Then the sky opened up with fiery chrysanthemums in red, white, and blue, followed by half an hour of continuous starbursts and booms that echoed and re-echoed across the Boston Harbor. The cityscape flickered in colored fire under the canopy of smoke. Then for maybe two consecutive minutes the final volley turned the night into crackling, booming bouquets of Technicolor explosions followed by a moment's silence then one solitary boom that concluded the show.

And a million people said, "Waaaaaaaaaaw."

They returned to the marina after midnight. Because of the holiday, the waterfront was still bustling with activity. They took a short stroll along the walkway of Atlantic Avenue and through Columbus Park. She tried not to think of Steve, although that was impossible. Her guilt kept surfacing throughout the evening, sometimes crossing with resentment that he had put pressure on her to reconcile just as she was emerging into postop, post-separation singlehood. She'd call him in the morning, hoping he'd forgive her.

When they returned to the marina, Max was waiting nearby in the limo. "Thank you. This was wonderful." And she leaned up and kissed Aaron on the mouth.

He was attractive, charming, brilliant, and disturbingly wealthy. Yet he did not seem arrogant or taken with himself. In fact, quite the opposite. He said very little about himself or his accomplishments, so often touted in the media. He was a good listener and said the right things; though at times he appeared awkward, she decided that he was probably not used to dating or dating someone like her who felt the compulsion to be on, to fill the silence. Maybe that was why he seemed so removed. Her only regret was that he lacked a sense of humor or perhaps her sense of humor-what she shared naturally with Steve. But that was fine. Maybe big-time cosmetic physicians didn't joke like ordinary mortals.

"You're welcome, and I hope we can do this again," he said. "But it's not good night just yet. Max is taking me home, too. So I'll be riding back with you."

73.

They rode side by side in the rear seat without saying much, both exhausted from the long evening of sea air and champagne.

"Thank you again. I had a great time."

"You're welcome."

After several minutes, she wondered if he was going to take her hand or put his arm around her. When he didn't, she slipped her hand on his. It felt warm but limp. Deciding that he needed a little encouragement, she rested her head against his shoulder.

They rode that way for another few minutes until her head felt as awkward as a bowling ball. Suddenly it occurred to her that maybe she was being too forward, possibly violating some blue-blooded protocol against anything physical early in a relationship. Or maybe he was offended by her presumptuousness, especially after seeing his multimillion-dollar yacht-his coolness merely a self-protected shield against opportunism.

Then she wondered if she wasn't his type of woman. Or that maybe she simply didn't turn him on. Or maybe, as she and Steve had speculated, that he was, in fact, gay. But he did ask her out this evening.

After another few minutes it occurred to her that he might not be attracted to women whose faces he had operated on-knowing what she looked like under her skin. But with that logic, male gynecologists wouldn't sire babies. What the hell, she thought, they're seasoned adults. She leaned over and kissed him on the lips.

His only reaction was a slight flinch as if taken by surprise. He stared at her without expression.

"Are you in there?"

"Yes."

Perhaps it was the champagne, but she kissed him again. The stiffness yielded as he slipped his arm around her shoulder and kissed her back.

Relief passed through her until she became aware that he wasn't kissing her in the regular way but making little pecks on her mouth and cheeks. It was bizarre, as if he was practice-kissing. What the hell is he doing? she wondered. It was like making out with a child.

Then she realized. "It's okay," she whispered. "It doesn't hurt."

He nodded then kissed her, letting his mouth linger on hers.

After a few moments, she opened her eyes to see Max adjust the rearview mirror as a signal that they were out of view. At a level barely perceptible, she heard the sweet refrains of Brahms flow from the speakers. Dana rested her head on his shoulder. She could smell his cologne, a flowery scent she didn't recognize.

"I'm glad you had a good time. I hope we can do this again."

"Me, too." She kissed him again, liking the fullness of his mouth against her, thinking about the subtle differences from Steve, the only man she had ever really kissed in the last seventeen years. She shifted in her seat and her hand landed on his thigh. Only half aware, she began to caress him as they kissed.

As if she had hit a power button, he suddenly pressed his mouth to hers and began to deep kiss her, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, sliding across her lips until it began to hurt. His breathing became quick and he started to writhe in place. She removed her hand from his leg, a bit startled at his response. His breathing turned into deep-throated groans as he pressed his open mouth hard against hers, as if trying to swallow her. She broke his hold, and he sprung back.

