Moira laughed. "Well, you know me. I'm allowed to be s.e.xist. I've got bigger b.a.l.l.s than most of the men in this room." She reached for her drink and he noticed her nails, short but polished a bright crimson, the same color as her lipstick. She might have big b.a.l.l.s and a s.e.xist att.i.tude, but she exuded a distinct femininity. Her suit flattered her curves. Her shoes had pointy toes and high heels.

Even though she'd avoided marriage and children, she clearly felt empathy for Ellie. "Your wife carried that boy inside her body. His death must be like having a chunk of her flesh cut out of her. A chunk of her soul, too."

"I ache for her, Moira-I do. But..." He silenced himself with a sip of Scotch. He didn't want to sound self-pitying.

"But what?"

"It's like I've lost her along with Peter. She's just not there for me. I need a wife, and I haven't got one anymore."

Moira's eyebrows arched in surprise. "She left you?"

"No. She goes to work, she comes home, she has dinner with me, she sleeps next to me. But she's not there." He spared Moira those details, too. Out of loyalty to Ellie, out of his desperate need to believe his marriage wasn't really as dead as his son, he refused to spell out in what ways Ellie wasn't there.

"That must be hard on you."

Curt snorted at the understatement.

Moira tapped one red fingernail against the surface of her gla.s.s. "Have you gone for marriage counseling?"

He was surprised that she'd give him marital advice. He'd been trying not to let the conversation grow too intimate, but if Moira wasn't afraid to discuss Curt's problems, why not?

She'd offered her shoulder. He should make use of it.

"Ellie was in therapy for a while. Her therapist told her she had to heal at her own pace. I don't think she can begin to fathom what her pace is doing to me. G.o.d, that makes me sound so self-centered," he muttered, shaking his head and taking another sip of Scotch. "She's in pain. I understand that. I want to help. But...Christ, Moira, I keep fearing she'll drag me down into the abyss with her."

"You can't let that happen," Moira said gently. "You've got to help yourself before you can help her. Like on airplanes, you know how they say you should put on your own oxygen mask before you a.s.sist others?"

"You think an oxygen mask would help?"

"I think you need something, Curt. Maybe Ellie can't give it to you, but your needs are important, too."

He eyed her speculatively. Had she guessed that his s.e.x life was moribund, that Ellie had denied him-denied them both-that most basic human act, that simple, loving grace? Did Moira believe his need for Ellie was as important as whatever the h.e.l.l it was Ellie needed?

"You were always one of the good guys," Moira recalled. "So faithful. So obviously in love with your wife." She smiled nostalgically. "I don't know if it's still true, but when I was at the firm, half the women working there had crushes on you."

"What?" He laughed.

"You didn't have a clue, right? We all used to talk about you in the ladies' room. We ogled you at meetings and parties. And you never even noticed. You only had eyes for your wife."

"You ogled me? Really?" He chuckled at the thought of tarty Lindy Brinson leering at him, or Sue Pritchard considering him as a potential husband number four, or Ruth Steinberg scheming to match him up with one of the firm's women. "I'm flattered. If only I'd known."

"If you'd known, you wouldn't have done a d.a.m.n thing about it."

He nodded and laughed again. "You're right."

She leveled her gaze at him. She was smiling, but it was an enigmatic smile, a questioning smile. "What do you want, Curt? Right now. What would it take to make you feel whole?"

He sensed a change in atmosphere, unspoken ideas churning just beneath the surface. "My son?"

"Besides that."

G.o.d. She knew. She knew what was wrong in his marriage, in his life. She knew what he needed, what it would take to make him feel whole-and unlike Ellie, she didn't believe his needs made him a despicable person.

"You can figure out what it would take," he said, his voice low and broken. He ought to be ashamed of himself for thinking what he was thinking, for having a woman he respected witness his desperation.

Moira's gaze was sharp and direct. "I'm here," she said, reaching across the table and covering his hand with hers. "I'll be gone tomorrow, but I'm here now."

"Moira. I can't ask-"

"You didn't ask." She gave his hand a light squeeze. Her fingers were strong but soft. It had been so long since a woman had touched him with affection. Since a woman had touched him at all. "I hate seeing you like this, Curt. Let me be your friend."

He told himself how wrong this was.

Then he told himself it wasn't. He couldn't exist in Ellie's no-man's-land anymore, that strange, dark place where she was neither fully alive nor as dead as Peter. He'd stayed there with her as long as he could, done everything in his power to lure her out into the light. He'd begged her to rediscover what it meant to be alive. Nothing he'd tried had worked.

But he was alive. That wasn't a sin. He had no reason to be ashamed. All he wanted was to live.

