He drew a breath deep into his lungs. Mild late-spring air, it smelled like grass and his mother's roses, evening and freedom. Before his parents could charge out the door, waving spoons and wrenches and screaming for him to get his butt back inside and eat some of their overabundance of boiled chicken, he descended the steps and sprinted to the corner, around onto the cross street, away.

He'd been outrunning his parents since he'd matured beyond the crawling stage. He'd always been fast, and now that they were on the far end of their fifties, they didn't even try to catch him. They probably just tucked themselves back into their color-free house and complained about what an ingrate he'd turned out to be.

He loved his parents, really. He just didn't fit with them. If he hadn't looked like them both-he had his father's thick, wavy hair and hazel eyes, his mother's sharp chin and angled cheekbones, his father's height and his mother's wiry build-he'd have assumed they'd adopted him. They were both impatient yet docile, intelligent yet uncreative. They seemed incapable of perceiving anything outside the tight little sphere of their own experience. It would never occur to his mother to fry the onions in a little olive oil, rub some herbs onto the chicken and broil the whole thing.

Susie complained about her family all the time, and Casey only shook his head. Her mother could be pushy and whiny, but hell, the woman had lost her husband only two years ago, and lots of women had trouble dealing with growing older, especially growing older alone. Susie's grandmother was crusty, but a person knew where he stood with her, and beneath her gruffness Casey sensed a softness and a generosity that Susie refused to acknowledge. Susie's sister, Julia, was great-the best boss he'd ever had, and the only reason he would choose not to work for her was that he'd rather work for himself-and he'd rather remove himself from Susie's world, now that she'd said no. Casey barely knew Susie's younger brother, but he seemed okay.

Casey's sister was a dog groomer. Every conversation he had with her wound up being about the difference between a continental clip and an English saddle clip on a poodle, or about flea baths. Celia was a font of wisdom on the subject of fleas.

So Susie felt like the oddball in her family? She had no idea.

And he wasn't going to think about her anymore. She'd said no.

Nearing the neighborhood eatery where he'd arranged to meet Mose, he checked his watch and discovered he was five minutes late. Not too bad, considering that if he hadn't been quite so deft he'd be staring down a plate of his mother's boiled chicken rather than entering this cacophonous restaurant, with its laminated menus, its neon wall decorations and its hamburger aroma.

He gave a quick nod to the hostess, who tried to stop him inside the door, then strode past her station and scanned the room. The after-work crowd was dense, lots of guys in inexpensive blazers and loosened polyester ties hoisting tankard-sized mugs of beer. Mose had managed to score the booth closest to the rest room. Not the greatest location, but it was better than standing.

Compared with his parents, the hostess was a mere amateur at trying to keep him from his destination. Dismissing her with a smile, he forged through the crowd, weaving and nudging his way to the booth. He sank onto the hard wooden bench across from Mose and groaned. "Waiting long?"

"No, but I had to use my fists to defend this table."

"Sorry. I was being held hostage by my parents." A waitress showed up and Casey asked for a Killian draft.

Mose ordered a bourbon. "I ain't drinking that Irish piss," he declared.

"It's too subtle for you," Casey teased.

"Don't forget who's got the MBA at this table." Mose settled against the high back of the booth seat. Like the majority of the restaurant's patrons, he had on a blazer and his tie hung loose below his unfastened shirt collar. But his tie was silk and his jacket was well tailored. As he explained it, he counted on his apparel to convince prospective clients that he knew what he was talking about. "They aren't gonna take business advice from a black guy unless he's wearing a Christian Dior tie," he'd told Casey on more than one occasion.

Casey would take business advice from Mose even if he were wearing a grass skirt and pink earmuffs. But he had to admit, the Christian Dior tie Mose had on was reassuring.

"Okay," Mose said, pulling a folder from the leather briefcase propped on the bench next to him. "I still think you'd do a whole lot better to forget this scheme and find yourself a new lady. Spare yourself a whole lot of shit that way."

"Are you kidding?" Casey laughed bitterly. "Work is easy. Ladies are where the shit comes from."

"I could ask LaShonna to set you up with a friend," Mose offered.

