Love the one youre with

ask me?'

'Well,' Leo says, pausing, as if for dramatic effect. 'It's sort of a long story.'

I sigh, thinking that, of course, Mr. Cut-to-the-Chase suddenly has a long-winded proposition for me.

'Give me the short version,' I say, feeling desperate for some sort of clue. Is it as frivolous and contrived as a question about his camera? Or as serious as whether I am the culprit for an STD he picked up along the way? Or is it something in between?

Leo clears his throat. 'Well… it's about work,' he says. 'Your work.'

I can't help smiling. He has seen my photos after all. I knew it.

'Yeah?' I say as breezily as possible while I tuck my clutch under my perspiring arm.

'Well… Like I said, it's sort of a long story, but…'

I walk up the few steps to the dining area, and cautiously peer around the corner into the dining area, seeing that my family is still safely seated. The coast is clear for a few more seconds, at least. I duck back to safety, making a 'get on with it' hand motion. 'Yes?'

Leo continues, 'I have a potential portrait gig for you… if you're interested… You do portraits, right?'

'Yeah, I do,' I say, my curiosity piqued ever so slightly. 'Who's the subject?'

I ask the question, but am fully prepared to turn him down. Say I have plenty of jobs lined up in the weeks ahead. That I have a booking agent now and don't really have to scrounge around for random work. That I've made it-maybe not in a big way-but in a big enough way. So thanks for thinking of me, but no thanks. Oh, and one more thing, Leo? Yeah. Probably better not to call me anymore. No hard feelings, all right? Toodle-oo.

I will say it all in a rush of adrenaline. I can taste the satisfaction already.

And that's when Leo clears his throat again and throws down a trump card. 'Drake Watters,' he says.

'Drake Watters?' I say, in stunned disbelief, hoping that he's referring to another Drake Watters-other than the ten-time Grammy-winning legend and recent nominee for the Nobel Peace Prize.

But, of course, there is only one Drake.

Sure enough, Leo says, 'Yup,' as I recall my high school days, how I sported a Drake concert T-shirt to school at least once a week, along with my pegged, intentionally ripped, acid-washed jeans and Tretorn sneakers covered with black-Sharpie peace signs. And although I haven't been a big fan of his since then, he certainly remains on my elite list of 'Icons I'd Kill to Photograph,' right up there with Madonna, Bill Clinton, Meryl Streep, Bruce Springsteen, Queen Elizabeth, Sting, and, although he's really not in the same league as the others and for perfectly shallow reasons, George Clooney.

'So what do you think?' Leo says with a hint of flippant smugness. 'You interested?'

I softly kick a floorboard, thinking that I hate Leo for tempting me like this. I hate myself for folding. I almost even hate Drake.

'Yeah,' I say, feeling chagrinned, defeated.

'Great,' Leo says. 'So we'll talk about it more later?'

'Yeah,' I say again.

'Monday morning work for you?'

'Sure,' I say. 'I'll call you Monday.'

Then I hang up and head back to the table where I harbor a brand-new secret while feigning wild enthusiasm for my spiced cardamom flan with candied kumquats.

eleven

Monday morning comes in a hurry as is always the case when you're not quite sure how to play your hand. Since Saturday night, I have been all over the map with my Leo-Drake strategy-everywhere from never calling Leo back, to telling Andy everything and making him decide about the shoot, to meeting Leo face to face to hear all the exciting details of the biggest assignment of my life to date.

But now, as I pause at the door of our apartment after kissing Andy good-bye for the day, with Drake's mesmerizing voice in my head, singing 'Crossroads,' a song about the disastrous aftermath of one unfaithful evening, I know what I must do. I turn and run across the family room, sliding over to the window in my fluffy purple socks for a final glimpse of my husband descending the stairs of our building and striding along the sidewalk in his handsome three-quarter-length navy overcoat and cashmere, red-plaid scarf. As he disappears toward Park Avenue, I can make out his profile and see that he is cheerfully swinging his briefcase at his side. It is this fleeting visual that solidifies my final decision.

I walk slowly back to the kitchen and check the clock on the stove. Nine-forty-two-plenty late enough to phone anyone. But I stall anyway, deciding I need coffee first. Our coffee maker broke a few weeks ago, and we don't own a kettle, so I bring a mug of tap water to a boil in the microwave and rifle through the cabinet for a jar of instant coffee, the kind I watched my mother make every morning. I gaze back at the familiar gentleman on the Taster's Choice label, marveling that he used to seem so old to me. Now he seems on the young side-early forties at most. One of time's many sleights of hand.

I unscrew the cap and stir in two heaping teaspoons, watching the brown crystals dissolve. I take a sip and am overcome with a wave of my mother. It really is the little things, like instant coffee, that make me miss her the most. I consider calling Suzanne-who can sometimes ease these pangs by simple virtue of the fact that she is the only one in the world who knows how I feel. For although we had very different relationships with our mother-hers was often turbulent as she inherited my mother's stubborn gene-we are still sisters who prematurely lost our mother and that is a powerfully strong, permanent bond. I decide against calling her, though, because sometimes it works the other way, too, and I can end up feeling even sadder. I can't afford to go down that road right now.

Instead, I distract myself with the Style section of the Times, leisurely reading about the new leggings trend that Margot predicted last year, while I sip my stale-tasting coffee, wondering how my mother stood it for all those years. I then make the bed, finish unpacking our duffel bag, organize my sock drawer, then Andy's, brush my teeth, shower, and dress. Still not feeling quite ready, I alphabetize the novels on my bookshelf by author's last name, a project I've been meaning to undertake for ages. I run my fingers over the neatly aligned spines, feeling a rush of satisfaction, relishing the underlying order despite the chaos in my head.

At eleven-twenty-five, I finally bite the bullet and make the call. To my simultaneous relief and frustration, Leo doesn't answer, and I go straight to his voicemail. In a rush of adrenaline, I give the speech that I've pieced together over the past thirty-six hours, while at church and brunch with the Grahams, then afterward as we casually drove around Buckhead looking at more homes for sale, then on our uneventful flight home.

The gist of my spiel is that a) I'm impressed that he has a Drake Watters connection (why not throw him a harmless bone?), and b) very appreciative that he thought of me for the job, and c) would be positively thrilled to take the assignment, but d) don't feel 'entirely comfortable with the notion of a renewed friendship and think it's best if we not go there.' At the last second, I excise e) 'out of respect to my husband,' as I don't want Leo to think he is in the Brad 'You're so fine you bug my husband' Turner category, rather than the Ty 'You're so harmless that it's fine to yuck it up with you in my backyard' Portera category.

I hang up, feeling relieved, and for the first time since seeing Leo weeks ago, nearly lighthearted. The call might not be closure in the classic sense of the word, but it is still closure of some sort, and more important, it is closure on my terms. I called the final shot. Which is even more meaningful given that I had the perfect excuse-Drake Watters for goodness' sake-to meet Leo, jollily chat him up, and even segue into a more somber conversation about 'what really happened between us, anyway?' But I turned down the opportunity. Slammed the door on it, in fact. Not because I can't handle a friendship with Leo, but because I simply don't want one. End of story.

I imagine Leo listening to the message, wondering if he'll be crestfallen, a tad disappointed, or largely indifferent. No matter what, though, I know he'll be surprised that his power, once so all-encompassing, has dried up completely. He will surely take the hint-and his photo lead-elsewhere. And I will just have to live with the fact