When I saw Diana approaching, I took a deep breath and walked up to meet her with my numb-fingered hand extended. Though I barely remembered her appearance from college, my impression was that the years had allowed Diana Ramirez to look like exactly what she was: a woman who’d spent her whole life bucking expectations. Topping out at fifty-nine inches if you counted her distressed black leather sneakers and spiky, boyish haircut, she had full, rounded cheeks and shrewd dark eyes. I bet there’d been a lot of fools who’d taken the cheeks and the stature as the measure of the woman, and I pitied every one of them. Because those eyes told me Diana had swatted them all down like houseflies.
“Hi, Caroline,” she said, shaking my hand firmly. No air-kissing for Diana. I liked that. “It’s nice to see you; you look well.”
“And you, too. How’s the Stockbridge place? Are you mostly settled in there now?”
“Settled in? It’s been done for months, but this weekend is only the second time I’ve gotten to use it. It still feels like somebody else’s house. One of these days, I guess. Anyway, I’m glad I made it up for this. I can’t believe how long it’s been since I was here,” she said, head swiveling as she looked around her.
“It’s grown a lot. So where would you like to start—the Sol LeWitt galleries, maybe?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know who that is, but sure. Sounds good.”
The museum when it’s empty of visitors has always been one of my absolute favorite things. It’s such a unique luxury—and that morning, it was just me, Neil, Diana, and some of the greatest art of the last few decades.
Whenever I give a person or a group a tour of the collection, I can always tell whether or not I’ve got them. It’s especially fun with high-school-age kids: 90 percent of them will be bored, checking their phones, shuffling their feet along the polished hardwood floor, but what I live for is that handful of kids who are looking around with bright, fascinated eyes. Kids like I was on that long-ago MoMA tour: wired out of their skin with the excitement of being surrounded by so much creativity.
Diana was not wired out of her skin. She was paying attention, more or less, though I caught her smothering a couple of yawns behind her hand. But she wasn’t connecting with any of the artwork. And she kept glancing at her phone like it was a stopwatch timing a race. I met Neil’s eyes over her lowered head, and he angled his lower lip down in the universal gesture for “Oy vey.”
We took her through Sol LeWitt, through glass artist Randy Allen, and into the football-field-sized Building 5, where three enormous composite sculptures embodying the specter of climate change oozed and crawled around the cavernous, sunlit space.
“The Island is my favorite,” Neil said to me, after Diana merely nodded in response to my explanation of the artwork. “The image of someone slowly drowning in a rising tide. It’s chilling.”
“Mine is The Desert,” I said, pointing to the dusty brown installation at the far end of the room. “If you can even call that a favorite, you know—something so terrifying.”
After a few beats of silence stretched out between us, Diana popped her head up with a guilty expression.
“Crap, I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m addicted to this thing. Goes with the territory, I suppose.”
I smiled and nodded, even though I was pretty sure what I’d seen in my brief glimpse of her phone was Facebook, not an email inbox.
“Do you want to call it a wrap for today? You must be hungry.”
“I’m about to start chewing my hand,” she said cheerfully. “This has been fascinating, thank you, but yeah…I’d love a bite to eat.”
I glanced regretfully toward the rest of the museum; I had really hoped to be able to show her the Alex Lim installation—it was one of my favorites. But the lady was my guest, and my guest was hungry.
•
“What a lovely house,” said Diana when we arrived at my place, and the sincerity in her voice was gratifying to hear. With this visit of hers on the horizon, I had applied myself to repainting in earnest, and my entire kitchen and living area were now a warm, forgiving greige color that perfectly matched the veins in my marble counters. I loved how me it was, and it felt oddly intimate, having people in this house I had recast as mine. The funny thing was, aside from painting, there hadn’t been a whole lot of Adam to erase.
Diana and Neil parked themselves on the counter stools while I fired up the woodstove and put coffee on to brew. The gloomy skies had cleared while we were inside the museum, and sunlight splashed across the counter and into the deep white farmhouse sink.
