Seven
Rather than sit through the tedious Sunday morning brunch—and end up driving back in late afternoon traffic with the rest of the weekend suburbanites—Phelps and I headed back to Manhattan first thing in the morning. He seemed to have gotten over whatever I said to set him off the night before and I was over my momentary fit of jealousy. The three-hour drive passed quickly in pleasant conversation. When I pulled up in front of the Lower East Side tenement Phelps called home I felt like we had only just left Southampton.
He bounded from the car, grabbing his duffel from the back seat, and leaned back in the open window.
“You promise you’ll call,” he teased.
I smiled. “I think we have drinks scheduled Wednesday night at the Watering Hole.”
“I’m there,” he said, stepping back onto t
