He didn't look up, probably thinking I was an autograph seeker.

"Hey, Slakowitz."

This got his attention. He looked up. "Oh, Kate, hi." He quickly slid out of the booth and stood to greet me. "My G.o.d, you look fabulous."

I kissed his cheek. He smelled of a mixture of cigarettes, cologne, and too much soap. "Jefferson," I said. "How good to see you."

"You really do look fabulous."

"You seem surprised."

He helped me off with my coat. I removed the furry earm.u.f.fs the boys had given me last Christmas and took my place across from him. He'd dressed casually. Too casually, I thought. A loose-fitting black sweater, faded jeans, brand-new black leather tennis shoes.

"I was hoping we'd have some time alone," he said.

"We're alone right now, Jeff."

"Yes, but," he said, pausing to smile, "he's in the bathroom."

In all the rush-and I'm not proud of this-I'd forgotten Tim was coming. This was particularly troubling because I had insisted that he join us. He was worried he'd be in the way. I said, "Nonsense, you're my husband," something like that, something obvious that didn't really express why I wanted him there. But I was firm, and finally, he relented.

Jeff glanced back over toward the men's room. "He's been in there a long time."

"What? Oh, he's funny that way."

"Yes, but he's been in there a really long time. I mean, I hope Tom's okay."

"Tim. It's Tim."

"Since when?"

"It's always been Tim."

"Aw, you're kidding." Jeff brought both hands to his face. "Aw, man. I wondered if I had the name right. You know that feeling when you don't know if a name is right? You kind of hesitate but hope. And when he didn't say anything, I kept saying Tom."

"It's his own fault, then. He should have said something."

"I feel bad."

"He'll be okay."

There was an awkward silence during which we looked at each other. Others would say he was more handsome now. The short, spiked hair, the day-old beard, the same real teeth, now bleached a blinding white. But I preferred the longer-haired Jeff, the less buff, perpetually stoned, in-need-of-a-bath, roll-his-own-cigarettes Slakowitz that I'd l.u.s.ted for once upon a time.

Taking my hands in his, he said, "I feel terrible about what happened with us. There's so much to say. So much I'd do differently. Like that was a vulnerable time, right before the wedding, and I wished I hadn't . . ."

Jeff Slakowitz came to our wedding, even though I had wanted to uninvite him. But since my sudden desire to uninvite him might have exposed what had occurred, he remained on the guest list.

"It's behind us," I said.

"You say that, but . . ."

Okay. Two weeks before the wedding, we'd shared a bottle of wine, smoked some cheap pot, and Jeff's playful pleas for me to call off the wedding grew more desperate and pathetic. He agreed to quit begging if he could have one last kiss-which seemed a sweet idea except for the lack of time limit we placed on it, because this last kiss led us to a bland room in a Motel 6 outside Bakersfield, where it almost turned into one last time. My maid of honor said it didn't count because Jeff never entered me and it was all over quickly. I needed Tim to know about it. You see, during that last month of our engagement, he'd been telling me everything. Funny things. His first French kiss. Not so funny things, too. Two students he'd slept with in his student-teacher days. He'd been so forthright that I knew I had to tell him. Also, he deserved to know the person he was marrying. I was struggling to explain it when Tim held up his hand for me to stop talking. "Listen," he said, "I'll forgive you your past if you forgive me mine."

"But I'm trying to tell you what happened yesterday."

"Yesterday included."

How cool was he. It was one of those moments when I knew I was marrying the right man.

But now Jeff Slade, TV star, was sitting across from me, struggling to find the words so that I might forgive him our past.

"I was rotten to you," he said.

"Really, I don't remember it that way." I was lying.

"Part of my program of recovery is that I make amends to the people I've hurt. And you are my last person. And I want to thank you for giving me this chance . . ."

The beauty of this particular narcissist is that while he believed he'd changed and learned and grown, he forgot that so had the person sitting across from him. Yes, he hurt me, and yes, it took a long time to recuperate, but time and distance had been my friends in this regard: If there had never been the frequently drunk and wasted Jeff Slakowitz, the three-timing, deceit-riddled Jeff Slakowitz, that hollow/shallow/ soulless thing of beauty, I never would have found Tim. Jeff made Tim possible in the same way that any person's mistakes inform his or her future choices. I can't count the times I've wanted to tell my husband, "Without Jeff Slade, there would have been no you."

I had the above thoughts while Jeff Slade kept on talking: ". . . was awful to you. And boy, do I know it now. The monster I was . . ."

Also, I wanted to thank him for single-handedly altering my aesthetic sensibility. Because of him, my idea of what beauty was changed from the washboard stomach, the chiseled cheekbones, the Adonis-like figure, and the love of mirrors to dependable, decent, humble, funny, gentle, generous. Slakowitz was my transition. He was my vapid, gorgeous f.u.c.k buddy. Tim Welch was my future.

"I hurt you, and I wish I could . . ."

But now, to mess with my head, Jeff Slade was midway through making his amends when I realized what he'd become. Dependable, decent, humble, funny, gentle, generous. And also newly sober.

