Upset? Please. There I was, facing myself in a full-length gold-framed mirror. I forgot that my husband had been too forthcoming, and I forgot the stubble on my unshaven legs and the regrettable state of my underwear, and for a moment I even forgot about the mess we were making of this planet's future, because my mind raced with other thoughts, ranging from I could stare at myself for hours to d.a.m.n, I'm hot to the near certainty that this dress was made just for me.

BEA MYERLY.

Dear Mr. Welch, I'm sorry for your loss.

Sincerely yours, Bea P.S. Please disregard this letter if the homeless man who was found frozen to death on the steps of Plymouth Church was not the same homeless man who is/was your friend. My hunch and fear is that he's the same person. If he is/was, you must remember you did all you could. It was you who gave him money and food and showered him with clothes and athletic apparel-it was you who made him feel less alone in this cruel and brutal world.

Oh, it just occurred to me that there's a chance you haven't even heard this news. My apologies if you haven't heard!

I don't even know when it happened. Recently, I think. My father told me tonight during dinner. I had complained that we never have anything good to eat anymore. My dad mentioned that there were plenty of people in the world who would kill for pork chops like ours. "Like who?" I snapped. (Or is it whom?) "Well, that homeless man at the Clark Street subway station," he said. I said, "Fine, then, I have a good mind to march over there in the cold and give them [the pork chops] to him." That was when my father told me that a homeless man had frozen to death in the Heights.

Apparently, the janitor of the church was shoveling snow when he found the man curled up like a baby, stiff as a board. It's so sad.

It reminds me of the lecture you gave about how everybody has a history. And how most histories go unrecorded. Generally, I believe, people do the best they can, and if they don't do well, they don't do well for very good reasons.

I'm left with so many questions. Who was he? How did he get lost? If it's true what you taught us, that each of us is capable of doing anything, then you or I or anyone, for that matter, could end up homeless, on the street, buried under a ton of snow, having frozen to death.

If I'm so sad, Mr. Welch, I can only imagine how you feel. Please reach out to me if you need comfort.

P.P.S. I never told Mrs. Ashworth you called all those times. Your secret is safe with me.

TIM.

HINDSIGHT IS, SADLY, AFTER ALL, ONLY HINDSIGHT. STILL, IF PHILIP ASHWORTH had been home to accompany his wife, and if Anna hadn't invited Kate and me in his place, and if we hadn't said yes, and, furthermore, if the lightbulb in our closet hadn't burned out, then what happened the night of the Yuletide Ball might never have happened.

On a night when there was so much to be bothered by, what would I claim bothered me most? Not the excess of food and drink before me; not the ornate chandelier hanging overhead, the numerous candles, the fires blazing in the matching marble fireplaces; not the din of smug chatter from the hedge-fund-rich or the mixing of so much cologne with so many perfumes or the threat of cigars; and not even the unspoken but well-known fact that soon there would be dancing in a building a few blocks from where a homeless man-and not just any homeless man but my homeless man-had frozen to death two days earlier. No, what would I say bothered me most?

The collar on my rented tuxedo shirt felt too tight.

Earlier, when I told Kate as much, she laughed, because she knew the collar was the least of my sadnesses. "Honey, I know this is a terrible time for a party."

"Yes," I said. "I think so."

"But if you don't feel like going, stay home. Anna and I will be fine . . ."

"No, I'm going."

"Okay, but then please don't be so glum."

I understood her point. If you're going to a party, be in the proper mood. And besides, hadn't I ruined the last party we attended? So I put on my best party face, determined to be a positive force despite the inner turmoil I felt. Kate made it easy. When she emerged from our tiny bathroom to model the borrowed dress, I had no words beyond "Wow." But she knew by my expression, by the way my eyes welled, that I was sincere. She appreciated, too, that I laughed at her little joke: "We need to be home by midnight," she said, "otherwise, I may turn into a pumpkin." I was even able to shake off the rude greeting given by the dinner 's hostess, Abigail Hosford. She met us at the front door wearing an unfortunate bright red dress that made her look like a giant Christmas ornament. When she greeted Anna, Abigail seemed star-struck. However, her smile froze when she realized we'd come in place of Philip Ashworth. Later, when Kate whispered her annoyance that Anna hadn't forewarned the Hosfords, I said sweetly, "Aw, honey, don't be so glum."

Abigail Hosford clinked her gla.s.s with a fork and gave a succinct speech about the purpose of the evening. She mentioned the homeless man whom "several of us had befriended" and asked that we "all think of others less fortunate." We bowed our heads.

