will had no idea if she did or didn’t. “There’s something else,” he said. “It’s about Caroline. She’s… Did you hear that she walked offstage in the middle of a concert?”
Bridget appeared as stunned as he had been. “Is she okay?”
“She’s going through something, according to Randall, and the thing is, I talked to her briefly, and I
guess, apparently, I offended her, and she… dropped out.” He paused, letting the terrible news sink in. When Bridget didn’t react, he added, “She won’t play with us.”
Bridget seemed to have stopped breathing. “She what?”
“She quit.”
“She can’t quit. Randall won’t let her. She committed—”
“It’s going to be okay,” he said.
“When did this happen?”
“About two weeks ago.”
“Two weeks—?”
“I know I should have told you right away, but then I got this terrific idea, a way to fix it, and—”
“You got her back?”
Will started to answer, certain that Bridget would be happy once she heard him out, but she cut him off. “Because the thing is,” she said, “I’m really going to be ready to get back to my life and to work after this summer, and I want Caroline.”
“Well, Caroline’s out,” he said, “but Randall’s still working with us because I replaced her.”
“I don’t understand,” said Bridget, looking aghast. “Since when do you unilaterally choose musicians for us? Who’d you replace her with, without even asking me?”
The truth was he hadn’t gotten very far with Gavin in the negotiation over specific concert dates, but he was hopeful that would happen soon. Once Bridget also reached out to him, he would surely agree to two if not three concerts. “I’ve attempted to reunite us with our old violinist.”
“Who?” Bridget asked. “Jacques? Julian? Please don’t say Martina.”
Will smiled. “Gavin.”
Bridget’s eyes opened wide.
He put a hand on her shoulder, giving it an encouraging squeeze. “I wrote to him,” he said, “to find out if he was interested. And I was shocked when he finally answered yesterday, saying he wants to come here to see us.”
Bridget finally blinked and shook her head.
“Good fix, right?” he said, hoping for a sign of approval, of happiness even. “Bridget?”
“He’s not coming here…?” It was part question, part declaration. Where was the smile? Where was the Wow?
“I know this wasn’t the plan, but sometimes plans get upended. If he’s willing to play—”
“I know all about upended plans,” she said, looking stricken, almost like she might cry. “Why didn’t you talk to me first?”
“I didn’t want to give you bad news until I had a solution. Wouldn’t you do the same for me?”
She pointed her finger at him, saying, “You didn’t want Caroline, from the very beginning.” She didn’t look mad exactly. Oddly enough, she looked frightened.
“Maybe I don’t like her attitude,” he said defensively, “but I didn’t sabotage our collaboration on purpose. Caroline’s under a lot of pressure, and she was probably hoping for a reason to quit, and she’s using me as her excuse.”
“Gavin’s not coming here,” she said, definitively, like there was nothing more to discuss.
Will was confused. He was the one who had problems with Gavin. “He said he was looking forward to getting together, to talk about it. He even asked for your email address.”
“I’ll call Caroline,” she said, “and I’ll get her back. You call Gavin and call it off.”
“Randall says we’re not to contact Caroline under any circumstances—”
“That’s absurd.”
“—and Gavin’s better than she is anyway. I honestly thought you’d be pleased with me for bringing the arrogant prick back into the trio.”
Bridget dropped her head in her hands. “Don’t call him names.”
Her reaction was so bizarre, all he could think was that the stress of having her kids home, of Sterling breaking up with her, of her father’s marriage plans, was all getting to her. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, “why don’t you go to Edward’s, cool down in his air-conditioned palace, and think it over. I swear this will be a good thing. We’ll play a few concerts with Gavin, get lots of amazing publicity, and be in a much better position to find someone permanent. And then Randall might sign us after all.” As he made this speech, he knew he was right about all of it. “And I bet Gavin would love to play your father’s piece with us at the wedding. They used to have a mutual-admiration thing between them.”
Bridget used her T-shirt to wipe the sweat off her face. “Fine,” she said.
“Yeah? You’re on board?”
“I meant fine, I’ll go cool off at my dad’s. I’ll be back later.” She got her car keys and walked out of the house without another word. He was hurt she didn’t invite him to come along.