Casey's laugh was more relaxed this time. His parents were having enough trouble trying to act like liberals about their son dating a Jewish woman. Imagine if he started dating a black woman. His father would have a heart attack; his mother would drown herself in a pot of boiling water. Both of them, with their dying breaths, would swear that they had nothing against black people but they were only concerned about how he'd raise his children.

In any case, LaShonna, Mose's girlfriend, was a social climber, devoted to Mose primarily because Mose earned a nice salary, had that MBA and knew the difference between polyester and cashmere. Her friends would probably share her values, which meant they'd have no use for a bagel baker. "If I wanted blind dates, I'd go to LaShonna," he said. "I want business advice, so I came to you."

"Yeah. Okay." Mose accepted Casey's words with a reluctant shrug and a look of vague disapproval. "I crunched you some numbers, and I really think that if you want to open this specialty bread store, you ought to think again."

"Thanks for the optimism," Casey muttered.

"You're talking big bucks, buddy. If you really want to go through with this-"

It wasn't necessarily that he wanted to, although he did. The real issue was that he had to. He had to get out of Bloom's, away from the Blooms. Away from one Bloom in particular.

"Then you ought to consider locating in the outer boroughs."

"No. It's got to be Manhattan," Casey insisted.

The waitress returned to their table, carrying their drinks on a tray. Mose smiled and nodded at her. Casey kept his eye on his glass, gauging with some displeasure the amount of foam the bartender had left. When she was gone, Mose grinned at Casey. "She was hitting on you," he said.

"Who?" Casey frowned and searched the crowd. "The waitress?"

"Didn't you see the way she leaned over to put down your glass? Nobody needs to bend that low to put a glass on the table. I thought she was going to pull your head down into her cleavage."

"Really?" All Casey had seen was the foam. Jesus. He'd been with Susie so long he didn't notice other women, not even when they were coming on to him with their cleavage.

All right. Three days ago he was proposing marriage and getting turned down. He couldn't be expected to notice buxom waitresses so soon after getting his heart stomped on.

He touched his rib cage gingerly, as if to make sure his heart was still there. The weird thing was that in the past three days-the past week, if he counted back to when Susie had rejected his invitation to move in with him-he had no pain in his heart. Some severe discomfort in his groin, sure. He was horny, though not for waitresses who leaned over. He missed Susie in a deeply physical way. And an intellectual way. Every evening, he reached for his phone and touched his thumb to the auto-dial button he'd programmed with her cell phone. He didn't press it hard enough for the call to go through, but he wanted to. He wanted to talk to her the way they used to talk, about their days, their thoughts, their dreams. About everything.

But his heart didn't ache. He didn't even feel inflamed with anger. Not once had he thrown a dish against a wall and called her a fucking bitch.

Did that mean he didn't really love her? Or just that reality was only just beginning to sink in? Was it kind of like dental work, where it took a while for the Novocaine to wear off, and once it did he was going to be gasping from the agony?

He'd survived tooth fillings. He supposed he could survive Susie, too.

He could survive her a lot better if he wasn't baking bagels for her sister, though.

He opened the folder Mose had pushed across the table. It contained pages filled with numbers. "Initial expenses-cash layouts, loans. Basically what it'll cost you to start your little carbohydrate boutique," Mose told him, jabbing at various columns of figures with his index finger. "Way expensive in the outer boroughs. Break-the-bank time in Manhattan."

"I want it in Manhattan," Casey said.

"Look at the numbers I crunched for you, Woody. Manhattan, you're gonna have to win the lottery first."

Casey flipped through the pages until he found a sheet of storefront rentals in Manhattan. Damn. The Novocaine must have worn off, because those gigantic numbers sparked a genuine pain in his heart. "I want Manhattan," he repeated, ignoring the ache.

"Do it in Queens. It's almost affordable for you. Plus, you've got a better commute."

"Manhattan is where the customers are," Casey explained. "They're used to paying high prices to cover the cost of the real estate."

"Look at me, man." Reaching across the table, Mose snapped the folder shut to get Casey's attention. "Are you doing this to settle a score? To win points or something? Because if you are, I got nothin' to say to you. I'm not gonna waste my time. You want to think like a businessman? Think Queens. Better yet, think the Bronx. Real cheap rents there."

Casey grimaced. "I'm not going to sell bread in the Bronx."

