Talk about awkward. Not only had I unknowingly stepped in on some date, but now Mom and Jim were trying to negotiate my business dealings.
Mom tsked. ?Poor woman! Murdered on a dinner cruise. And her little ones, left behind. What a tragedy!?
I took another swig of wine. This time smaller, more sip-like. This was more like it. The Chianti tasted fruity and smooth. ?Oh. The victim wasn?t a mom.?
Galigani and Mom stared at me.
?What do you mean?? Mom asked. ?I thought she was running that mommy group you were joining.?
?She was but she didn?t have any children,? I said.
Mom frowned. ?What on earth was a woman without kids doing in a mothers? group??
Dinner turned out to be fabulous. Galigani served fettuccini with a light garlic cream sauce that he claimed had been approved by his cardiologist. We debated back and forth about a woman we didn?t know and the potential motivation to be involved in a mommy group when you weren?t one.
We came up with a pretty paltry list.
We drank wine and laughed a lot, and thankfully Laurie snoozed in the middle of Galigani?s king-size bed, surrounded by giant pillows to prevent her from falling off. No one seemed to care that Laurie, at only seven weeks, still could not roll over. Somehow, the possibility of her falling off the bed still loomed.
After dinner while getting our coats, I finally summoned my courage. ?So, um . . . Galigani, what do you think about my using your license??
Galigani looked confused. ?What do you mean, licenses aren?t transferable.?
?But I could work under yours, right? Like working for you??
?No. I?m sorry. I?d have to supervise you, and right now I just don?t have the energy for that. Not so soon after my surgery anyway.?
CHAPTER SEVEN
To Do:
1. Call Margaret and give her directions to cafe.
2. Prep contract for her.
3. Figure out how to land her without license.
4. Buy baby keepsake book.
5. 
Stretch out lower back.
6. Look up postpartum yoga classes.
I snuggled Laurie into the baby carrier and walked down the street toward the cafe where Margaret and I had agreed to meet.
As I passed my neighbor?s house, their seventeen-year-old son, Kenny, was leaping down the front steps.
?Kate! Let me see the baby!?
Kenny had spiky hair that was dyed green. He?d graduated from the School of the Arts a few months prior and was now auditioning like crazy with his trombone.
I folded down the flap on the baby carrier and let Kenny take a peek.
He peered over the carrier. ?She looks exactly like Jim, but she?s cute.?
?Jim?s cute, too.?
?Only to you, Kate.?
I laughed.
?Whenever you need a babysitter, just let me know,? Kenny said.
?Right. When was the last time you washed your hands, Kenny??
He looked at his hands. ?Dunno.?
?Are you going to the cafe?? I asked.
Kenny and I often enjoyed a game of backgammon or chess together at the cafe. He nodded and fell into step with me. As we walked, he pulled his iPod from his pocket and began to untangle the cord of the earphones.
?How?s the auditioning going?? I asked.
He held his hand in the position of a high-five. ?You?re looking at the new substitute trombonist for the SF Opera.?
I whooped and gave him a high-five. ?Knew you could do it. I?m so proud. Are you going to dye your hair back??
Kenny?s eyes opened wide and his hand shot up to his hair as though I were threatening to cut it. ?Back to what??
?Your natural color. They?re not going to let you play in the orchestra pit like that, are they??