And Moira-his friend-was giving him that chance.

No more words were necessary. He tossed a twenty-dollar bill onto the table, and he and Moira left the bar.

ELLIE WASN'T SURE WHY he had to go to California. The negotiations on that deal he was handling for the MIT professor had been all but completed in Boston a week ago. Just a few details still had to be ironed out, he'd told her. Couldn't details be ironed out long-distance? Wasn't that what phones and faxes and overnight-delivery services existed for?

Curt had insisted that the ironing would go more efficiently if he flew out to California, and so he went. He'd left on Wednesday and would be back in time for dinner Sunday. Four days.

Ellie had grown inured to the emptiness of her house during the day. But nighttime was different. She and Curt had rarely spent a night apart before Peter's death, and never since then. True, they had huge problems looming between them, but as long as they shared a bed, Ellie was convinced that those problems would eventually work themselves out. Curt had been so patient, and she was trying, really trying, to get back to where she'd been.

Even though they hadn't made love since the day Peter had fallen ill, Ellie depended on Curt's presence in bed. His warmth soothed her. His respiration lulled her. His weight balanced the mattress. With him off in California, the bed seemed as vast as the Sahara, and just as lifeless.

"I'm a big girl," she told herself. "I can handle his absence."

And to her amazement, she discovered that she could.

She returned home from work Thursday, entered the silent house and decided to fix herself a real dinner. She pulled a pork chop from the freezer-G.o.d knew how long it had been there; it was as hard as a rock-and defrosted it in the microwave. She measured rice and water into a pot and set it on the stove to steam. While the pork chop broiled, the phone rang.

Curt had become the official phone answerer after Peter's death. For so long, Ellie was afraid to speak to callers; she feared she'd burst into tears if someone dared to ask how she was. So Curt had gotten into the habit of answering the phone when it rang, and all these months later, they were still in that routine.

The sudden, shrill chime of the phone jolted her now, and it took her a moment to remember that Curt wasn't around to answer it. She squared her shoulders, marched across the kitchen to the wall phone and lifted the receiver. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Hi, Ellie, it's me."

Curt's voice sounded metallic through a crinkle of static. He was probably phoning her on his cell rather than the hotel phone. The lousy connection notwithstanding, she was glad he'd called. "Hi. How are things going?"

"Pretty well. We've worked out nearly everything. Just a few more tweaks and we'll be there." He fell quiet for a moment, then said, "How are you?"

"I'm fine." She realized he might take that as an automatic response. "Really, Curt. I'm good. I'm just fixing myself some dinner."

"Great." Another pause. "I had a free minute and thought I should check up on you."

"You don't have to check up on me," she said, hoping she didn't sound testy. "I'm okay."

"All right." Pause. "I'm not sure if I'll have a chance to call tomorrow. It's just...we're on kind of an odd schedule."

"They've got your time booked up. I understand. If you can squeeze in a call, that would be nice, but if you can't, I'll a.s.sume you were too busy."

"Right." He sighed. "I've got to go, Ellie. I'll be back on Sunday."

"I hope the rest of the negotiations go well. I'll talk to you if you have a free minute. If not, have a safe flight home."

They said goodbye and she hung up. He must have been pressed for time, calling her from wherever the negotiations were taking place. California was three hours behind Ma.s.sachusetts, so he'd phoned her in the middle of his afternoon, which meant he'd probably still been at work. He'd sounded brusque and cool, the way he talked when people were nearby and could eavesdrop on his end of the conversation. She would have liked to ask him how his flight out had been, and whether he would have a chance to travel around San Francisco. She'd never been there, but she'd heard it was a spectacular city.

He'd get to tour the area on Sat.u.r.day, she acknowledged. Surely the negotiations would be done by tomorrow evening, and then he'd have a day to play. When he'd scheduled his flight, he'd told her he was giving himself that extra day so he could visit the Golden Gate Bridge and Fisherman's Wharf.

She reviewed their conversation in her mind and sighed. Even if he'd been at some law firm, even if business people were within earshot, he could have told her he loved her, couldn't he? He could have told whoever was around that he was checking in with his wife. They would have understood if he'd said something affectionate and personal to her.

Then again, things had been awfully chilly between them at home ever since that night, a little over a week ago, when she'd rebuffed him. Maybe sounding chilly and distant on the phone was his way of letting her know he was still p.i.s.sed at her.

The silence in the house gave her too much freedom to fret over whether his terseness reflected his professional mind-set or his annoyance with her. She went to the den and put a CD on the stereo-not Peter's rowdy hip-hop music, but Bonnie Raitt. Curt had been such a big fan of Raitt's after he'd seen her perform in Harvard Square during his first year in law school, and he'd turned Ellie into a Raitt fan, too.