He would make it up to her for screwing things up with Caroline. He would arrange the piece for her father for starters.
He considered what it would mean to play an original Edward Stratton composition for Edward Stratton himself. It had been years since Will had arranged a piece that would actually be played in public, much less a piece of music written by a famous living composer. He could feel the pressure already.
Will’s phone pinged, and he saw that Emma had texted.
Buckle up, babe. I’m going to do things to you tonight you’ve never even heard of.
Will felt a jolt rush through him and gulped. I’m in, he answered. This woman was a completely thrilling, delicious surprise.
Will sat down on the floor with Hudson, forehead to furry forehead, looking him in the eye. Hudson was yet another gift from Bridget. They’d gone to a posh pet store in Chelsea, where Hudson was playing with his littermates, letting the others jump on him, revealing his tolerant, loving nature. Bridget bought both Hudson and Hadley as sixteenth-birthday gifts for the twins. Soon after, she called him, saying, “Too much dog! My cats are going nuts. It’s the Montagues and the Capulets over here. What was I thinking? Help me out, and take Hudson off my hands? The kids will be heartbroken, but if he lives with you, he stays in the family.” Bridget brought him over in a cab, along with a crate, a dog bed, toys, a harness and leash, poop bags, and a case of puppy food, and she insisted on paying for the first year of vet bills.
Bridget had done a lot for Will, and given the fight they were having, he wanted to do something nice for her. He got up and went to the bottom of the stairs. “Oscar?”
Oscar came out to the landing, looking downtrodden.
“Let’s do your mom a favor and try to clean out the barn a little.”
“It’s so fucking hot,” Oscar whined.
He was right. Will couldn’t completely blame him for balking at the idea. “I think it may be cooler outside than it is in here.”
“I’ll be down in a bit,” Oscar said. “I have to make a couple work calls first.”
Will went outside and saw Kevin coming out to the field from the guesthouse. Kevin and Isabelle? They weren’t an obvious match, but Will liked the idea. He hoped Oscar and Matt would find their way back to each other as well. The joy of a new romance made him want everyone in his life to be similarly swept away. Bridget above all. Who could he find for Bridget?
A thought flashed through his head as he remembered the old trio, the long rehearsals, and especially the camaraderie Bridget had with Gavin. She was the anchor, the link that held them together. Why, he wondered, was she so reluctant to see him again?
15
Gwen didn’t need to go to Edward’s house to have a luxury bathroom. Or Frette sheets on a king-size bed, a chef’s kitchen, or a spectacular view. Gwen had all of those comforts in her very own Fifth Avenue apartment. Nevertheless, in the summertime, while her show, Influence, was between seasons and she was doing more research and less filming, she enjoyed getting into her Range Rover and making the two-plus-hour trip up the FDR, out of New York, past commercial strip malls, pretty farms, fancy prep schools, and even an abandoned psychiatric hospital to go to her dad’s house. She couldn’t come as often as she liked, but she loved to step away from the city. Her dad’s house was the perfect place to read the galleys her producer gave her and study up on the talented peo
ple being invited on her program. She would return to the city feeling well rested but charged, fully prepped and ready to delve into the psyches of her subjects.
This weekend Gwen had made the trip to her dad’s with a pile of work, almost all of which intrigued her. She had a book of light short stories to read, a series of dark art house films to watch, a modern jazz album to listen to, and a possibly frivolous self-help book to evaluate. The summers were the best time to do this kind of digging, and depending on how she felt about the various works and the artists who created them (whether they be poets, novelists, musicians, dancers, psychologists, or philosophers), she would discuss them with her producer, Lucy, deciding whether or not to invite them on the show. Gwen’s job was heaven.
She preferred these recent summer visits to the ones she made when she was still married. Back then she would come to her father’s house alone, missing her husband, Charles, who would claim he had too much work to do, or a conference to attend, or a last-minute crisis at the office, when in fact he’d had none of the above. Charles was an ass-grabbing, coke-snorting, ethics-deficient cheater, a man so low in morality that a twenty-two-year-old receptionist in his office was now suing him for sexual harassment. Gwen was glad her marriage to him had been severed almost a decade ago so this latest scandal had absolutely nothing to do with her, not emotionally and not financially.