At first she thought he was retreating to catch his breath. But in the light of the street she noticed his eyes and the expression on his face. He was struggling with the heat of his own sensations, as if he were trying not to do this, trying to suppress arousal.

"You okay?" she whispered, hardly registering the fact that they had arrived in her driveway and that Max had turned off the headlights. The motor was still running and the music still played.

"Aaron?" she whispered.

But he did not respond. Instead he pressed his mouth to hers for more, and with his tongue against her teeth tried to wedge open her mouth, and failing that he began rubbing his face against hers, licking her lips and cheeks, all the while making tiny whimpering grunts.

With some effort she pushed him off her because the pressure had exacerbated the tenderness around her nose. "You're hurting me."

His eyes were large and glassy and his breath came in pants. Then as if snapping back, he muttered, "Sorry." He pulled his hands together and straightened up. "I guess I got carried away."

"Guess you did." Her mouth was sore.

"I'm really very sorry." Then he took her face in his hands and examined it in the light as if checking for damage.

She dabbed her nostrils to see if she was bleeding. She wasn't. "I'm okay."

He shook his head. "I feel...sorry."

She put her hand on his arm. "It's okay, I'm fine."

His face struggled with expressions. "You better go."

She nodded and got out.

As the car pulled away, she gave a little wave and headed up the driveway, digging in her bag for her keys and wondering what had happened in there.

74.

"Happy Independence Day," Steve said to himself, and downed the rest of the scotch.

It was past midnight, and he was standing in the dark of their bedroom, looking out at the empty street. In the distance he could still hear the crackle and booms of the fireworks that had rolled up from the Charles River across the lowlands of Cambridge and up the hills of Carleton. Just above the tree line small starbursts had lit the horizon in colored fire. In a dull sector of his brain he had counted the seconds between light and sound, thinking how they were out of sync. Like his life. Seven months ago this wouldn't be happening.

He had arrived at six fifteen as agreed. He had made reservations at Flora in Arlington, her favorite restaurant-where they celebrated special events. His plan was to tell about what had happened while walking on Hampton Beach-how something had snapped and he had felt a flood of certitude and resolve. He was ready to assume the commitment. More than that, he wanted to be a father. Yes, the prospect was still daunting and full of unknowns, but he also felt exhilarated-and the thought of a child of their own filled him with warm imaginings. Even if Dana was not yet ready to get back together, he wanted to share with her the fantasies of taking a son or daughter-or both-to the fireworks, the beach, the zoo, of reading to them before bed, of playing ball, of watching them grow up-all of that.

But as he had paced through the rooms and watched the hours tick by, that enthusiasm iced over. She had forgotten. By eight o'clock, he had placed his seventh call to her cell phone and still no answer. Then his mind slipped to the dining-room liquor cabinet downstairs.

Around nine he thought to check her desk calendar. There was one entry for July fourth: four P.M.

Four P.M. He had said six fifteen.

Maybe it was a hair appointment. Or a pedicure. He turned back the pages. Last month there was an entry for "Philomena-2:30." Philomena's was her hair salon. Another box a few weeks ago said "Ped-11." The same with other appointments: She always designated the destinations or party. That meant whatever was scheduled at four was understood, not something that would have slipped her memory. Like a date with someone other than him.

She had stood him up. And it wasn't a night out with Lanie Walker or Jane Graham or any of her other close friends. They lived between here and town, so when they went out she always drove and picked them up on the way. And her car was out back in the garage.

He headed downstairs, feeling like an intruder. The rooms, the furniture, the wall hangings, the decorations-all the same stuff, but it was as if he were viewing it all through a warped lens. Everything had an alien distortion to it. None of it felt familiar anymore.

He moved to the dining-room liquor cabinet and opened it. The old fifth of Chivas still sat untouched as it had for half a year. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and left the room and went back up to the bedroom window.

At about nine thirty, he returned and removed the bottle and laid it on the island counter in the kitchen, circling it like a vulture. But he didn't open it. Instead he headed for the front windows and waited. He called her cell again. No answer. That didn't make sense since she never turned it off.

At ten thirty he pulled out a tumbler and filled it with scotch. But he again talked himself out of breaking his vows to himself and to her, of yielding to a dumb, self-destructive urge-something he should be above, especially at a moment of crisis.

Stood me up. She's out with someone else.

He again went back upstairs and stood by the bedroom window. The fireworks were over, and a dark shroud of smoke hung over the horizon.

At midnight, he went back down and without waiting for the Greek chorus to rail at him, he guzzled down the drink.

