Leo's message, only four seconds and fifteen words long, still manages to intrigue me in a way I can only describe as highly confounding and even more annoying. After standing at the sink and staring into space for several minutes, I listen to it again, just to be sure I didn't miss anything. Of course I didn't, so I hit delete, saying aloud, Don't hold your breath, buddy.

If Leo thinks that he can let all of these years pass, then call just like old times with some purported question, and expect that I will just hop to it and fire off a call back with some great sense of urgency, well, he has another think coming. At best he is being presumptuous; at worst, downright manipulative.

I indignantly brush my teeth, then carefully apply a new, rose-toned lipstick to my full lower lip and thinner top one. I blot with a tissue, realize that I've removed too much, and reapply, finishing with a layer of clear gloss. I highlight my cheeks, forehead, and chin with a bronzer and line my eyelids with a dark charcoal pencil. A touch of mascara and some under-eye concealer, and I'm good to go. I meet my gaze in the mirror, smile slightly, and decide that I look pretty—although anyone would look pretty in Margot's soft bathroom lighting. Like her mother, Margot doesn't believe in fluorescent lights.

I open the door adjoining the guest room, telling myself that checking my voicemail is one thing, calling Leo back is another. And I will not call him back anytime soon, if ever. I kneel in front of my duffel bag and rifle through it to find a small, snakeskin clutch that I remembered to pack at the last second. Stella gave it to me for Christmas last year, and I know it will please her greatly to see me using it. She is a thoughtful, generous gift giver, although I often read into her presents that she wishes I would be a certain way, a little more like her own daughter. In other words, the kind of girl who instinctively switches out handbags for the evening.

I transfer my lip gloss, a small mirror, and a pack of wintergreen Certs to the clutch. There is a little room left so I toss in my cell phone, just in case. In case of what, I'm not quite sure, but it's always best to be prepared. Then I slip on a pair of black kitten heels and head downstairs where Margot and the guys have gathered on barstools around the kitchen island and are feasting on wine, cheese, and stuffed olives. I survey Andy and Margot, standing side by side and laughing at Webb imitating one of his clients, and note that their resemblance is even more striking than usual. Beyond their heart-shaped faces and round, well-spaced blue eyes, they share the same happy aura—a certain authentic way of being.

Andy's face brightens even more as he looks over at me.

"Hey, honey," he says, standing to kiss my cheek and then whispering in my ear, "You smell nice."

Incidentally, I am wearing a blueberry-vanilla body lotion, also compliments of Stella. "Thanks, honey," I whisper back, feeling a pang of guilt toward my husband and his mother.

I tell myself that I have done nothing wrong—this is all Leo's fault. He has painted me into a corner, created a layer of deceit between me and the people I love. Sure, it is a small secret in the scheme of things, but it is still a secret, and it will grow—multiply—if I return his call. So I simply won't do it. I won't call him back.

Yet as I pierce an olive with a toothpick and half-listen to another of Webb's client stories, this one about a Falcons football player who got caught trying to carry marijuana onto a plane, I feel myself caving ever so slightly. I reason that if I don't call Leo back, I might continue to wonder what he has to say, what he could possibly want to ask me. And the more I dwell on those possibilities, the more I will be filled with unease, and the more he, and the past he featured in, might undermine the present. Furthermore, not calling might look strategic, creating the impression that I care too much. And I don't care. I do not. So I'll just call him back, field his so-called question, and then inform him, in fifteen words or fewer of my own, that despite what I said in the diner, I have enough friends. I don't need to resurrect an old one—if, in fact, that's ever what we were. Then I will be done with him once and for all. I take a long sip of wine, and think that I can hardly wait to get back to New York and get the conversation over with.

And yet, despite my vow to rid Leo from my life come Monday morning, I can't manage to shake his hold on me this evening, even after I'm at Bacchanalia with the entire Graham family. I am so distracted, in fact, that Stella turns to me at one point, just after the third course of our tasting menu complete with wine pairings that Webb deems "brilliant" and says, "You're a bit fidgety tonight, dear. Is everything okay?"

Her tone and gaze are concerned, but I've seen her in action enough with her children—and husband, for that matter—to know that it is a veiled reprimand. In her words, "being present" when you are with others is of the utmost importance—and too often in our culture of BlackBerrys and cell phones, people are disengaged and disconnected and distracted from their immediate surroundings. It is one of many things I admire about Stella—that despite her emphasis on appearances, she really does seem to understand what matters most.

"I'm sorry, Stella," I say.

I feel guilty and embarrassed by her reproach, but her comment also has the odd ancillary effect of making me feel squarely in the family fold, like I am one of her own children. It is the way she has treated me for years, but even more so since Andy and I married. I think back to the Christmas after we got engaged, when she put her arms around me in a private moment and said, "I'll never try to replace your mother, but know that you are like a second daughter to me."

It was the perfect thing to say. Stella always knows the perfect thing to say—and more important, always means what she says.

She shakes her head now and smiles as if to absolve me, but I still go on to stammer an explanation. "I'm just a bit tired. We had a pretty early start... and then... all of this wonderful food."

"Of course, dear," Stella says, adjusting the silk, patterned scarf tied effortlessly around her swanlike neck. She is never one to hold a grudge, big or small, the one quality she did not manage to convey to her daughter, who can impressively hold on to petty ill will for years, much to all of our amusement.

