that is near-empty, its small round tables and little lamps suggesting a swing-era nightclub. They both order martinis, the house specialty: one cantaloupe and one peach.
What does Todd look like? Later Henry will describe him this way to Sheri Abrams, PhD: You know the short, redheaded boy in high school whose mother put creases in all his clothes? Clean-cut and very cute? Probably on the gymnastics team? Add thirty years and a few inches to the waist. Et voilà.
Denise is, of course, the men's first topic of conversation. Henry asks how they met, and Todd says, "I crashed a party she threw. No, I take that back. I went along to help the caterer, a friend; okay, maybe a boyfriend—that lasted a minute. But I was useless, all thumbs—ever try to pipe deviled egg filling out of a pastry bag?—so I took off my apron and joined the party. Eventually Denise noticed me and asked, 'Have we met?' I said, 'I came with the caterer, but he threw me out of the kitchen so I decided to console myself with a glass of your excellent champagne.' She didn't mind. In fact, she was very gracious. She introduced me to the guests of honor—her stepsons—as her new friend Todd and didn't miss a beat."
"I heard about that party," says Henry. "The boys had just been made partners."
"Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Ever have the pleasure?"
"Never."
"Not that I talked to either one of them, but my impression was: merchant princes who think they're Donald Trump Junior and Donald Trump Junior the Second. Ever meet the husband?"
"I did once. Socially." Henry raises his eyebrows above the rim of his glass. "Before I knew he was sleeping with my wife."
"Ouch. Sorry. But I have to say I didn't see what the attraction was, unless he cut a more dashing figure in his adulterous youth. Quite the gasbag, too. He gave an endless self-congratulatory toast to his new partners that was all about the boom in the box business. I sneaked out before he finished."
Henry confides, "You know, I'm sure, that he left everything to those boys."
"I most certainly did not know!"
"There was a pre-nup. Which Denise signed, then promptly suppressed. As you can imagine, she was back in touch with me with a vengeance."
"Not for money!"
"For advice. And—please note the irony of this—a shoulder to cry on."
"What about the daughter?"
"What about the daughter?" Henry asks carefully.
"Diana? Athena? Something mythological, right?"
Henry says only, "It's Thalia, who was one of the Muses. So, yes, mythological."
Todd leans closer, squints diagnostically. "And how should I characterize that expression on your face?"
Don't be tempted, Henry thinks. Don't start waxing euphoric and paternal.
"You can trust me," says Todd. "I mean that." His grin is gone, replaced with a gaze so solemn that the next thing Henry says is, "Thalia and I are reunited. You probably don't know that I adopted her when I married Denise, then lost her in the divorce."
"I didn't even know about you, let alone which child came from which husband and who was lost in the process."
"I was husband number two. Denise's first husband died when Thalia was a baby."
"Which makes her how old now...?"
"Twenty-nine." Henry smiles. "Which is all I can say unless I have your promise that what I tell you won't be reported to her mother."
Todd raises his right hand. "I solemnly swear that whatever you say to me, right now, or next week, or a year, or ten years from now, will stay between the two of us." Another solemn gaze goes straight to Henry's bloodstream. Immediately, Todd says, "Sorry. Tell me about the daughter."
"Thalia. She's great. I didn't have to go looking for her because she works at the salon where I have my hair cut."
"Who recognized who?"
"I saw her picture at Denise's and recognized her."
"And what's the confidential part I must never tell Denise?"
Henry, though still holding on to news of the misguided Hollywood arrangement, feels free to say, "We've been reunited. So far, seamlessly.
What does Todd look like? Later Henry will describe him this way to Sheri Abrams, PhD: You know the short, redheaded boy in high school whose mother put creases in all his clothes? Clean-cut and very cute? Probably on the gymnastics team? Add thirty years and a few inches to the waist. Et voilà.
Denise is, of course, the men's first topic of conversation. Henry asks how they met, and Todd says, "I crashed a party she threw. No, I take that back. I went along to help the caterer, a friend; okay, maybe a boyfriend—that lasted a minute. But I was useless, all thumbs—ever try to pipe deviled egg filling out of a pastry bag?—so I took off my apron and joined the party. Eventually Denise noticed me and asked, 'Have we met?' I said, 'I came with the caterer, but he threw me out of the kitchen so I decided to console myself with a glass of your excellent champagne.' She didn't mind. In fact, she was very gracious. She introduced me to the guests of honor—her stepsons—as her new friend Todd and didn't miss a beat."
"I heard about that party," says Henry. "The boys had just been made partners."
"Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Ever have the pleasure?"
"Never."
"Not that I talked to either one of them, but my impression was: merchant princes who think they're Donald Trump Junior and Donald Trump Junior the Second. Ever meet the husband?"
"I did once. Socially." Henry raises his eyebrows above the rim of his glass. "Before I knew he was sleeping with my wife."
"Ouch. Sorry. But I have to say I didn't see what the attraction was, unless he cut a more dashing figure in his adulterous youth. Quite the gasbag, too. He gave an endless self-congratulatory toast to his new partners that was all about the boom in the box business. I sneaked out before he finished."
Henry confides, "You know, I'm sure, that he left everything to those boys."
"I most certainly did not know!"
"There was a pre-nup. Which Denise signed, then promptly suppressed. As you can imagine, she was back in touch with me with a vengeance."
"Not for money!"
"For advice. And—please note the irony of this—a shoulder to cry on."
"What about the daughter?"
"What about the daughter?" Henry asks carefully.
"Diana? Athena? Something mythological, right?"
Henry says only, "It's Thalia, who was one of the Muses. So, yes, mythological."
Todd leans closer, squints diagnostically. "And how should I characterize that expression on your face?"
Don't be tempted, Henry thinks. Don't start waxing euphoric and paternal.
"You can trust me," says Todd. "I mean that." His grin is gone, replaced with a gaze so solemn that the next thing Henry says is, "Thalia and I are reunited. You probably don't know that I adopted her when I married Denise, then lost her in the divorce."
"I didn't even know about you, let alone which child came from which husband and who was lost in the process."
"I was husband number two. Denise's first husband died when Thalia was a baby."
"Which makes her how old now...?"
"Twenty-nine." Henry smiles. "Which is all I can say unless I have your promise that what I tell you won't be reported to her mother."
Todd raises his right hand. "I solemnly swear that whatever you say to me, right now, or next week, or a year, or ten years from now, will stay between the two of us." Another solemn gaze goes straight to Henry's bloodstream. Immediately, Todd says, "Sorry. Tell me about the daughter."
"Thalia. She's great. I didn't have to go looking for her because she works at the salon where I have my hair cut."
"Who recognized who?"
"I saw her picture at Denise's and recognized her."
"And what's the confidential part I must never tell Denise?"
Henry, though still holding on to news of the misguided Hollywood arrangement, feels free to say, "We've been reunited. So far, seamlessly.
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