“What’s Adam up to today—did you banish him so you could do work stuff?” said Diana, then frowned at my expression. “That’s his name, right? Your boyfriend from college? I thought I read in the alumni magazine that you guys got married. Am I going crazy?”
“I banished him,” I said with a thin smile. I was pricked by awareness that Neil, who had been studiously staring out the kitchen window throughout this exchange, knew my husband wasn’t just gone for the day. I’d felt comfortable telling him about my breakup, but not this woman who’d known me and Adam as intact long before the relationship started rotting from the inside out.
“Poor guy,” Diana said. “Gosh, an artist and a writer, you guys are like the ultimate creative power couple.”
“I don’t really make my own art,” I said. “Thankfully for everyone, I figured out early that I’m way better at working with other people’s. I had to do those studio classes in college as part of the major.”
“I didn’t know you were an artist, Care,” said Neil.
“I’m not!”
“What was your medium?”
“Mediocrity,” I said, and he rolled his eyes at me.
“Look. This woman is a real artist,” I said to Diana, gesturing at the framed piece that hung at the end of the dining table, a collage of thickly textured musical notes printed in dark red over sheet music. “This is Farren Walker. She’s a local artist who works in mixed media and high-texture printmaking.”
“I have no idea what you just said,” said Diana.
As I explained a bit about Farren’s innovative techniques, I carefully avoided looking at Neil. I had mounted a campaign last year to have Farren and her work featured in a demonstration residency at the museum—a campaign that had been shot out of the sky by my boss, Tom, the museum director. Neil, I recalled, had given it all a regretful side-eye. Despite her engaging personality, Farren—and her lack of national media or gallery attention—were not Neil’s cup of tea.
But maybe they might be Diana’s. And Farren was worried about her mortgage payments.
“The amazing thing about Farren,” I told Diana, “is she’s sixty-six years old, and she only started making art seriously about five years ago. She used to work at a T-shirt screen-printing place over in North Adams, and she kept wondering what would happen if she could make screens with some rigidity to them, so they could be used with a thick paint that builds up texture, instead of only the flat ink. Anyway, she’s phenomenal. You’d like her a lot.”
“I’m sure I would,” said Diana, but I knew a polite Sure, whatever you say when I heard it.
“It’s a special point of focus for MASS MoCA to highlight a diverse group of artists,” I said. “We believe that contemporary art is more than just a bunch of middle-aged white guys and Basquiat.”
It was true—the museum did take diversity seriously, as did I personally, in my curatorial work—but as I said it to Diana it sounded awkward and limp, the verbal equivalent of an admissions catalog cover featuring an artfully multicolored group of friends lounging under a tree. Obvious bait for a woman highlighted in national media as the leading Latina entrepreneur of her generation.
“She’s right about that,” said Neil without missing a beat. “And, by the way, Caroline didn’t just hire a preppy black guy from central casting to show up here today; I really do run the development office.”
For an instant I thought my helpless who
osh of laughter was just a little too grateful, until I spotted Diana’s grin. Diana’s wholly genuine grin. But despite my hope that Neil’s brilliant save might tip us into a productive conversation, by the time Diana got to her feet to head back to the city, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the meeting had not gone exactly as I had hoped.
When I said as much to Neil, who was tracing shapes on my counter with his empty beer bottle, he shook his head.
“It takes time. It’s unusual to be able to create a connection right away. We’ll leave her be for a while and then follow up.”
“Whatever you think is best. I’m happy to be involved where you think it’s useful, but you’re still Schmoozer in Chief. At least as far as this operation is concerned.”
“Well, consider yourself relieved of duty, if you want. It was great to have you help establish the relationship with her, but I can take it from here. Thank you again for all your efforts.”
I folded my arms over my chest and threw my weight into one hip. “Are you kicking me off the mission?”
