Leif, already in the doorway, does not sit down, but stands his ground, his back stubbornly turned to his host and hostess.
Henry says, "I have to confess, I'm totally baffled. The corporate lawyer in me would say, 'This was a contract for six full months, so what happened? We never discussed or agreed to a trial period during which the company would assess whether its publicity goals were being met.'"
"Nice, dry point," says Thalia.
"On the other hand, when I see this through the eyes of a divorce lawyer—"
"Which you're not," says Thalia.
"I meant, as someone who has negotiated the breakups of many partnerships, there's always the personal side that needs to be addressed. And when it involves my daughter—"
"Miss Blabbermouth," says Leif. "Miss Kiss and Tell."
"Please turn around," says Thalia. "It's very annoying to talk to someone's back. And by the way, nice suit."
Nice suit! Henry watches Leif closely. He thinks,
However that strikes him, whatever expression I see on his face will tell me exactly what I need to know about Leif Dumont.
Leif does turn around in a manner that enlightens, in a manner that Henry will later describe to Todd as key. What he witnesses is a pivot and a smile—not a military about-face but a showman's spin—and without question it makes Thalia laugh.
D
ENISE SENDS HENRY
a cactus dish garden. The card accompanying it says, "9B officially mine. I'm very grateful. Love, Your Enemy. P.S. Can't people compartmentalize?"
He calls her and asks what her cryptic postscript means.
"First of all: Hello. I didn't know whether I'd ever hear from you again. And secondly, I thought it was obvious: There's me, there's you, there's the various satellites in our lives—"
"Do you mean your boyfriend?"
"And yours and Thalia's. No one's aiming for one big happy functional family or even one big Thanksgiving dinner. If you don't see what I see in Eddie, fine. He's sensitive to that. He can have a night out with the guys while I roast a chicken for you and your favorite child once in a while. Not every week. Not even once a month. Well, maybe once a month. And Todd, too. How is Todd?"
"Good," says Henry. "Very good."
"You're welcome, by the way: You two are my one successful fix-up in a lifetime of disastrous matchmaking. And I hope you know how lucky you are to end up with someone whom people like. That's not so easy to accomplish in this world. Believe me, I know that Eddie's no one's cup of tea except mine—and that's on a good day—but you remember what loneliness feels like, right? A warm body, and handy around the house? And get this: The mountains came to Mohammed. Can we still say that? I let the sons back into the apartment to get some of their childhood memorabilia, and the Picasso, which I never liked anyway. And the Crock-Pot, which Glenn Junior claimed his father wanted him to have. Of course I waited until the rooms were repainted—ironically by Public Enemy Number One, Eddie Pelletier."
Henry asks, "What did you have in mind, Denise? What format for reintegrating yourself? Just roasting a chicken once a month?"
"I'm starting small. Nothing big, because I know her value system, and I know she likes stuff from the junk heap."
"Such as?"
"I've had my eyes open, style- and taste-wise," Denise says. "I've made a thousand mistakes, but honestly, don't you think I'd be a fabulous personal shopper? You don't need a degree for that, or even experience outside your own closet."
"A garment, then?" he asks.
"I found it at a vintage store on Thompson Street, which, to start with, who shops in SoHo? I went there with a mission and came back with a pair of opera gloves, black velvet, past the elbow, with pearl buttons at the wrist, only one missing, very Bette Davis. I think they say
black-tie event at the Kennedy Center, circa the Eisenhower Administration
"
Henry doesn't comment or correct, except to ask, "Then what? How do you see a pair of gloves leading to a rapprochement?"
"Can you help me with that?" Denise asks. "I thought you'd come up with a really good line like, 'These had your name all over them.' Only better than that. Something a little more emotionally charged, with a little mea culpa thrown in."
Henry says, "I know it's not your style, but I would just send the gloves with a note that said, 'Thinking of you. Love, Mother.' Or 'Mom.' I can't imagine Thalia wouldn't respond, even if it's just a couple of words in an e-mail."
"I'll drop them off today! Albert Einstein loves a taxi ride through the park."
"Mail them," Henry advises. "First you might consider replacing the missing button."
"I did. It's in its own little envelope. It's not an exact match, but close enough. I hope she has an occasion to wear them. Oh, I just got a flash—they'd be the perfect accessory, something old, if she ever marries Count Dracula."
How much can he confide without betraying Thalia's trust? "I'd be very careful with that," he warns.
L
ILLIAN IS FINE
with Todd's moving to West 75th Street. She is hoping for a wedding or something comparable, whatever civil thing the state of New York allows between two men who constitute, in her opinion, a match made in heaven. She expresses relief, probably an untruth, over finally emptying her nest. "People were always shocked when I told them my adult son lived at home, especially when I mentioned your age. Now? You know what I say? 'He's closer to work, living in a beautiful place with his boyfriend, or should I use
partner?