After an appropriate silence, Abigail explained why she had elected to seat the men in one room and the women in another, explaining to the gathered guests, "This is how they used to do it." And it was a bad idea then, too, I thought. But she would never know what I thought, because I welcomed her announcement with an easy smile and a gentle shrug.

"Poor Tim," Anna said as I was ushered off into the other half of the parlor floor, where I sat among the men, who talked about man things. Stocks. Alma maters. A rather boisterous conversation about the skills and dexterity required to excel at squash, a sport I knew next to nothing about, but who would know by the way I nodded and seemed to agree?

"You play?" one man said.

I smiled as if to say, Oh, all the time.

Sitting to his right, a pink-cheeked doughnut of a man in a shiny tuxedo stared at my untouched plate of seared salmon and broccoli rabe. "You aren't eating," he observed.

"That's correct."

"Why aren't you eating?"

"I haven't much of an appet.i.te."

"Hmmm," the man grunted. "Well, I'm starved."

Normally, I'd have done the polite thing and concurred. But starved had a new meaning that holiday season. Besides, I'd left the company of the men (at least in my mind) and was staring across the double parlor to the opposite end, where Kate and Anna shared a chair.

If they were sisters, I decided-and that night they seemed like they might be-Anna would be the older, more worldly-wise of the two, who, for one night, stepped aside and let her younger sister emerge. For Kate had the better dress, and that was saying a great deal.

I decided then, if one were to start a new world, if the G.o.ds were to flood the earth and begin again, they should start there, with those two.

The pink-faced man looked where I was looking. "Lovely, aren't they?"

"Yes," I said.

A cater-waiter brought them an extra chair. Another brought a plate and a setting of silver. Anna waved them off, which made me smile.

"Do you know them?" the pink-faced man asked.

"Yes. One of them is my wife."

"Oh," he sighed. "A pity you couldn't marry them both."

As if on cue, Anna glanced to where I was sitting forlornly with the men. Then she leaned in and whispered something to Kate in such a way that I knew they were talking about me.

Later, when dessert came, the s.e.xes were free to mingle. Kate and Anna plopped down next to me. Anna spoke first: "You must be in your own little circle of h.e.l.l."

"No, I'm having a nice time."

Kate smiled because she knew I was lying.

Anna, after a pause: "I'm sorry about your friend."

"Who? Oh, well, I wasn't really his friend."

"Of course you were," Kate said.

"No, a friend would have done more for him."

Kate: "You did more for him than anybody else."

Oh, please, I wanted to say. All I did was buy him the occasional slice of pizza. The truth was I didn't do nearly enough for him, and whenever I did something, it didn't really help him; I used Lenny to feel good about myself. Besides, I hardly knew the man. Lately, I had avoided him. Part of me was relieved that he was gone. Lenny had snapped, he was insane. He was always going to live on the street. He was a lost cause. If he were an academic paper, he would be my dissertation. So much potential, lost, wasted.

When I was younger, I believed that special people would always find a way to rise up and fulfill their potential. But now I knew otherwise. Remarkable people, people like Lenny who would rattle the world if they were given a fair chance, these same people were starving to death, freezing to death, losing their way every day.

"Well," Anna said. "I hope this doesn't sound too in-the-clouds."

"Yes?"

"Even though it's difficult to lose someone, it's been my experience . . ." Anna put one of her hands on top of one of mine. Her hand was softer and smoother than Kate's, and colder. "With every death, there comes a gift."

KATE.

MY HUSBAND IS A RIDICULOUS DANCER. BUT OTHER THAN TEACHING, IT MAY BE THE only time he enjoys an audience. Surely he knows how absurd he looks. He basically flails. He shakes his head wildly, he bunny-hops across the floor, pointing his fingers in opposite directions. He does a sloppy spin that causes the sweat from his forehead to spray in a circle. And I must confess, it would be all right if I never had to dance with him again.

However, my friends don't agree. They line up to dance with him, because their husbands are not much fun in that regard. Their men usually stand stiffly in the corner, drinking and talking shop. Still, I've often wished for a husband who moves with me, connects with me when we dance.

Be careful what you wish for, because that night Tim danced in an entirely new way.

First of all, when the usual suspects approached and tried to cut in, he wouldn't even acknowledge them. They must have thought him rude. But maybe they felt as I did-how refreshing to have a husband so smitten.

At one point Tim disappeared, claiming that he found the current song undanceable. That was when I went over to where Anna was sitting alone, watching. "You two are good," she said.

