"You forgot to shave, Sam. You never forget to shave."

Sam rubbed his jaw, felt the stubble there. d.a.m.n "Whoops. Middle age, huh?"

Kristin wasn't buying it. "Right."

After she left, Sam went back and shaved, and this time checked in the mirror. Better. He was listening to the White House press briefing when Franco stopped by, settling into the chair across from Sam's desk.

Sam turned the tape off. "What?"

"We don't talk anymore."

Sam stared in confusion. "What the heck? I called you four days ago."

"And you didn't think ignoring my advice was worth a mention? I tell you, Sam, I don't know what's going on with you. Ignoring your friends, politics. What's next? Cosmetic surgery? You're running for Congress?"

"Yes. Yes, I am," he stated. Definitely. For the record. Two words that would change the direction of his life. Forever.

Franco pondered that. "Okay."

"That's all you have to say?"

"It'd be okay."

"You said it'd be a big mistake when I asked you about it earlier."

"True. But that's the best way to deal with you."

"Then why the drama, if this isn't that big of a deal?"

Franco waved a hand. "I just like to see you squirm. That's all. So what else is happening in your life that I should know about?"

"You're just coming in, making me squirm, and then say 'hey, how's life?'"

"Yeah, that pretty much sums it up."

Sam blew out a breath. "Franco, you've changed. You're more useless than you used to be."

"I have only one word. Mandy."

"How long have you known her?"

"Almost six weeks."

"Six weeks? Is that all?"

"Yes. What's the problem?"

"I think that as mature men we should consider things rationally, weigh all sides, and come to a reasonable conclusion. We should not jump into bed with somebody because she's hot and our d.i.c.k is aching. Understand what I'm saying?"

"No."

"How old are you, Franco? Forty-two, forty-three?"

"Thirty-nine."

"And how old is this Mandy-person?"

"Twenty-eight."

"Thirteen years, my friend. Thirteen years. When she was eleven, you were twenty-four. When she was listening to N-Sync, you were listening to Pink Floyd. She probably doesn't even have a defined career yet. She's thinking about making a name for herself, and you're past that. Can she even pick out China on a map, Franco? Answer me that."

"Of course she knows where China is, she works in a newsroom. And there's only eleven years between us, not thirteen."

"But it could be thirteen, and that's even worse. And think about this. What do you know about her belief system, what if she cheats on her income tax, and you get married, and then two years down the road you're both in jail, because you jumped into a relationship too fast. Oh, sure, she makes you happy, makes you laugh and all, and pulls you out of the funk you've been in, but is that enough?"

"Sam, have you been to a therapist about this? I think you're working too hard. Slow down, get some rest. The stress is starting to affect you."

"We're in this together, Franco. The whole male s.e.x is in a downward slide into a dark pit of mud where Girls Gone Wild tapes loop endlessly in our heads. It's Darwin in reverse."

"Sam, do me a favor. Go out, do what every other man does when he starts talking weird. Buy a new car. Something red, flashy, like what Letterman drives."

"I don't need a new car, Franco."

"You need a lobotomy, is what you need."

A lobotomy wouldn't fix it. Mercedes was stuck in his head, stuck in a place where even medical science couldn't take her away. He knew it. Just like he knew the gra.s.s was green, the sky was blue, and if the liberals had their way, they would raise the capital gains tax again. "You think two people can just meet and boom-it's there?"

"It depends on your definition of the word 'it.'"

"A relationship. A stable, long-lasting relationship built on mutual respect of another human being, not just endless hours in bed."

"I don't know. That's a tough one. If you're spending endless hours in bed, who needs talk?"

Sam tapped his finger on the desk. "This is exactly my point, Franco. We should demand talk time. That's what separates us from the animals."

"No one has ever ascertained what separates us from animals. People say thought, people say language, people say religion, and people say arrogance. You know why there's no consensus, Sam? Because there is no difference. We are animals. We should accept it and move on, and if that means dating a hot twenty-eight-year-old and spending hours in bed, rather than quality talk time, I'm all for it."

"You are an animal, Franco," said Sam.

"Thank you."

After Franco left, Sam decided that he had to accept some facts. He wasn't going through a midlife crisis at thirty-nine. That'd been a knee-jerk reaction to the mind-blogging, fact-defying, age-defying intensity of his feelings for Mercedes. l.u.s.t was there, yes, but other things, too. Respect, admiration, and companionship. The way he wanted her with him every day. The way he wanted to talk to her about things. The way he wanted to make her smile.

Time to accept the change of course, and move on.

He wanted Mercedes. He wanted her for keeps.

