His wife had become a homebody, but she wasn’t antisocial. She loved cooking and entertaining, welcoming friends into their six-bedroom Victorian farmhouse for gourmet feasts. Celeste was a significant asset when he had to schmooze clients or colleagues. She handled every detail with aplomb. Gabe’s only duty was to make sure the drinks and conversation kept flowing.

He turned his attention back to his laptop, where he was reading through a brief. Or trying to . . . His mind kept wandering back to Natalie. He’d hurt her, that night at the theater. He’d seen the sting in her eyes, sensed the pain in her rigid posture. She thought he was ashamed to be seen with her, but that wasn’t the case. The girl didn’t know he was married, didn’t know why he had to hide her from the prying eyes of the Weintraubs. After the show, he’d feigned a work emergency, hustled out the door of the theater before his old friends could spot him. Oleg had come when summoned, had delivered Natalie back to Brooklyn. Gabe had kept his distance since then, rattled by the near miss. Natalie would feel abandoned, rejected, insulted. It was unfortunate, but better safe than sorry.

Leaning back into the cream sectional sofa, he closed his eyes and massaged his temples. If Suze Weintraub had spotted him with his young mistress that night, she might have told Celeste. Then again, she might not have. The women hadn’t been close in years, and no one wanted to be the bearer of that kind of news. “I saw your husband at the theater with a sexy, younger woman.” If Suze cared for Celeste at all, she wouldn’t hurt her that way, especially given all his wife’s health struggles. If, somehow, Celeste had gotten wind of his date and confronted him, Gabe would have come up with an excuse: an extra ticket, a young associate, a client’s niece in from out of town. But he was sure the Weintraubs had not seen him with Natalie. As usual, luck was on his side.

“I’m leaving.”

He opened his eyes to see Violet. His tall, pretty daughter strode into the room, her hair pulled back from her face, a pouf of ponytail like a halo behind her. Her face was free of makeup and she was dressed in head-to-toe black. As usual.

Celeste looked up from her Ottolenghi tome. “I thought you were staying for dinner.”

“We don’t want to get stuck in traffic.”

“But I wanted you to see Manny and Judy. He hasn’t seen you since you were little.”

“I don’t even know them, Mom.”

“Where are you going?” Gabe ventured.

She didn’t look at him when she answered. “A poetry slam in Dix Hills.”

A poetry slam? Gabe would almost have preferred she go to one of her drug-fueled parties and get shot in the foot.

Celeste asked, “Is Fern reading?”

“She’s performing,” Violet corrected.

“What time is she on? You could say hi to Manny and Judy and leave after.”