"Okay, well, I don't blame you. I mean...the Bronx." Mose wrinkled his nose, then sipped his bourbon and sighed. "So explain Manhattan to me. What's in Manhattan, besides people willing to pay high prices?"

"Bloom's is in Manhattan," Casey said.

"And...what? You want to set up shop across the street from them? Compete directly with the world's most famous bagel retailer?"

Actually, that would suit Casey just fine. Maybe he did want to settle a score. Maybe his heart wasn't hurting because the pain was somewhere else: In his gut. In his gray matter. In his ego.

"Yeah," he said. "Across the street would be great. Are there any empty storefronts for rent on that block?"

Mose shook his head. "You want my advice? Be reasonable. Use your head. Add up the numbers, Casey. You'd kill yourself doing it in that neighborhood. Bankrupt your future. As a professional, I'm telling you, don't do it."

"How about as my friend?" Casey asked. "What's your advice then?"

"As your friend?" Mose regarded him thoughtfully. From the far side of the room, where a group of happy-hour patrons clustered at the bar, an off-key, booze-juiced chorus of "Happy Birthday" arose. Mose glanced toward the revelers, shook his head and turned back to Casey. "As your friend," he said, "I understand where you're coming from. I get it, white boy. Manhattan would be the place. Now, forget I ever said that."

Casey smiled. Sometimes it was better to get advice from a friend than from a professional. Especially a friend in a Christian Dior tie, which made even his bad advice sound absolutely right.

Seven.

The glorious aromas filling her mother's kitchen should have soothed Julia. She hovered just inside the doorway, breathing in a blend of mouthwatering fragrances-roasting fowl, herbs, mushrooms, wine-and watching Lyndon and his friend Howard waltz around the room in a graceful pas de deux.

Julia's kitchen was barely big enough for two people to stand in, let alone perform a choreographed ballet. Her mother's kitchen was so large Julia could stand in it without getting into either Lyndon's or Howard's way as they glided from the stove to the counter, from the refrigerator to the oven. Clad in a cream-colored sweater that would have been splattered with sauce and grease if Julia had worn it while she cooked, Lyndon seemed to be doing most of the work, stirring something in a pot, peeking at something in the oven, lifting a sheet of aluminum foil from a bowl and peering inside. Howard's chief tasks seemed to be rinsing things at the sink and stepping out of Lyndon's path two beats before Lyndon swept by.

Howard was Lyndon's boyfriend. She'd met him a few times. The past two Pesachs, he'd come to Grandma Ida's apartment to help Lyndon prepare the seder. Julia wasn't sure exactly what he'd done those times, other than hang around the kitchen being Jewish, a responsibility Lyndon couldn't fulfill since he was an African-American, raised Baptist. Maybe Howard's presence added authenticity to Lyndon's matzo-ball soup and charoset at Passover, or maybe he made recipe suggestions and said prayers over the food before Lyndon served it. Whatever Howard's function in the kitchen, the seder meals were always delicious, so Julia had no objection to his being present for this dinner party.

Besides, as tall and thin as he was, with a beak nose and frizzy, slightly receding red hair, Howard looked a lot like Art Garfunkel. Julia wondered if his voice resembled Art Garfunkel's. She had the feeling that someone might need to sing "Bridge Over Troubled Water" before the evening was through.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" she asked. "You're both so busy-"

"So you don't have to be," Lyndon assured her. "We're doing the kitchen work, Julia. You can save your energy for doing the hostess work."

"Why can't my mother be the hostess?" Julia asked, then sighed. The task of waiting for impending disaster tired her out.

"Because she's your mother," Lyndon answered, even though the question had been rhetorical. His answer didn't clarify much, anyway.

"Maybe we should have made red meat, instead," Julia fretted. "A roast beef, or a prime rib or something."

Both men stared at her as though she was crazy. She didn't think she'd said anything that outrageous, except for the fact that it was five-thirty and a little late to be tinkering with the menu. "Cornish game hens are perfect," Lyndon told her.

"I'm sorry. I should just keep my mouth shut." She sighed again and gave Lyndon her most contrite smile. "Ron hasn't phoned, has he?"

"No, he hasn't. And if he did, he'd call you on your cell, so you'd know it before we did," Lyndon pointed out. "He'll get here."