“Just giving you an out,” Neil said, smiling. “I know this wasn’t exactly your thing.”
I planted my palms on the counter menacingly. “No, sorry, you’re stuck with me. Jason Voorhees doesn’t give up on his prey after a minor setback like a spear to the face.”
“Or getting pumped full of buckshot by a doomed cop,” Neil said, cocking his beer bottle at me like a pistol.
I snatched it from him and tossed it into the recycling bin under the sink, but halfway to the fridge for another one, I paused. I was having fun talking with him, but the guy didn’t necessarily want another beer; he’d been nursing the one I just threw out since after the late brunch we’d shared with Diana. It was a Sunday afternoon, he’d been working all day, and the only thing he could possibly want was to get back home to his kids. And maybe catch the end of the football game.
“For real, though,” I said, turning to face him again. “I’ve been enjoying this more than I expected to. I’d like to see it through to the end, whatever that will be.”
“Deal,” he said, popping up his hand to shake on it. “And by the way, I called this. I thought the challenge would get its hooks in you.”
And he was right: I wasn’t ready to be rid of Diana Ramirez just yet.
18
•
Beauty one could get to know and fall in love with in one hour and cease to love it as speedily; but the soul one must learn to know.
—Leo Tolstoy to Valeria Arsenev, November 2, 1856
The Monday after Diana’s visit passed without event, but on Tuesday afternoon as I was getting ready to leave work, Neil called my desk line.
I pounced aggressively on the phone. “Did you hear from her?”
“No. I was checking to see if you did.”
“You told me it was going to take a while!”
“Yeah, but I was still hoping you might have heard something. Hope springs eternal blah blah blah.”
“I know, I know,” I laughed. “Me too. But I figured I’d give her till next week and then check in.”
“That sounds like a plan. Hey, listen,” he said, and suddenly I was certain that whatever he was about to say had been the actual reason for his call all along. “This might be too soon for you to consider it, and if it is, then ignore me. But…would you ever feel like grabbing a drink after work sometime?”
I stared at the phone console in confusion, as though it were responsible for clarifying to me what exactly had happened. Did he just ask me out?
He gave a nervous half laugh. “Caroline?”
“Sorry,” I said, struggling to recover. “Uh, sorry, you kind of caught me by surprise.”
“No worries,” he said instantly. “No worries at all. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that. Forget I said it. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Have a good night.”
The line clicked off. As I sat there holding the receiver for a good twenty seconds, staring witlessly at my computer screen, I was increasingly sure that, at the advanced age of thirty-three, I had just been asked out by a fully grown adult man for the very first time in my life. And I was also increasingly sure that I had whiffed it. My dad, no doubt, would have had some sort of on-point metaphor involving a wide receiver and a football. But any way you chose to phrase it, I had definitely screwed it up.
Neil from Development! Had asked me out! It was just so unexpected. I mean, I had recognized in the abstract that, since I’d released myself back into the wild after Adam’s defection from the Vagina Republic, some sucker might eventually decide that I and my naked left hand were of interest. I just had never imagined that it would happen so soon. Or that it would be Neil who showed the interest.
And yet, I thought, he had. Rank novice though I was, even I could identify that. And I had—what had I done? Confessed that he’d completely startled me, and let him hang up before I even considered the question of whether “grabbing a drink” with him was something that held any appeal. So, I considered it now.
On the one hand, it had never even occurred to me. I’d always vaguely registered him as a good-looking guy—he had the easy smile and relentless symmetry of an L.L. Bean model, with smoky green eyes that popped against his hazelnut-brown skin—but I’d never noticed him That Way, because why would I? But I’d really enjoyed his company the other day, and throughout this whole Diana escapade for that matter. His mild personality invited me to relax when I was around him. And best of all, he’d barely known me, let alone Adam, before any of the shit had hit my personal fan. Which meant that I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be required to talk about it at all.
Not stopping to think twice, I dialed his extension.
