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By Root 737 0

to listen to live music in the Village. Over the past few years, what with Charlie having kids and moving out to the suburbs, it had gotten harder to see each other, particularly without spouses. Their jobs were demanding; their interests had diverged. Amiable, affable Charlie had become a bit tense and distracted. He spent weekends, now, changing diapers and puttering around the house. His life had taken on the gravity of responsibility, which trumped petty outside interests. When Ben talked about a play he’d seen or a book he’d read or even an article in The New Yorker—anything more taxing than the sports page—Charlie would shake his head. “I’m living under a rock,” he said once. “I can’t think of the last time I went to a show or finished a book. It’s all-work, all-kids these days.”

Not that there was anything wrong with that. Ben envied Charlie’s transition to parenthood, the way he talked about his children with wonder and puzzlement and something verging on awe.

Ben caught Claire’s eye across the room and raised his empty glass in a tacit offer to refill hers. She smiled and shook her head, almost imperceptibly, then gave him a playful grimace no one else could see— Here I am, soldiering through.

“You and Claire simply must get down to Bluestone to visit,” Martha Belle was saying. “I know y’all have a lot going on, but it has been a while, hasn’t it?” She nudged him with her elbow. “And Lucinda is dying to have some grandchildren. She says she doesn’t want to put pressure on you, but I think a little pressure can do wonders.”

“Martha Belle, you are too much,” Ben said. “But you don’t have to convince me. Claire is going down there on her book tour, so you might raise it with her then.”

“Well, maybe I will,” she said, raising her eyebrows with a significant pause, as if all had become clear.

Ben clasped her hand. “It’s been a pleasure. I want to see those dioramas one of these days.”

“I look forward to showing them to you,” she said, beaming. “I know you need to mingle. Go, go!” She shooed him away with plump, fluttering fingers.

Ben made his way over to the bar, in search of the elusive blue martini and the ill-at-ease Alison Granville. He found both.

“Oh, Ben!” Alison said, with obvious relief. “It’s lovely to see you.”

He took a martini from the bartender and kissed Alison on the cheek. “Lovely to see you, too,” he said. “I’ve been trying to get over here since you walked in.”

“I saw you with Martha Belle. She always scared me a little when we were kids. She’s so—energetic.”

Ben nodded. “She’s the manic to Lucinda’s depressive. Have you heard about those dioramas?”

“Oh, yes. In fact, I’ve seen one or two. They’re quite impressive.”

“I’m sure they are.” Though Ben and Alison had little in common, and he couldn’t remember a time he’d ever been with her alone, having a shared knowledge of Claire’s world gave their exchanges an easy familiarity. “You look wonderful,” he said.

“Do you think so? I feel a little—dowdy,” she said. “It’s hard to keep up with you city slickers. And I’m sure I have kid goo on my pants somewhere.”

“So that’s what that is,” he said. “Everyone was talking.”

She gave him a smile. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Where have you been lately? I haven’t seen you in months.”

“I know,” she said.

“Anything new?”

“I’ve been doing some freelance work. Not much, to be honest. I know it sounds ridiculous, but with the kids and everything—”

“It doesn’t sound ridiculous,” he said. “It sounds nice, actually.”

“It is. It is nice.” She tilted her glass to take a sip, but it was empty.

“You need another drink,” he said. He took the glass out of her hand and set it on the table.

The bartender handed her another martini. “Thanks,” she said. She took a sip and turned back to Ben. “It’s so funny that Lucinda’s kitschy cocktail has spawned all this.”

“The next big fad sweeping the nation,” Ben said in a radio announcer’s voice. “Bluuue martinis.”

“I doubt Claire would mind.”

“I wouldn’t either,” he said. “We have big plans, you know. We want to open a Blue Martini theme park, for adults.