Some of the songs were bluesy, but some were upbeat and confident. Ellie poured herself a gla.s.s of wine and lingered over her meal, tasting every mouthful, inhaling the wine's bouquet before she sipped. Once she was done and the dishes had been put away, she realized she was feeling a little less morose about Curt's absence.

Friday went better than Thursday. She felt stronger, somehow, more awake and aware. Instead of contemplating the hush that enveloped the house when she got home, she piled a stack of CDs onto the stereo-the Doobie Brothers, Bruce Springsteen, Sly and the Family Stone, music that would make a normal person want to dance.

Ellie was far from normal, but the music energized her. She turned up the volume so it blasted through the house. Then she climbed the stairs, walked down the hall and stepped into Peter's room.

"It's time," she said. Time to empty the bottle of Gatorade that still sat on his night table. Time to throw out the bag of Goldfish crackers on his desk-not the same bag that had been there when he died; since that day, Ellie had consumed countless bags of Goldfish while sitting at his desk and trying to channel his spirit. "It's time," she told herself as she crumpled that Goldfish package and tossed it into a trash bag.

Time to strip the sheets off Peter's bed and launder them. Time to reshelve The Great Gatsby in the den bookcase. The earth-science textbook, she discovered with chagrin, belonged to the high school. She should have returned it to the school a year ago.

She found more textbooks in his backpack and made a neat stack of them to take to the high school on Monday. She emptied the rest of his backpack, including a peanut-b.u.t.ter sandwich so stale it could have been used as a roofing slate, and tossed the battered, stained bag into the trash. She left his clothing alone-the girls might want some of his old flannel shirts or sweaters. His other belongings-knickknacks, toys he'd never quite outgrown, his comic books, his globe, the model of the Wright brothers biplane, which he'd constructed from a kit-all that could wait, as well. She intended to keep his numerous sports trophies. He'd been so proud of them. And the baseball signed by all his teammates after he'd pitched a no-hitter in Little League. And his beloved stuffed panda-Peter Panda, Peter had dubbed him, convinced that he and his panda ought to share the name. And his CDs, and the helicopter he'd constructed with his Lego set, and the kitsch lava lamp the girls had given him for Christmas when he was thirteen. It wasn't yet time to deal with all those things.

But the homework papers and old math tests crumpled and stuffed into a.s.sorted drawers of his desk-those could go. The smelly gym socks on the floor of his closet-into the trash. The pencil stubs. The sc.r.a.ps of paper with video-game codes scribbled onto them. The ball constructed of rubber bands. The mud-caked cleats. The toothbrush still propped into the stand in the bathroom.

All of it, into the trash.

By the time Ellie had tied the garbage bag and lugged it to the garage, the front of her sweater was damp with tears. But she felt good. So sad she shivered from the pain, but good, as well, as if a sore had been lanced and drained.

She slept well that night, despite the strangeness of not having Curt in bed with her, and she awakened feeling even more energized. When she peered into Peter's bedroom, it didn't look much changed, but it smelled of freshly washed linens instead of stale dust and muddy cleats, and a bright October sun spilled light through the window.

She decided to take a walk.

When was the last time she'd taken a walk? Not just walked somewhere she had to be, but walked nowhere?

Dressed in jeans, comfortable sneakers and a hooded sweatshirt, she ventured into her neighborhood, breathing the cleansing autumn air and delighting in the blazing colors of the leaves. She strolled all the way to the town green-a couple of miles at least-and gazed at the rectangle of gra.s.s surrounded by the Unitarian church, the fire station, the town hall building and a few preserved historical buildings. The green's gra.s.s was half-hidden beneath a carpet of brown and orange leaves shed by the oak, maple and birch trees that punctuated the lawn. The air carried the scent of smoke and tart apples.

Poor Curt, stuck in California during the most beautiful New England fall weekend of the year.

a.s.s here versed course and hiked back home, she thought about how much she missed him. Even though things had not been good between them, she loved him. He was her anchor, her support, an essential element in her reality. She wished he was with her, appreciating the gorgeous foliage and the refreshing breeze. She wished he could see the job she'd done on Peter's room.

He would see Peter's room tomorrow when he got home. He'd be pleased and grateful. He'd put his arms around her.

She'd put her arms around him.

I want you, Curt. I want you home. I want you with me.

Tomorrow, she thought, and a hesitant smile curved her lips. Curt would be home tomorrow. And she would be ready for him. She would never be whole again, but she was healing, finally. Maybe she'd needed a few days away from him to reach this point, but she'd reached it.