"Not always."

Now, I am a person who receives her fair share of praise. But nothing had prepared me for what followed. Wives, husbands, people I didn't know, people I didn't know even knew me, pa.s.sed by our table, saying things like: "You look fabulous/you are stunning/my wife and I have been watching you/you are the belle of the ball."

I blushed. Anna laughed when I tried to attribute it to the dress. Once we were alone again, she took my hands and asked, "Where's your husband?"

"I don't know. Why?"

"I want to dance."

I didn't know where Tim had gone. I looked around the room. It was the first time I'd noticed the white paper lanterns hanging equally s.p.a.ced from invisible wires. The rented white tent, the Christmas lights, and the bouquets of flowers at each table. It was impressive how the Heights Casino had converted their prime tennis court to a dance floor. The green turf had been rolled up, revealing a beautifully polished wooden floor. At the far end, a big band called Yesterday's Tomorrow played. The band was made up of only female musicians and a buxom African-American singer so beautiful she could be a plus-size model.

Since Tim had wandered off to I didn't know where, and because the music had changed to something great, I stood up, and Anna followed me to the dance area. Soon Claudia, Debbie, and some other mothers joined in. Weirdly, men began to appear on the sidelines, watching. Anna was barefoot. I thought it was a mistake for her to have taken off her shoes. It made her look shorter, ordinary. But she was comfortable. Soon my shoes were off, too.

When Tim returned, he joined us on the dance floor, where he was even more focused on me. I don't know how else to describe it: He was a human spotlight that night. I closed my eyes and began to spin. It felt as if everyone were watching me.

I stopped when I got dizzy, and Tim held me up. "Dance with Anna," I said.

"No, thanks."

"But she'd like to dance with you."

"I only dance with the prettiest girl here."

"All the more reason."

"And I'm dancing with her now."

Good answer.

During the next song, which was a slow song, Tim said he wanted to go home. I started to object. Then he whispered in my ear in the nicest way that he'd never been so erect. I wondered if the others noticed us leave. Anyone watching us must have known-soon there would be s.e.x.

TIM.

IT WAS THE KIND OF DRESS PERFECT FOR UNZIPPING. AND BECAUSE IT WAS tight-fitting, we both could hear the zipper as it faintly clicked down her spine, curving as her back curved . . .

"She wants me to keep it," Kate said. "Do you think I should?"

"What?"

"Anna. The dress."

I said nothing.

"You're not listening."

"Yes, I am."

"So should I keep it?"

"My only interest in this dress is how quickly I can get you out of it."

She seemed put off by my answer. "I really want to keep it," she said. "But I don't know if I should. It's much too much, way too generous. I'll always feel like I owe her. It's not like I can give her anything of comparable value. So that's it. It's decided. I'm going to return it. Okay?"

"That's probably best."

"You think? But she gave it to me. Now I don't know. I really want to keep it. Agh! I feel like I'm fifteen. Let me just say this-wearing it made me understand why, as a general rule, it's better to be rich. Tim, are you listening?"

Later that night, during a shared bath, the room lit by a lavender-scented candle, I was giving Kate a foot rub when she said, "I didn't say good night. Did you?"

I kept up the foot rub.

"Tell me you said good night to Anna."

Anna, Anna, please shut up about Anna. "No," I said, as if I'd forgotten, when in truth, it had been a deliberate choice. By ignoring Anna, I could avoid her kind words or warm smile or, even worse, another one of her patless hugs.

"That was rude of us. We were her guests. We should've thanked her."

I tried to shut Kate up with a kiss. As I lunged forward, the bath-water sloshed up and snuffed out the candle.

That kiss led to a series of kisses, which led to our bed, where-more so than normal-I tried to be especially in the moment: the touching, the moving together. Kate's skin. Her eyes. Her soft mouth. I'd never been so aware of her sweat, her hair, those hands, hips, her back. Her bones. I was awash in Kate and all her Kateness when the light in the closet (which was the only light on) suddenly went out, turning our bedroom pitch-black.

I froze. In the dark, Kate kept moving, saying, "It was an old bulb. I can't believe it lasted this long."

"Do you want me to replace it?"

"No," she said. "Please, it's nice like this. And don't stop."

Now the only light came from the red numbers of Kate's digital alarm clock. This had the distracting effect of accentuating time. And the time on the clock kept changing. My fear? This was taking too long. My solution? I turned the clock facedown. "So close," I kept telling her. "I'm so close!"