And, with this observation, I push Leo out of my head for the hundredth time today, focusing as hard as I can on our next topic, spearheaded by Mr. Graham—the renovated golf course at the club. But after about three minutes of talk of bogies and eagles and holes-in-one among the four men at the table, and apparent rapt interest by Margot and her mother, I start to lose it again and decide I can't wait another second. I must find out what Leo wants. Now.

My heart races as I excuse myself and make my way into the small upscale gift shop adjoining the restaurant where the ladies' room is positioned. With my clutch in sweaty hand, I am perfectly aghast at myself, as if I'm watching one of those idiotic women in a horror movie—the kind who, upon hearing a disturbing noise late at night, decides that rather than calling 911, it makes a lot of good sense to go tiptoeing barefooted in the heavily wooded backyard to investigate. After all, there might not be an axe murderer lurking, but there are certainly clear and present dangers here, too. Margot or Stella could, at any moment, catch me in the act. Or Andy could, for the first time ever, decide to skim my cell phone bill when it arrives at month's end and inquire who in Queens I felt the sudden need to contact right in the middle of our family dinner in Atlanta.

But, despite such obvious pitfalls, here I foolishly am, holed up in yet another bathroom, urgently debating whether to call Leo back or merely text him. In what feels like a moral victory, I decide to tap out a hurried message with two rapid, eager thumbs. "Hi. Got your message. What's up?" I type, hitting send before I can change my mind or dwell on my word choice. I close my eyes and shake my head.

I feel simultaneously relieved and appalled at myself, the way an addict must feel after that first sip of vodka, emotions that are amplified a few seconds later when my phone vibrates and lights up with Leo's number. I pause just outside the restroom, pretending to admire a display of pottery for sale in the shop. Then I take a deep breath and answer hello.

"Hi!" Leo says. "It's me. Just got your text."

"Yeah," I say, pacing and nervously glancing around. Now, in addition to the possibility of getting caught by Margot or her mother, I am exposed to any of the male members of my family who could be making a trip to the nearby men's room.

"How are you?" Leo says.

"I'm fine," I say tersely. "But I really can't talk now... I'm at dinner... I just... I just wondered what you had to ask me?"

"Well," Leo says, pausing, as if for dramatic effect. "It's sort of a long story."

I sigh, thinking that, of course, Mr. Cut-to-the-Chase suddenly has a long-winded proposition for me.

"Give me the short version," I say, feeling desperate for some sort of clue. Is it as frivolous and contrived as a question about his camera? Or as serious as whether I am the culprit for an STD he picked up along the way? Or is it something in between?

Leo clears his throat. "Well... it's about work," he says. "Your work."

I can't help smiling. He has seen my photos after all. I knew it.

"Yeah?" I say as breezily as possible while I tuck my clutch under my perspiring arm.

"Well... Like I said, it's sort of a long story, but..."

I walk up the few steps to the dining area, and cautiously peer around the corner into the dining area, seeing that my family is still safely seated. The coast is clear for a few more seconds, at least. I duck back to safety, making a "get on with it" hand motion. "Yes?"

Leo continues, "I have a potential portrait gig for you... if you're interested... You do portraits, right?"

"Yeah, I do," I say, my curiosity piqued ever so slightly. "Who's the subject?"

I ask the question, but am fully prepared to turn him down. Say I have plenty of jobs lined up in the weeks ahead. That I have a booking agent now and don't really have to scrounge around for random work. That I've made it—maybe not in a big way—but in a big enough way. So thanks for thinking of me, but no thanks. Oh, and one more thing, Leo? Yeah. Probably better not to call me anymore. No hard feelings, all right? Toodle-oo.

I will say it all in a rush of adrenaline. I can taste the satisfaction already.

And that's when Leo clears his throat again and throws down a trump card. "Drake Watters," he says.

"Drake Watters?" I say, in stunned disbelief, hoping that he's referring to another Drake Watters—other than the ten-time Grammy-winning legend and recent nominee for the Nobel Peace Prize.

But, of course, there is only one Drake.

Sure enough, Leo says, "Yup," as I recall my high school days, how I sported a Drake concert T-shirt to school at least once a week, along with my pegged, intentionally ripped, acid-washed jeans and Tretorn sneakers covered with black-Sharpie peace signs. And although I haven't been a big fan of his since then, he certainly remains on my elite list of "Icons I'd Kill to Photograph," right up there with Madonna, Bill Clinton, Meryl Streep, Bruce Springsteen, Queen Elizabeth, Sting, and, although he's really not in the same league as the others and for perfectly shallow reasons, George Clooney.

"So what do you think?" Leo says with a hint of flippant smugness. "You interested?"

I softly kick a floorboard, thinking that I hate Leo for tempting me like this. I hate myself for folding. I almost even hate Drake.

"Yeah," I say, feeling chagrinned, defeated.

"Great," Leo says. "So we'll talk about it more later?"

"Yeah," I say again.

"Monday morning work for you?"

"Sure," I say. "I'll call you Monday."

Then I hang up and head back to the table where I harbor a brand-new secret while feigning wild enthusiasm for my spiced cardamom flan with candied kumquats.