The fire burned his throat and the fumes filled his head. It was his first drink in twenty-three days. And he didn't give a shit. But it did little to dull the hurt. He poured himself a second, then put the bottle away and went upstairs to their bedroom to wait.

Another hour passed, and Dana still had not shown.

She almost never stayed out this late when they were living with each other. Besides, she had her summer aerobics class at nine in the morning. And she never missed a session.

The thought of her overnighting at some guy's house left his fingers a bloodless cold.

The only lights outside were from the front door, the yellow cast of the single streetlight two houses up, and the hard crystalline moon through the trees. No. His eye fell on lights flickering through the distant trees of Old Mystic Road. A car. It was heading this way. A moment later it pulled around the corner and stopped at the bottom of the driveway.

A long black Lincoln Town Car.

In the dimness he could just make out a driver, but he could not see who occupied the rear seats. Why a limo, unless Dana and Lanie had decided to hit the town in a big way?

He waited. Several minutes passed, and still no movement. The driver sat without budging, staring straight ahead as if politely waiting for his passenger to leave. Steve could hear the hum of the engine and faint strains of music. At one point the driver switched to parking lights, clearly not in a hurry.

While Steve stood there, all sorts of possibilities shot through his mind-that Dana was drunk and digging out her keys from her handbag, maybe trying to count out a tip in the scant light. Or she had passed out and he had called 911 and was sitting there like a crash-test dummy, waiting for the paramedics.

Or maybe she was injured.

Then another thought cut across the others like a shark fin: Dana was dead, and the driver was waiting for the police.

He was about to head down when the rear passenger side door opened and Dana emerged. She closed the door, and as the car pulled away she gave a little wave.

Someone was silhouetted in the rear seat, a figure Steve could not make out. He watched the car head up the street, which was not the direction one would take to Lanie's, Jane's, or anyone else's. Dana walked up the driveway, dangling keys in her hand. She looked perfectly sober.

He headed downstairs. In a moment he heard her unlock the front door. Steve waited for her in the dim night-light of the kitchen. "Who was that?"

Dana screamed.

He flicked on the lights. "Who was he?" He felt crazy.

"Jesus Christ! You nearly scared me to death." She leaned against the counter with her hand on her heart, trying to catch her breath.

"We had a date and you were out with someone else."

"I forgot," she stammered. "I tried to call but I couldn't get through."

"How could you not get through?" The words nearly died in his throat. He barely recognized her. It was the first time he had seen her since the nose job, and she looked like someone else. The flesh under her eyes was still discolored and her nose looked slightly swollen, but the aquiline hook was gone, opening her face. It was like addressing someone who only vaguely resembled Dana.

"I was out of range."

Her mouth and cheeks were red from beard burn. "Who was he?"

She slammed her handbag onto the counter. "You have no right sneaking in here."

"I didn't sneak in. I've been waiting for seven fucking hours. We had a date."

"I forgot and I'm sorry." Then her eyes hardened. "And you're drunk."

"Who was he?"

"None of your business. Now get out." Her arm shot out like a lance toward the door.

"It's all over your face."

By reflex she made a move to wipe her mouth then caught herself. Her lipstick was smeared.

The alcohol was making him reckless. It was also disorienting him. The swelling in Dana's face, the purple shiners. The smaller, leaner nose. The wider, more open eyes. It was crazy, but for a split second he felt as if he were addressing Terry Farina.

"Did you screw him, too?" He tried not to let the images fill his head. Tried not to think that her mouth was red not just from kissing. "Did you?"

"You son of a bitch." Her voice was scathing. "No, I did not, now get out of here."

But he didn't move. The alcohol was short-circuiting the wiring in his brain. He felt himself at the brink, knowing that in a moment he could yield to the heat and start tearing the place apart, smashing things, bringing Dana to a point of terror. But he also knew in some small pocket of reason that no matter how bad it got he could never physically harm her. It was one of the few absolutes in his makeup. He would assassinate the president or take his own life before he could put a hand to her. Of that he was sure. "Who was he?"

"That's none of your business. Now get out before I call the police."

The fury in her eyes parched any comeback. And in an absurd flash, he saw himself outside in the dark, explaining the circumstances to a patrol officer, Dana at the door with a meat cleaver. Wouldn't that be fucking dandy? "You don't have to call anybody," he muttered. The heat rapidly seeped out of him and in its place, cold remorse.

"Then go."

"You're not wearing your wedding ring."

Her hand shot up like an obscene gesture. "It's on the other finger."

"But you're still married to me."