“What’s up?” he said, sounding friendly.
“So before…you didn’t give me a chance to answer.”
“Oh! I’m sorry. Then let me ask you again. Caroline, would you ever feel like grabbing a drink after work sometime?”
“Yes, Neil, I would. That sounds lovely.”
“Cool,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice.
We decided on Thursday. I refused to let myself think about it as anything out of the ordinary; it certainly wasn’t anything romantic, just a drink at a cocktail bar around the corner from the museum.
But I was surprised at how much I was looking forward to it. And then surprised again, by how much I enjoyed it.
“I promise not to talk about work if you don’t,” Neil said as soon as we sat down, and it was easy to stick to it. He was full of questions that delved deeper than Caroline 101, in a way that was perceptive but not intrusive (“Five years sounds like a tough gap for sisters—are you close?”), and I liked everything I learned about him in return. He’d lived in New England his whole life: grew up in Vermont, went to college in Connecticut (yes, Yale; no, he hadn’t known Adam; and no, he did not still have the umbrella), grad school in Boston.
“Which makes you a Red Sox fan,” I said. “That’s deplorable.”
“You’re a Queens girl; you like the Mets, not the Yankees.”
I shook my head. “Doesn’t matter. It’s still deplorable. Any self-respecting New Yorker hates the Red Sox.”
“Well, I’m sorry to break it to you, but you’re living in enemy territory.”
“Don’t remind me,” I grumbled. “The goddamn Red Sox and the stupid Pats.”
“Hey!”
“Oh come on. I do, actually, like the Giants, but even if I didn’t, it wouldn’t matter. The entiiiiiiiiire nation despises the freaking Patriots.”
“Because they’re jealous,” he muttered, stretching back in his seat and crossing his arms over his chest as though the matter was closed.
I grinned. I was flirting with him. And I liked it. I liked him. And the more I liked him, the more I liked his full lips and his pretty eyes and his voice that ran over me like cool water on a hot day. I was a little bummed when, a few minutes later, he signaled the bartender for our tab.
<
br /> “I gotta get home to the girls,” he explained. “My neighbor has them for a play date, and I don’t want to keep her waiting.”
“How old are they again?”
“Annie’s almost three, Clara’s five.”
“Cute,” I said, straining to remember if I had ever met the girls at a museum event, but coming up blank.
“I had fun hanging out with you,” he said as we folded ourselves into our coats. Getting ready to go outside in Massachusetts in November takes long enough that you can start and finish a whole new branch of conversation while it’s happening.
“Me too,” I said.
“Maybe dinner next week?”
“Sure. Sounds good.”
“Cool,” he said again. “It’s a plan.”
At the exact same second I said, “It’s a date,” and then I closed my eyes, willing the appalling social hiccup away. But when I opened them again, he was smiling like he’d just discovered an unexpectedly good toy in his Cracker Jack box.
“Yes,” he said, and pushed the door open for me with one leather-gloved hand. “It is.”
•
The prospect of my first real adult date threw me for more of a loop than I could admit without shame. Only a combination of pride and indignation kept me from recruiting Ruby for help. Despite her promises, she had evaporated after her return to New York. “Look nice and be yourself” was Jonathan’s helpful contribution. Because yes, I’d been desperate enough to ask him for advice. I didn’t really want to think about the fact that, seeing as my last romantic interaction with a man involved throwing myself at my best friend of fifteen years because I was so freaking desperate to feel desirable to someone, it might be too soon for me to start dating. But this wasn’t even “dating” yet, it was just “a date.” Big difference.
And so I focused on my clothes: Should I be casual and cute in jeans and a nice top? Or should I make more of an effort? We were only going to dinner at a new restaurant that had opened in North Adams a few weeks before; I didn’t want to overdo it. Finally I decided that if Neil had thought I was pretty enough to ask out in my work outfits, I might as well stay in my comfort zone—with maybe just a little hint more boob.
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