Dolly All the Time(60)

“Genius,” Henry says, pouring me a bit more wine.

“I’m surprised I haven’t mentioned it,” I say. “It’s currently my favorite thing about my life.”

“Ouch,” Stewart says with a laugh. I love the sound of his laugh and the way it lightens his eyes, so I smile back at him in a way that certainly reassures our dinner partners that he’s my favorite thing about my life. I spear one of Stewart’s ravioli while I can.

Hillary raises her glass to me. “I feel so seen.” I nod like we’re comrades and raise mine back.

“How does this make you feel seen?” Nick asks. “Are you a biker?”

“No,” she says. “But I still hang on to small financial wins like that. Even after all these years and all this.” She gestures with her hand to the roasted vegetable napoleon and ice-cold Chablis. “My grocery store has BOGO on ground beef on Tuesdays, and as hard as I try, I can’t pass it up.”

“They do that because of Taco Tuesday,” I say, twirling my pasta. Everyone knows this, but I throw it out there anyway.

“What’s BOGO?” Stewart asks.

I can’t help but laugh. “Come on. It’s buy one, get one.” It’s not registering with him, and this makes me laugh harder. “Free. The get one is free.”

Stewart nods appreciatively. “That does sound like a good deal.”

“BOGO,” Henry says, like he’s trying the word out. “Buy one, get one.”

We’re all laughing now, including Henry, and Hillary confesses that her freezer is packed with single packages of ground beef because she can’t ever pass up a BOGO.

“Dad, we’ve got to get in on this,” Stewart says, laughing.

“I’m taking you to the grocery store on Tuesday,” I say. I rest my hand on his thigh, a gesture I haven’t made before. It’s intimate and I feel his muscles tense under his suit pants. I am about to pull it away when he places his hand on mine to keep it there.





Chapter 25





“I talked too much,” I say when we’re in the town car.

“You didn’t,” he says.

“The whole parking arbitrage thing was absurd.” I’m looking out the window.

“Kind of brilliant, actually.”

I smile at the window. “I know, it gives me so much joy. Your dad was kind of tough.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I was expecting a little pushback but not a total takedown of the project. You got him with the ice cream thing. So well played.”

“Well, it’s the truth. A guy who’s got a town named after him should have a little respect for the past. So what happens next?”

“Kramer’s ready to move forward, so we will,” he says. “I have an avalanche of work coming my way. Then there are details for the lawyers to iron out, but we’re good. And—”

“What?” I say. I turn to him and he’s looking at me.

“Thank you. For tonight.” He looks down at his hands and then back up at me. “You just have this way of making everything easier. Like I think I might be easier when you’re around.”

I open my mouth to joke about him not being easy at all when the car stops in front of his house. It’s a three-story brick mansion with six steps up to a black door under a white portico. The brass doorknob, I can tell from the curb, is an acorn.

I stop at the bottom of the steps. “Do you live here alone?” I ask. I could fit everyone I know in this house.

“Yes,” he says. “I grew up two blocks from here. My parents are still in that house, and Oscar and Busy are their neighbors. I’m the only one on this block. Big act of rebellion.” I look both ways down the tree-lined street. I imagine beautifully dressed little kids running down the sidewalks. It feels impossible that a child could get sick in a place like this.

Billy, the driver, follows us up the steps with our bags and leaves them in the dark foyer. Stewart flicks on a light and a wide staircase appears, carpeted in a navy-and-white geometric pattern. Beneath it is a round table, ebony, with a huge vase of lilies on it. Someone knew we were coming. The floors are light hardwood, wide planks and likely original to the house, but polished to a high shine. A living room is darkened to the left and to the right is a den, lined in bookcases.

“Can I?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says. He turns on the light, and it’s nothing like Eight Oaks or the traditional exterior of his house. Everything is casual, from the beige jute rug to the low, deep black sofa, perfect for lying down and watching a game. An antique wooden coffee table is the most formal thing in the room, but it’s covered in books and crossword puzzles torn recklessly from The Boston Globe. A pair of reading glasses sits next to a ChapStick.

“It’s a little messy,” I say. Above a stone fireplace is an oil painting of a city block, blurred as if it’s melting into the pavement below. I walk toward it so that I can see the brushstrokes. Something about it makes it seem like it’s alive.

“Helena cleans in here, but I ask her to leave my stuff. This is kind of where I unwind.”

“To the extent you ever unwind,” I say, eyes still on the painting.

He comes up behind me. “Have you been sucked in?” he asks.