We saw plenty of pictures of Jeff’s new dog, the ineptly named Korky, a Great Dane with a disturbingly large penis. We saw pictures of his new car—a Mercedes-Benz SUV—and his new house, a 1920s Spanish villa-looking structure, red tile roof, once home to none other than Zsa Zsa Gabor. It was your typical movie-star mansion. What was atypical was that it belonged to someone we knew.

“It’s just a house,” Jeff said with humility. “It doesn’t make a person happy.”

I wasn’t sure if he believed that to be true.

Tim listened intently, appearing fascinated by everything Jeff Slade had to say. On several occasions, during our Jeff-dominated conversation, Tim found a way to segue in my direction—from a discreet mention of my work to what the boys were like and how we enjoyed life in the Heights. Later, Tim became so frustrated that he out-and-out bragged about the grants Bruno and I were going to give away. Of course, Jeff countered that he’d been recently approached by Make-A-Wish, which caused Tim to snap and say, “But Kate is actually doing something . . .”

I reached under the table and squeezed Tim’s knee.

It was that kind of night. Annoyed one moment, relieved the next. But it went well, considering, and it probably would have continued going well if it weren’t for a cell phone. When it rang, Jeff flipped open the receiver and pushed talk only to realize he and I had the same ring.

Digging through my purse, I found my phone. The caller ID was flashing our home number, and I answered. Pearl, our babysitter, sounded worried. Teddy had come down with a fever, and while she was taking his temperature, he’d thrown up all over his pajamas. I asked if he was all right, and she said, “He’s doing fine, considering,” and that he was asking for Daddy.

I told her I’d be right home.

TIM

TIM