SAM PICKED HER UP AFTER the show on Tuesday and drove her into Jersey. Along the drive on the Palisades, he gave her a guided tour, which helped to calm Mercedes's nerves. It wasn't that Sam was a scary driver, it was the idea of being in a car, going to his house. He had a house. It smacked of permanency, and permanency made her nervous, because permanency didn't last.

"Now, I know it's dark and you can't see, so you'll have to trust me on the scenery that is pa.s.sing by. New Yorkers like to make fun, but in New Jersey, this is what we call trees. Gra.s.s. Foliage."

"I've seen trees before," said Mercedes snarkily, but it was a nice snark.

"And if you'll listen carefully, you'll hear a new sound. Silence."

"I can't hear silence when you're talking, Sam."

"Well, if I wasn't talking, you would hear it, and possibly enjoy it."

"That's why you're a talk show host, isn't it? You live alone, and you like to talk, and there's n.o.body out in Jersey that will listen, ergo-The Sam Porter show."

"Are you insulting me?"

"No." Mercedes sighed. "I'm just all tied up in knots about this thing."

"It's not a 'thing.' It's a relationship."

"It's an affair," she stated.

Sam gave her a hard look. "I like 'thing' better. On your left, you will notice a gas station, which is used to provide cars with fuel at a significantly cheaper price than some other states-not to be specific, New York-which use taxes as a club to regulate behaviors."

"I don't know."

"I'm very stubborn, Mercedes. 'Bull-dogged temperament' is what the Washington Post said. You can't argue with the Post."

She leaned her head back against the leather interior, and listened for the silence. He reached out and touched her cheek. For tonight, just for one night, she was going to believe.

SHE HADN'T KNOWN WHAT TO expect from Sam's house. Her imagination had fluctuated between a log cabin in the woods, to a McMansion complete with gold fountain in the front. The actual habitat surprised her. Pleasantly. The driveway curved into a forest of fir trees, fenced off from the rest of the world. The house was a cute Colonial, almost hidden from the trees, two gables perched at the top, and a cobblestone walk leading to the front entrance.

Sam parked in the garage and took her hand.

"Ready?" he asked.

Oh, G.o.d. He had a garage. Mercedes gathered every bit of her courage and nodded.

He opened the door, and immediately there was barking.

"Down, Max. You're not allergic to dogs, are you?"

Mercedes took in the medium-sized Lab, the earnest dark eyes, the floppy ears, the bobbing tail, and sighed. Oh, G.o.d, he had a dog.

She reached out a hand, patted the black furry head, and his pink tongue reached out and licked her hand.

Sam smiled. "Dog's not stupid. I'll give you the tour," he said, and he did. There was a living room, a dining room (he said it was mainly unused), and a kitchen that was bigger than her apartment. He had a laundry room that actually dented through her fear. The idea of no longer having to cart her laundry out. Okay, that was cool.

Then there was the office. And at least four bathrooms. They went down into the bas.e.m.e.nt, where he showed her the game room.

"I can't believe you have a game room," she said, staring at the billiard table, pinball machine, huge couch and flat-panel TV.

Sam shrugged his shoulders, looking almost embara.s.sed. "When I was a kid, everybody else had a bas.e.m.e.nt that was the rec room. I always wanted a rec room. Now I have one."

"You are one big kid, aren't you?"

"I'm an adult."

She laid her hand on the gla.s.s of the Black Knight game. "This is a pinball machine. Do you have any nieces or nephews? Cousins?"

"I have two nieces that go to school in California."

"This is all for you?"

"Maybe." She shook her head.

"Oh, Sam." She walked over the pool table in the corner, the Tiffany light hanging overhead. "You good at pool?"

"Yeah. You?"

"No."

"Great, we'll play for stakes of clothing later. Want to see the pool?"

"You have a pool?"

He nodded, and led her upstairs. On the back of the house, facing to the backyard was a windowed room, covered in green plants, and exotic flowers. In the center was the pool, the water not blue, but the green of a natural lagoon. It was rounded, but long enough for laps. It was gorgeous, and enough to turn a die-hard New Yorker into a New Jersey fan for life.

"Is it heated?"

"Yeah."

"You swim?"

"At night. Good exercise, nice way to relax. With the hours at work, I come home stressed out. You like it?"

"Yeah. I like," she answered, feeling her nerves begin to unwind. Just one night, she kept repeating to herself, her eyes watching the hypnotic flow of the lights underneath the water. Just for tonight, she'd believe.

"Do you swim?"

"Not very well."

"That's okay. I won't let you drown. Promise."