I don't beat around the bush anymore, no matter what kind of person I'm telling. I say, 'He's very happy, which makes
me
happy. Aren't I lucky to have my only child seven blocks away?'"
Besides the obvious benefits of having Todd under the same roof, Henry has gained the taste, skill, and employee discount helpful in renovating a drab maisonette. Todd doodles on graph paper in his office, Williebelle's old room, working on a floor plan that borrows 750 square feet from the laundry room, to be integrated into Thalia's apartment. She needs more space.
Henry's initial reaction was dismay that a smart, sophisticated woman would be so careless, so cavalier, so unsafe in matters expressly and contractually proscribed. Call it good luck, good karma, or the gods smiling down on Henry Archer, but all is well, better than well: The careless parties were healthy, uninfected, and best of all, one of them was ovulating. After somber discussions over the course of two tense weeks about alternatives, Thalia invites Henry to her kitchen for takeout Indian food. The first sign of hope is the half gallon of milk he spots in her refrigerator. Then, as soon as he's seated, she excuses herself and returns with a wrapped package. "Here," she says, "knowing you, you'll want one of these upstairs." The paper is yellow and mint green, and nestled inside a Payless shoebox is a receiver for a baby monitor. For months to come, she threatens to call the baby Williebelle, regardless of sex. He's learned to smile and let it go.
Henry and Todd secretly confess their worries, admittedly superficial, that the baby will be long and lanky with a bony cranium and an undetectable sense of humor, but the first astonishing ultrasound is almost photographic, revealing a round face, beatific, in the way of Thalia's baby pictures. Once Leif ascertains that he is, indeed, the baby's father, he rings the doorbell, upstairs, and asks Henry and Todd for Thalia's hand in marriage.
"Absolutely could not say," Henry tells him. "But believe me, I deeply appreciate the gesture."
"Whatever happened with the Beverly Hills girlfriend?" Todd asks, serving drinks, then ordering in paninis as the three men get a little drunk discussing potential family configurations.
Leif says—employing irony, much appreciated and later quoted to Thalia—"It must be over. I was banished from her Facebook page."
"This Caitlin business didn't inspire great confidence in your judgment," says Henry.
"I totally agree," says Leif. "And not that I'm proud of it, but did you ever meet anyone who fixed what happened to you in high school—hot, out of your league, wouldn't have given you the time of day, then suddenly wants to be your girlfriend? Despite the little voice inside you saying, 'This is never going to work'? That's where Caitlin came from—my fifteen-year-old marooned-in-the-cafeteria self."
"Denise Wales for me," says Henry.
"Tyrone Sanborne for me," says Todd. "Who hasn't had that experience?"
"My parents want to meet Thalia," says Leif.
"That is adorable," says Todd. "And my mother is dying to meet you. Not to mention Denise, who claims to have unearthed Thalia's entire layette."
Henry says, "Gentlemen. It's early—"
"Fourteen weeks on Friday," Todd adds.
"As of now, Thalia isn't thinking in terms of future in-laws. She's very happy with the way things are."
"I know what you're not saying," says Leif. "She's not so much in love with me. But I don't think that's necessary on both sides, do you? I'm almost forty. I think I hit the jackpot. I think I can give our baby a home—"
Wrong word to use in front of Henry. "Thalia stays in New York," he says.
Thalia is, of course, the pregnant woman of the new millennium. She runs; she wears maternity clothes that might as well not be labeled as such because the bump is advertised, upholstered in clingy athletic fabrics, breasts proud. She works full-time until her water breaks.
Henry doesn't sue Estime on Thalia's behalf but finds Attorney Seth Shapiro, as predicted, ultimately sympathetic to the cause. Henry brings to the table a list of contract violations, ending with the big one: "Your client got my client pregnant, despite contractual prohibitions. We are not suing or asking for child support. We've come up with a resolution that is fitting and beyond reasonable."
"Such as?"
"Employment. Estime hires her."
"In what capacity?" asks the lawyer, pen in motion.
Henry is ready: Publicity! The perfect occupational match for Thalia's stellar communication skills, her personality, her ability to think on her feet. She will, through no fault of her own, need maternity leave in late February, the same generous few months that Attorney Michele Schneider seems still to be enjoying. Has the company ever had a publicist with an acting background? Invaluable in this field. And his personal guarantee: This is no prima donna. Between her acting gigs, she worked behind counters. Translation: No job or client beneath her dignity. The difficult and the spoiled? That can be her niche.
It takes several meetings, but eventually the terms of a settlement build from unpaid intern to assistant to junior publicist with an office, a health plan, a laptop, and a BlackBerry.
