“Are you inviting him on your show?” Bridget asked, excited about the possibility. Sterling and her sister collaborating, becoming friends.
Gwen made a gesture with her hands that said, Not so fast. “I don’t know yet,” she said. “It’s not up to me.”
Bridget was pretty sure that wasn’t true.
“Wait, fifty-six?” Gwen asked. “Didn’t you say he has a little kid?”
Bridget could feel Gwen slipping into interview mode, and she didn’t mind one bit; she was happy to share the details of her new relationship, the first serious one she’d had in years. “He has an eleven-year-old named Madison. And he gets along fantastically well with his ex-wife. They could write the book on co-parenting for divorced couples.”
“The ex must be young.”
“Thirty-something.”
“What’s Madison like?”
“I haven’t met her. Mallory thinks we should wait until the fall.”
“Mallory’s the ex?” Gwen made a face. “Is she controlling? Because that sounds a little controlling.”
She was controlling; there was no question about it. But she was also treating Bridget as though she were part of the patchwork family picture and, therefore, as someone who needed to be looped into plans, and Bridget appreciated that. “I like to think she sees me as…” She was going to say an experienced ally, but Gwen cut in.
“Are those pajama bottoms?”
Bridget looked down and patted herself on her thighs. “They’re sweatpants. I wouldn’t normally wear them out of the house, but I got zapped when I plugged my computer in an outlet today. I went to the ER to make sure I wasn’t dying.”
Gwen said, “I would have to be dead already before anyone could make me put on those pants. I would retire them before Sterling gets here.”
“But I love them,” Bridget said. She tended to get sentimental about her favorite things; the longer she had something, the longer she wanted to keep it.
Gwen took Bridget’s hand, pulled her up, and turned her around. “They make your butt look saggy.”
“I’ve had these since the kids were born.”
“I can tell,” she said. She took a sip of her milk. “I talked to Isabelle last week. I got confused about the time change, and I called her at three in the morning. You think she’s doing okay?”
“She’s adjusting,” said Bridget.
“Because she sounded exhausted.”
“At three in the morning?”
“Apart from that. She sounded… unwell.”
“She’s homesick,” Bridget said. “And she has a toothache.”
“What do you think’s going on with Dad?” Gwen said, lowering her voice. “Something’s up with him.”
“I had lunch with him a few weeks ago, and he seemed fine. He was talking about the controversy over the costume budget at the Metropolitan Opera and that embezzlement scandal with the orchestra in Santa Fe.” In fact, he’d been especially engaged throughout their tasting menu at Jean-Georges, asking Bridget personal questions about everything from her trio’s future with Caroline Lee to her relationship with Sterling. His interest had surprised Bridget.
“Did I tell you,” Gwen said, standing up and tying her sweatshirt loosely around her waist, “that I’m interviewing Mikhail Baryshnikov next week for the eightieth anniversary of the American Ballet Theatre.”
“Can you get Will an autograph?” Bridget said.
“I’ll see if I can introduce them,” Gwen said, sitting back down. “I had no idea Will liked the ballet.”
“He doesn’t especially,” said Bridget, “but after he got divorced, he found out that Baryshnikov didn’t believe in traditional marriage, and he joined the club.”
Gwen looked confused. “But Baryshnikov is married.”
“He betrayed the cause; Will has been disappointed in him ever since. You’ll have to tell us what he’s really like.”
“I’ve met him before,” said Gwen. “I don’t mean, like, I know him or anything. I only met him once when I was maybe fourteen or something. Dad had a performance, and Baryshnikov came backstage.”
“Big deal,” Bridget teased. “I was there when Elton John came backstage.”
“Braggart,” Gwen said, pushing her shoulder. “We should plan something sensational for Dad’s ninetieth.”
“I need to wait until I’ve seen our concert schedule,” Bridget said. “His birthday’s months away.”
“I can’t believe you got Caroline Lee to join your trio. I’ve tried to get her to come on my show, but she’s very hard to pin down.”
Bridget wouldn’t exactly say they’d “got” Caroline, since having her in the trio was on a trial basis, but she didn’t feel like explaining that Caroline was, in a sense, auditioning them. “Do you think Will and I are insane to have our whole future riding on the whims of a twenty-six-year-old?”
“I heard her interviewed on Terry Gross, and she sounded very mature. How does Sterling feel about you traveling so much?”
Bridget had to think. Travel was simply part of her job, so what could he have to say about it?
Before she could respond, the door to the kitchen swung open, and Marge, their nanny of two generations, housekeeper, and all-around fixer of forty years, came in with a Greek god of a man who was holding a portable massage table as easily as if it were a tote bag. He’d been instructed to remove his shoes, and Bridget admired his tanned, muscular feet. Edward’s homes, wherever they were, were shoes-off; he couldn’t abide the idea of the outside making its way in. When she was young, Bridget would wear her Stan Smiths in her bedroom of the family’s Park Avenue apartment as an act of rebellion.
Gwen greeted her masseur as Marge came over to ruffle Bridget’s already messy hair and give her a hug. She was a plump, short, direct woman who wasn’t into small talk. She was also the closest thing Bridget had to a mother since her own had died when she was a girl.
“How many people for dinner tonight?” Marge asked.
“Not me,” Bridget said.
Marge looked doubtful, saying, “You got a better offer?”
Gwen was openly disappointed. “Why can’t you have dinner with us?” she asked.
“Too much to do.” Bridget clapped her hands together. “I’m turning the loft in my house into a quiet, peaceful writing retreat.”
“Are you working on your memoir?” asked Marge wryly. “Am I in it?”
“Her boyfriend’s a novelist,” said Gwen.
“Marge met him already,” Bridget said.
“Oh, him,” said Marge with a shrug. “I forgot.”
“Oh, please,” said Bridget, thinking of Sterling’s piercing blue eyes and gruff voice. “Sterling is not forgettable.”
“Why’s he taking over Will’s loft?” said Marge. “What’s wrong with the desk in the living room?”
“The loft has a better view, more privacy, and its own bathroom,” she said. “Will won’t mind.” She took the last bite of her oatmeal cookie and swept up the crumbs. “Outstanding cookie.”