"I was remembering a story Jung told about a juggler who was feeling bad because he had nothing to offer the Virgin Mary at a festival. He asked the village priest what to do. The priest told him that he must juggle for the Blessed Virgin. So he did and was filled with grace."
It was Joe's turn to clap.
"My nephew actually does juggle," Mo said. "I want to dress him in a red and yellow medieval costume and take pictures. He uses long sticks. They extend his arms and make him seem more like a dancer than a juggler. So fluid and precise at the same time . . . "
"All you need is the costume," Joe said.
"And my nephew. He's going to school in North Carolina." She drank and smiled to herself. "You've changed," she said. "You look calmer. What happened to PrettyLocks? I can't remember her name."
"Rhiannon. She went back east to see her father." He changed the subject. "Speaking of fathers, how is yours?"
"Rolling along," she said. "We're going to get together at my sister's over the holidays."
"I'm planning to visit Kate," Joe said. "Maybe we should get together at the Caffe Ladro . . . " Mo smiled noncommittally, and they parted on a friendly note. She hadn't said anything about Rob Wilcox and he hadn't asked. He and Mo were going to connect with work and art, it seemed. The personal, or the intimate, would stay in the background. Nothing wrong with that, Joe said to himself as he walked home.
Several days later the phone rang. Joe picked it up on the second ring.
"Hi, Joe."