"I'm basically trying to say I'm a changed man. And I wish I'd changed sooner-"

"I get it. I got it. Don't say any more."

But it appeared Jeff was just getting started when I heard a vaguely familiar male voice go, "Oops."

We both turned to find Tim, who had finally emerged from the bathroom, standing there. I didn't recognize him right away.

"Do you two want more time alone?"

That was when I started to laugh, partly from guilt (because I did maybe want more time) but mostly because of how he was dressed. He wore his professorial cardigan sweater with the brown moleskin elbow patches. He'd slicked back his hair in such a way that it made him look younger and more vulnerable. What especially got me was the rose-briar pipe (empty of tobacco, of course) that he held in his hand and occasionally stuck in his mouth. He looked retro-fifties, like a loving father from one of those black-and-white TV shows. It was off-putting at first, but it quickly grew on me. Bravo, I thought. Tim was the real actor that evening. Award-winning. He hadn't wanted to attend the reunion of two ex-lovers, but he'd come along because I'd insisted. And for better or worse, he'd come on his own terms.

My only objection was his choice of where to sit. I'd made room for him next to me, but he slid in on Jeff Slade's side. It was the oddest feeling, the two of them next to each other, both facing me. I thought of that Sesame Street song about how one thing is not like the others.

Before we ordered from the menu, Jeff announced that this would be his treat. I started to object, but Tim said, "Kate, don't be rude." I shut up because Tim was right.

Jeff ordered what I ordered, the grilled chicken salad, and Tim went for a bacon cheeseburger with twice-dipped fries.

During the meal, Jeff talked all about Jeff. He spoke about his show, which Tim claimed we'd seen and liked. "It's your best work," Tim said. Jeff looked in my direction. I nodded.

"You don't know what that means to me," Jeff said.

We saw plenty of pictures of Jeff's new dog, the ineptly named Korky, a Great Dane with a disturbingly large p.e.n.i.s. We saw pictures of his new car-a Mercedes-Benz SUV-and his new house, a 1920s Spanish villa-looking structure, red tile roof, once home to none other than Zsa Zsa Gabor. It was your typical movie-star mansion. What was atypical was that it belonged to someone we knew.

"It's just a house," Jeff said with humility. "It doesn't make a person happy."

I wasn't sure if he believed that to be true.

Tim listened intently, appearing fascinated by everything Jeff Slade had to say. On several occasions, during our Jeff-dominated conversation, Tim found a way to segue in my direction-from a discreet mention of my work to what the boys were like and how we enjoyed life in the Heights. Later, Tim became so frustrated that he out-and-out bragged about the grants Bruno and I were going to give away. Of course, Jeff countered that he'd been recently approached by Make-A-Wish, which caused Tim to snap and say, "But Kate is actually doing something . . ."

I reached under the table and squeezed Tim's knee.

It was that kind of night. Annoyed one moment, relieved the next. But it went well, considering, and it probably would have continued going well if it weren't for a cell phone. When it rang, Jeff flipped open the receiver and pushed talk only to realize he and I had the same ring.

Digging through my purse, I found my phone. The caller ID was flashing our home number, and I answered. Pearl, our babysitter, sounded worried. Teddy had come down with a fever, and while she was taking his temperature, he'd thrown up all over his pajamas. I asked if he was all right, and she said, "He's doing fine, considering," and that he was asking for Daddy.

I told her I'd be right home.

TIM.

HUBERT HUMPHREY, FORMER VICE PRESIDENT, EX-SENATOR FROM MINNESOTA, AND Democratic candidate for president in 1968, was a patient at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester on and off in the spring of 1978, while undergoing radiation and chemotherapy for a quick-spreading cancer of the bladder that would soon claim his life. One evening while being visited by his devoted wife, Muriel, and other loved ones, he said he was feeling very tired, so they hugged and kissed him good night. On the way out, Muriel informed the nurse that the vice president was not to be disturbed. Desperate for sleep, Humphrey himself dialed up the switchboard to make sure they would turn off his phone. With the promise that they would, he fell quickly asleep. Ten minutes later, the phone rang. Startled and annoyed, Humphrey fumbled around for the phone and answered it, none too happy, only to discover that Richard Milhouse Nixon, his opponent in the '68 election, was on the other end of the line, calling from his house in San Clemente, California, where he'd been living in disgrace since resigning the presidency on August 8, 1974.

That night these two men-Humphrey dying, Nixon wishing himself dead-spoke on the phone. What did they talk about? No transcript of their conversation exists, but it stands to reason they spoke about how the vice president was feeling. Perhaps they discussed their loving wives, their wonderful and supportive children. Nixon may have talked about the recent birth of another grandchild. Maybe they voiced admiration, regrets. Maybe they had old friends in common to discuss. Maybe Nixon said something that made Humphrey laugh. We'll never know. But this much is certain: What had likely been intended as a brief call to a former adversary turned into a two-hour conversation.

