Talking to Wes was exhausting. He poked and prodded and seemed insatiable. The only thing that helped me endure his picayune questioning were the ice cold martinis.

At 9:00, we walked together to the parking lot. As I stood beside his car saying good-bye, I spotted a familiar object amidst the tangle of papers and discarded fast-food containers that littered the back floor-Alverez's card.

I tilted my head, and thought for a moment. Hmmm, I said to myself, I wonder if I've just identified Alverez's leak. I pictured him yelling at me, his righteous indignation seemingly sincere. Yet maybe, I thought, he used anger to camouflage a clever strategy. What better way to control the flow of information to the press than to be the one to talk? Alverez, I said to myself, you're a sly dog.

I spent the evening puttering and thinking. I cleaned the bathroom, changed the linen, and made a huge salad. I thought about the love Martha had for Barney, and wondered if I'd ever feel that level of devotion. Not a love that led to murder, obviously, but a pa.s.sion so complete, so compelling, that striving to satisfy my lover's needs transcended effort and became a source of contentment and a way of life. Could I find such a love without losing my sense of self or changing my values? For the first time in eons, I felt hopeful that I would.

My outrage and anxiety had pa.s.sed, and was replaced, it seemed, by exhilaration. I was excited about the future. I had plans for expanding my company with Prescott's Instant Appraisals and by finally connecting with Britt Epps, an important player in the greater Portsmouth area, a potentially powerful ally in winning new business. I smiled, allowing myself a private "atta girl."

When I arrived at work the next morning, Alverez was waiting for me, leaning against his SUV. It was a bright, sunny day, warmer by twenty degrees from the day before. I was wearing a blue sleeveless tank top with an oversized denim shirt and jeans.

"Hey," he said.

He looked more rested than he had yesterday.

I smiled. "It looks like you got some sleep."

"Like someone shot me."

"How you doing?"

"Good. You?"

"Good."

"So, I want to change my answer."

"To what?"

"You remember when I drove you home? You asked me in. I said no."

I looked at him. He wore a gray-gold tweed jacket, a tan shirt and brown tie, and khakis. He looked great. His eyes were on me, watchful and kind. He was tall and strong-looking and competent. I'd always found competence s.e.xy.

"I remember. I asked you in during a weak moment. The moment has pa.s.sed. It was a onetime offer."

"Too bad. I'm changing my answer to yes, anyway."

"just like that?"

"Well, I was planning on buying you dinner first."

I started laughing, and I couldn't stop. For whatever reason, his comment, delivered with such seeming sincerity, tickled my funny bone, and sent me into paroxysms of delight. Finally, I wound down, and when I could speak, I said, "Don't look at me that way, or you'll set me off again."

"So, is that a yes?" he asked earnestly.

I paused and looked at him. I memorized the moment, filing it away in my head for review whenever I wanted. And I was willing to bet that I'd want to remember this event often. I smiled, and told him, "h.e.l.l, yes."

end.