Most helpful to the advance of Thalia's career and Leif's profile is the fact that Caitlin is lashing out. She uploads her disappointments on YouTube, a forty-second virgin's lament, in a clingy tank top, naming names: Leif Dumont, award-winning actor, was stolen away by Thalia Nobody, implying
girl who steals a guy by going all the way.
It doesn't take long before a citizen journalist reports on
Gawker.com
that Leif and Thalia were seen on Sixth Avenue between 17th and 18th, "she in a cami, loose jeans, a hat, and sunglasses. Him in a Mets cap, and giving a dollar and a pack of gum to a homeless guy."
It spawns a blind item, Leif's first, on Page Six: "WHICH sitcom spook in town scouting locations for his new flick [untrue; Thalia's tip] and his NY publicist, allegedly friends, are actually more?" Quick study Thalia Archer posts a statement on her new MySpace page, denying the rumor that she, an employee of Estime, is violating company guidelines by dating a client. "This," she writes, "will be the last time I address this baseless allegation." Eleventh graders at Beverly Hills High School fight back, expressing their skepticism by employing epithets that MySpace blanks out. By the time Thalia's belly tells the story, The Superficial goes on record saying that the faux-mance between horror lothario Leif Dumont and Thalia Archer looks like the real thing after all.
Hidden behind the work of Hollywood makeup artists, is Leif a better actor than anyone knew? Thalia says yes, particularly after lunch with ex-teacher Sally Eames-Harlan, who claims to have advised him against taking the role of Boo in the sitcom, possibly the longest-running typecasting in the history of television. Thalia, with her new corporate American Express card, picks up the check.
"She told me he did Stanley in
Streetcar
" Thalia reports.
"He did not," says Todd.
"In college. And you know, once Sally told me that, I could see it."
"Interesting," says Henry.
"If not eloquent," Todd confirms.
At twenty-four weeks, Thalia assures Todd and Henry that she has enrolled in Lamaze classes, and okay, yes, she's taking Leif. "We've been to one. Show me a guy who's having his first kid at thirty-nine, and I'll show you a guy with his hand in the air the whole hour," she says.
"Henry was worried you'd ask
him
to be the birth coach," Todd tells her.
"Oh, he'd be just the guy I'd want down there." She raises her knees to a higher rung of the kitchen stool, suggesting stirrups in the delivery room. "'Wait, Henry! Where you going? The baby's out, but you'll miss the placenta!'"
"He'll be good at other things," says Todd.
So all that Estime wanted in the first place for Leif has come to pass, by accident or default, and for Thalia, too, not that the firm had her best interest, or any interest at all, at heart. Sometimes Henry wonders if there was some grand and brilliant scheme to get their client to where he is today: in blind items and in love.
The photo of Thalia leaving Lenox Hill Hospital twenty-four hours after giving birth shows Leif holding the baby, nearly un-detectable in swaddling in the cold March air. Not shown: the car waiting at the curb, Henry holding the door open and Todd already inside, pressing a tatting-edged flannel blanket into the hollows of the infant car seat. Back in the maisonette, the plywood cradle crafted by Eddie Pelletier—since painted, upholstered, and stenciled with moons and stars by Todd—stands ready in the planetary-themed nursery. Leif will tip the driver fifty dollars for the ten-minute drive across the park.
"Wow," the man says. "My lucky day. Girl or boy?"
"
Pink
receiving blanket?" Todd answers, and clucks his tongue.
"Don't tell my wife," says the driver. "Four boys is enough."
At West 75th Street, the suitcase and baby paraphernalia are quickly unloaded by the happy driver. "Photo? Sure thing," he says. "I can do photo. Digital? This button on top?"
The party stands in front of the house, Thalia holding the swaddled baby, Leif behind them, Henry on one side, Todd on the other.
"Athena Celeste Dumont, arriving home. Day one, take one," says Thalia.
"It's cold out here," says Henry. "She's never been exposed to the elements. We shouldn't dawdle."
"Closer," says the driver, "if you want everybody in the picture."
The group narrows and shrinks into the frame. The result will become the birth announcement, Photoshopped with an inset, a close-up of Athena, delicious baby.
Lillian calls this homecoming the second-happiest day of her life, and the baby girl, indisputably hers to spoil and borrow. Eventually Williebelle's white bedroom under the eaves will be her home.
Henry will be known as Grandpa, Todd as Papa Todd, and Denise will be known as Denise. She likes to remind Henry that he can draw a straight line between her and his unforeseen set of blessings. After all, if she'd been the flawless human being they all had craved, Thalia wouldn't have needed this improvised family. Though resistant for nine months, she has found two personal silver linings in her daughter's adventures: Albert Einstein has come into his own, growling custodially at strangers who get too close to his baby. And this plain fact, which she hopes has crossed more minds than just her own: If Thalia is this good at motherhood, could Denise the role model have been so bad?