I thought about Nixon and Humphrey in those moments after Jeff Slade had excused himself to take his turn in the Heights Cafe men's room. Kate had been gone half an hour at that point. I know it's a stretch-Nixon/Humphrey, Slade/Welch. Still, I couldn't help but wonder: Were the feelings between me and Jeff Slade somewhat like what Nixon and Humphrey felt that night after hanging up? The surge of warmth in the veins, the sense of uplift that comes when your enemy is no longer your enemy, that what kept you fierce and burning no longer needed to be fed.

Yes, this was like that.

Now it wasn't that I'd instantly become Jeff Slade's best friend. But I found myself kind of liking the guy. What had happened? One moment, I later realized.

It came after Kate had hurried off to tend to Teddy. Our waiter was turning the pepper grinder, and the pepper was floating down over Jeff's grilled chicken strips on mixed greens, when he said, "Look, I know I'm lucky." It wasn't the words, exactly, but how he said them. The look of humility in his eyes. The complex contradictory tones. I know I'm lucky. The subtext of it all being: I know what I'm not. I'm not a good actor. I'm overpaid to do something that ultimately keeps the ma.s.ses fat and sedated. I believed everything that ran under those words. That was the moment when I started to like Jeff Slade. That was the moment when I felt the cost of nursing such an intense hatred, those times I'd turned on the television and thrown the boys' stuffed animals at the screen whenever the camera cut to a close-up of that symmetrical face and those bee-stung lips.

We'd both won, after all. Jeff Slade got the money, the fame, the fast cars, the endless s.e.x, the house in Hollywood, the Lakers tickets (court-side), and what did Tim Welch get? I got the girl. This thought brought the beginnings of a smile to my face. That was when I noticed a young couple sitting at a nearby table, staring at me. The young wife leaned over and whispered to me, "I'm sorry to bother you."

"Yes?" I replied, sensing what was about to come.

"Can you tell us-" She gestured toward where Jeff had been sitting. "Is it him?"

Oh, yes, it's him, and he's in the bathroom taking a c.r.a.p, just like you or me.

But I said no such thing. I nodded and said, "Yes, and isn't he the best?"

"Yes, we love his show." Then the wife punched her doughy husband in the shoulder and said, "See, I told you."

What fun this was, dining out with the famous. What did sitting in such close proximity with Jeff Slade intimate? I must be someone, too.

Later, after much of the cafe had cleared, Jeff Slade and I had the following conversation while waiting for Kate, who was not to return.

"So, Tim, have you spent much time in L.A.?"

"No-"

"It's incredible. It's a wild place."

"I bet."

"Who do you want to know about?"

"What do you mean?"

"I find lots of people are curious about celebrities, stars. Is there anybody you want to know about?"

"Not particularly-"

"Who's nice, who's not so nice? Who gives the best head?"

I coughed up the water I'd just sipped.

Jeff Slade smiled. "Hint: It's a famous director's actress wife. Before her, it was a TV actress of some note who pretty much blew everybody. She does infomercials now. I'm not going to say their names, because I think that would be rude."

"Yes, it would be. Rude."

The decline in this conversation seemed to work in concert with the dimming of the lights in the dining area. Jeff was now mostly lit from a single large flame flickering wildly from a votive candle he had moved closer to his side of the table. The candle cast a menacing light across his chiseled features.

The waiter appeared with dessert menus. "Not yet," I said. "We're waiting for the rest of our party to return."

When the waiter disappeared, Jeff leaned forward and grinned. "Okay, you twisted my arm."

"I twisted what?"

"True story. Early in my career, I'm shooting a TV movie in Canada, staying at the Hyatt in downtown Vancouver. I've finished shooting for the day, I'm back in my room, and my hotel phone rings. I answer. Guess who it is?"

"I wouldn't know."

"It's Angelina Jolie. Now, I first met Angie years ago at the infamous ear-biting Tyson/Holyfield fight in Las Vegas. I was catering at a prefight c.o.c.ktail reception, and she b.u.mmed a cigarette off me. On my break, we stood in a corner and talked and clicked in that way people click. Do you know what I mean?"

I just nodded, because what was I supposed to say?

"So, where were we? Vancouver. The Hyatt. I'm on the phone talking to Angelina Jolie. This is in her post-Jonny Miller, pre-Billy Bob phase, before the blood vials around their necks, obviously before Brad Pitt and their United Colors of Benetton family."

"Oh," I said, as if interested.

"So I say, 'Hey, Angie, this is a surprise.' She says, 'I'm in town.' And I say, 'No way,' and she says, 'Yep,' and then she tells me what hotel. It's the Sutton Place, which I can see from my hotel room window. And she says, 'I'm only here for one night.' I start to say, 'That's too bad' (because I'm about to have dinner with my mom, who's up visiting from Florida), but I don't finish my sentence because she tells me she's checked herself in under a certain name, Trammel-which she points out was Sharon Stone's character's last name in Basic Instinct- and she tells me to write down her room number, and then she says, 'I'm leaving in the morning. And, Jeff, I want to be perfectly clear. This is a onetime offer.'"

Jeff Slade paused, for he knew he had my attention now.

As nonchalantly as possible, I said, "And so what did you do?"

Jeff suppressed a smile as he used the small red straw to stir his Shirley Temple. "I don't know if that's your business."

"Oh, come on."