My heart races as I excuse myself and make my way into the small upscale gift shop adjoining the restaurant where the ladies' room is positioned. With my clutch in sweaty hand, I am perfectly aghast at myself, as if I'm watching one of those idiotic women in a horror movie-the kind who, upon hearing a disturbing noise late at night, decides that rather than calling 911, it makes a lot of good sense to go tiptoeing barefooted in the heavily wooded backyard to investigate. After all, there might not be an axe murderer lurking, but there are certainly clear and present dangers here, too. Margot or Stella could, at any moment, catch me in the act. Or Andy could, for the first time ever, decide to skim my cell phone bill when it arrives at month's end and inquire who in Queens I felt the sudden need to contact right in the middle of our family dinner in Atlanta.

But, despite such obvious pitfalls, here I foolishly am, holed up in yet another bathroom, urgently debating whether to call Leo back or merely text him. In what feels like a moral victory, I decide to tap out a hurried message with two rapid, eager thumbs. "Hi. Got your message. What's up?" I type, hitting send before I can change my mind or dwell on my word choice. I close my eyes and shake my head.

I feel simultaneously relieved and appalled at myself, the way an addict must feel after that first sip of vodka, emotions that are amplified a few seconds later when my phone vibrates and lights up with Leo's number. I pause just outside the restroom, pretending to admire a display of pottery for sale in the shop. Then I take a deep breath and answer hello.

"Hi!" Leo says. "It's me. Just got your text."

"Yeah," I say, pacing and nervously glancing around. Now, in addition to the possibility of getting caught by Margot or her mother, I am exposed to any of the male members of my family who could be making a trip to the nearby men's room.

"How are you?" Leo says.

"I'm fine," I say tersely. "But I really can't talk now… I'm at dinner… I just… I just wondered what you had to 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.