Once home, she tackled the living room, the den and the master bedroom, vacuuming, polishing, neatening up. She treated herself to take-out Thai food for dinner-pad thai was a definite improvement over Goldfish crackers-and then settled into the recliner in the family room and watched a Monty Python movie on the VCR. And laughed. Out loud.

Yes, she was ready for Curt.

He was scheduled to arrive home around dinnertime on Sunday. She thawed some strip steaks for dinner, prepared roasted red bliss potatoes with olive oil and herbs and tossed a salad. She carried a bottle of Rioja up from the wine rack in the bas.e.m.e.nt and opened it so it could breathe-she wasn't sure what that meant, but she figured it wouldn't hurt. Then she soaked in the tub, an indulgence she hadn't let herself enjoy since Peter's death, and dressed in the laciest underwear she owned. It wasn't flagrantly s.e.xy-Curt had never been particularly interested in s.e.xy lingerie-but it was feminine and flattering, and wearing it made her feel womanly. She completed her outfit with a beige cashmere sweater and her snuggest pair of jeans. Actually, all her jeans were kind of snug these days, thanks to her Goldfish binges.

She brushed her hair until it glistened, slid the diamond eternity ring Curt had given her for their tenth anniversary onto her finger and poked her diamond studs through her ears. She was nervous, but happy. She was ready. Ready to reclaim her life. Ready to let her husband reclaim her.

He arrived home at around seven. Peeking through the living-room window, she spotted the cab idling at the curb and remained where she was, watching Curt climb out, haul his wheeled suitcase from the seat and close the door. He would be tired, she knew, jet-lagged, bleary. She'd fix him a drink, let him unwind, follow his lead. Wasn't that what he'd been wanting her to do all along?

He came up the front walk and she swung the door open for him. Clad in faded jeans, a wrinkled shirt and his navy-blue blazer, his hair mussed and his mouth set, he didn't look as happy to see her as she was to see him. He probably expected to get turned away tonight. He probably thought nothing had changed since he'd left.

So much had changed. Ellie had cleaned Peter's room. She'd thrown away the Gatorade and the Goldfish. He would be pleased.

"Hi," he said wearily, tilting his head as she rose on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. That she'd kissed him didn't seem to register on him. He smiled briefly, then wheeled his suitcase to the stairs and lifted it by the handle. "Let me wash up, okay? Then we'll talk."

She accepted his reserve as a result of cross-country-flight fatigue. And maybe a touch of apprehension. He probably a.s.sumed she was the same Ellie he'd left five days ago. Maybe while he washed up, the importance of her having kissed him would sink in. He'd figure it out.

While he was upstairs, she grilled the steaks, lit the candles she'd arranged on the dining-room table and gave the salad dressing a final stir. He hadn't come back downstairs by the time everything was ready, and she realized that in addition to washing up he'd opted to unpack his bag. She decided that was a good thing. When he joined her, he'd be done with all his tasks and ready for a gla.s.s of well-breathed wine.

And as he'd promised, they would talk. He would tell her all about San Francisco. He'd gloat about the negotiation-she had no doubt it had gone his way-and complain about the ha.s.sles of flying across the country. And they'd eat, and she'd reach for his hand and say, "Let's go upstairs," and they'd blow out the candles and leave the dishes and make love. She could do this. She swore to herself she could. She wanted it. Her desire would guide her through her inhibitions and hesitations, her fears.

As soon as she heard his footsteps on the stairs, she zapped the steaks in the microwave for a few seconds to heat them. When he appeared in the kitchen doorway, she smiled and said, "We're eating in the dining room tonight."

"We are?"

She led the way, carrying the steaks on a platter. She'd already put the salad and potatoes on the table, and poured wine into two crystal goblets.

"What's this all about?" he asked as he took in the festive table.

"Welcome home?" She shrugged. "You were away and I missed you. And now you're home and I'm glad." She turned to him, searching his face for a sign that he recognized the profound change in her, that he was willing to forget for now how difficult she'd been, how emotionally crippled. She was better now. Surely he could see that. Surely he could forgive her for whatever pain she'd caused him.

"Ellie." He sounded pensive.

Couldn't he tell? Things were good now. He should be smiling. "Sit," she said, pulling out his chair and then settling into the chair across from him. "Let's drink a toast."

He lifted his gla.s.s, then lowered it and sighed. "Ellie. We have to talk."

Her festive mood had failed to infect him. The candles, the wine, the delicious meal she'd prepared, her smile...None of it registered on him. Had his flight been that awful? His entire trip a bust? "Fine," she said, refusing to drop her smile. "Let's talk."

"I had s.e.x with another woman."