Free The Up and Comer by Howard Roughan

wanted to know if we'd like to get together with her and Daddy this Sunday out at their place for brunch."
    I stopped myself. The thought of driving out to Greenwich to spend the afternoon with my in-laws usually had me trying to drum up some excuse — work-related more often than not — as to why I couldn't make it. As it was, though, the chance for a seamless segue was too good for me to pass up.
    "Sure, sounds good," I said casually. "Hey, you know, speaking of getting together, it's been a while since we've done that with Connor and Jessica, hasn't it?"
    "I don't know, I think so," Tracy said. "Will you get me the Gorgonzola out of the fridge?"
    I got up off the stool and walked over to the Sub-Zero. I got her the Gorgonzola. "Tell you what, why don't you call them and see if they're around tomorrow night?" I said.
    "Too short notice," replied Tracy. "Besides, I thought just you and me would do something."
    "How about Saturday night, then?"
    "We've got that party at the Wagmans."
    "What about next weekend?"
    "Okay, sure," Tracy said with a shrug. "I'll check with Jessica."
    And like that, I had employed my new tactic. It was remarkably simple. If I couldn't resume my affair on my own, the least I could do was enlist the help of my wife, right?
    Man, was I playing with fire.
    Tracy's dinner turned out to be an almond-crusted pork tenderloin with dried cranberry-apple conserve, courtesy of Cooking Light. Surprisingly pretty good. Apparently after every recipe in the magazine they listed the calories and other pertinent data for the health conscious, such as fat, protein, and carbohydrates. As we were eating, Tracy delighted in telling me what all the corresponding grams and milligrams were. The ridiculous thing, of course, was that afterward, we proceeded to devour a pint of Haagen-Dazs butter-almond. Passing the container and an oversized spoon back and forth to each other in front of the television, we engaged in no discussion of nutritional information.
     
    * * *
     
    The following night found Tracy and me at Barocco down on Church Street. I liked it because of the food (Italian). Tracy liked it because it attracted a lot of artsy types. Black clothing, rimless eyeglasses, foreign accents. Between people-watching, she filled me in on her day, the bulk of which was spent looking at pictures of potential houses to rent out in the Hamptons. All I really wanted to know was whether or not she had talked to Jessica about having dinner. I didn't want to ask and appear overly anxious, so I waited patiently for her to tell me... and waited… and waited. Finally, while our plates were being cleared, she got around to it.
    "Did I tell you that I spoke with Jessica today?" she asked.
    "I don't think so."
    Tracy started to giggle. She did that when she had good gossip, or "whisper," as she often called it.
    "What's so funny?" I asked.
    "Promise me first that you won't say anything back to Connor."
    "I promise," I said.
    "No, really, you can't say anything because Jessica would kill me."
    "I won't say anything," I said slowly, trying to achieve the right measure of trustworthiness.
    Feeling properly assured, she began: "It was the strangest thing. I called Jessica to see about getting together with them for dinner next weekend like you and I talked about, and there's this long silence from her; I thought maybe we got disconnected or something. She ends up telling me that they already have plans. No problem, I tell her. We'll do it another time.
    "So we start talking about other stuff, her job and whatnot, and I end up asking her how things are with Connor. That's when there's this second long silence. At this point I'm thinking that maybe something's wrong, so I ask her."
    "What'd she say?"
    Tracy giggled some more. "Let me put it this way: I don't think there's anything wrong."
    "Why? What do you mean?"
    Tracy was about to tell me when we were interrupted by our waiter brandishing a breadcrumb remover. It was the kind that looked