"His parents might get here first."

"Then you'll be a proper almost-daughter-in-law and entertain them until he arrives. Howard will have a nice tray of hors d'oeuvres you can serve them. Right, Howard?"

Howard glanced up from the sprigs of parsley he was patting dry. "This is going to look wonderful," he assured her, carrying the bright green garnish to a cut-crystal platter and arranging it with the precision of a landscape architect. "Trust me, Julia. I know my parsley."

She trusted him and Lyndon a lot more than she trusted Ron to arrive on time, her mother to remain open-minded, Ron's parents to avoid bickering and herself to stay calm and stop expecting the worst. She couldn't imagine why she was so jittery. She'd survived law school, hadn't she? Passed the bar, worked for a big posh firm, taken the helm at Bloom's without any preparation other than having been born a Bloom, and returned the store to profitability. She was an executive. A hotshot. A certified success.

Yet the thought of staging this dinner and convincing everyone present that she was capable of deciding how her wedding should be catered made her want to find herself a dark corner, curl into a ball and suck on her thumb.

"Was Grandma Ida upset about your coming down here tonight?" she asked Lyndon. Focusing on the challenges of others might make her feel better about her own challenges.

Lyndon shrugged. His halo of short braids trembled like springs as he rubbed the salad bowl's surface with a clove of garlic. "Your grandmother is upset about lots of things. You know her."

"She wanted to be invited to this dinner, didn't she."

Lyndon smiled cryptically. "She made some comments."

"Oh, God." Julia sank against the granite counter. She meant to fold her arms across her chest, but her hands wound up near her shoulders so she was in effect clinging to herself in a desperate hug. "What comments?"

"Just that she was free this evening, and if there was nothing good on TV she might drop by."

Since Grandma Ida lived directly above her mother, on the twenty-fifth floor of the Bloom Building, dropping by could either mean riding the elevator down to the twenty-fourth floor or cutting a hole in the ceiling and falling through it. Julia wouldn't discount either option. "Is there anything good on TV? Any old Alfred Hitchcock movies?" Her grandmother was a fan of scary films, as long as they were in black and white. Color, she said, made them too real.

"One of the cable channels is having a Ferris Beuller fest," Howard noted. "They're going to play Ferris Beuller's Day Off over and over for twelve straight hours."

Somehow, Julia didn't think that would keep Grandma Ida glued to her TV. Before she could calculate the shifting odds of Grandma Ida's making an uninvited appearance at the party, her cell phone chirped. Ron, she thought as a fresh wave of panic surged through her. He's calling to say he's running late and will have to miss dinner, and would I please give his love to his parents, and if one of them goes after the other with a butter knife, would I please throw myself between them so they won't kill each other....

She hauled the cell phone out of her purse, which sat on the counter next to her mother's set of empty art deco canisters-"Why should I fill them with flour and sugar?" her mother often said. "It's not like I'm going to be baking anytime soon, all that work, all those calories"-and hit the connect button.

"Julia? It's Susie," her sister said.

Julia let out a long breath. At least it wasn't Ron calling with bad news. "Susie," she said, forcing brightness into her voice. "I can't talk right now."

"Oh." Susie's sigh sounded moist. Damn it, she was crying.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing. You can't talk."

Julia closed her eyes, trying to collect herself. The sound of bare feet squeaking against marble flooring forced her to open them again, in time to watch Adam lumber into the kitchen. "Hey, it smells good in here. Like real food."

"You're not invited," Julia reminded him, then quickly said into the phone, "I was talking to Adam, not you."

"Am I invited?"

"No."

"Great. Thanks a lot." Susie was clearly trying to come across as flippant, but a wail edged her voice.

"Oh, Susie," Julia said sympathetically. "I really wish I could talk right now, but-Adam, don't touch that," she snapped as he helped himself to one of the cute little canapes Howard was planting amid the parsley hedges. Back into the phone, she said, "I'm at Mom's. Joffe's parents are coming to dinner. It's going to be a disaster."

"Both his parents? At the same time?"

"Yes," Julia said grimly.

"That should be fun." Susie sounded notably cheerier. "Can I come? I love to watch disasters, as long as they aren't mine."