“Anthony!” his mother said. “I’m so happy to hear from you. How are things in . . . where are you again?”

“Block Island,” he said. “And things are, well . . .” He couldn’t get it out. His parents were swimming in money, practically drowning in it, and yet he couldn’t say the three simple words: I need money. “Not so good.”

“Anthony?” said Dorothy. “Send me an address. I’ll be there tomorrow. I’ll bring lasagna!”

“No, Mom,” said Anthony. “Thank you, but . . . no. I don’t need any lasagna.”

“It might be good for us to spend some time together. There is something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. For a long time, really.” There was a pause. “It’s about your father. In a way.”

“About Dad? Is he sick?”

“Sick? No! Of course, the doctor is keeping an eye on his blood pressure, always, because of that nasty family history, but, no—nothing like that.” She cleared her throat. “Maybe this matter is better discussed in person. Maybe I should come there.”

Anthony closed his eyes. “No, Mom. I’m really not ready for visitors. I’m sort of . . .” He glanced at the decanter again. Rehabbing wasn’t the right word. Recovering? Re-something? He glanced at the clock. Nearly six-thirty, and he had to unearth the bike from the garage and stop by the grocery store for something to bring too. The last thing he felt like doing was eating some sort of pasta with a stranger. But he had said he’d be there, and it seemed like the least he could do was not let someone else down.

“Mom?” he said. “I have to go. I’ve actually got somewhere I need to be.”

“Well, imagine that!” said Dorothy. “A social life already!”

“It’s not exact—”

His mother interrupted him. “Off you go, then, my tale will keep for another day.”

He would get a bottle of wine for his hostess—a Sauvignon Blanc, maybe, or a Sancerre—and, as much as he’d want to partake, a bottle of Perrier for himself. For just one evening he’d pretend to be a regular guy with an almost-ex-wife and no kids.

So tonight he’d eat the artichokes—he’d choke them down if he had to. He’d sip a seltzer, make polite conversation, and he’d begin the long process of clawing himself back to humanity.

Chapter 16

JOY

IT HAD SEEMED like a harmless idea at the time—invite someone new to dinner—but now, released from the confines of the Jeep and faced with the realities of a stranger (and a man, and a nice-looking man, at that!) in her home, eating at her table, Joy began to feel very nervous.

She’d read Dinner by Dad’s blog post three times, smiling each read-through over his story of the origins of puttanesca sauce as a favorite of long-ago prostitutes who used the aroma to lure in customers. (Not a story for the kids! Leo had said with an electronic chuckle, and Joy imagined Leo sitting at his computer, shaking with private mirth.) She carved out the artichokes ahead of time, obviously, because who wanted to do that in front of guests, and by the time the doorbell rang she had the sauce simmering on the stove and the artichoke hearts boiling companionably on the burner next to them. The rest of the ingredients were prepped, sliced, whisked, measured, and awaiting their turn.