I'LL GIVE YOU A WEEKEND.

Five simple words-six if you count the contraction-strung together to form one simple sentence. But what did it mean? I spent much of January breaking it down.

I'll . . .

Notice what she didn't say: "I may." Or "I might. I could/should/ would/can't/won't/don't/ haven't." Or "I would never, ever in a million years."

No, it was I'll . . .

Meaning?

I, Anna Brody, will . . .

Give . . .

As in a gift. Or as in: It is better to give . . .

You . . .

Seeing as it was my ear into which she had whispered, her you meant me. This led to the question: "Why me?" Granted, I'd been helpful. A friend. We'd had several heart-to-heart conversations. And I was really good with Sophie. So yes, I deserved a thank-you note, maybe an Armani tie or a holiday basket of fruit and cheese. Make me a tin of Christmas cookies! But to offer . . .

A weekend.

What, just the two of us alone? To be alone together for the two days that comprise a weekend? What was Anna Brody thinking? Was she even thinking? And was I to take her offer seriously? Surely she was joking. Or was it a game? A tease?

Truth be told, I couldn't even determine whether she was serious, because the day after our curious encounter in the produce section of the Garden of Eden on Montague Street, Anna Brody left the country with her husband and daughter for a trip abroad.

So for the time being, I was left all alone to wonder what she'd meant. I tried to put her offer out of my mind, to get on with my life, that sort of thing. But too often, random Anna Brody thoughts popped up, especially whenever I worked on my dissertation. If her intention had been to pervade my daily life, she'd succeeded. I wished it were otherwise, but her words, and the direct, almost desperate manner in which they'd been said, not only lingered, they burrowed their way in, deep.

This may help explain why I wrote the following letter.

1/13 3:13 A.M.

Dear Coach, The greatest gift we can give our parents is to not make their mistakes. Would you agree? I suspect you do. So would you do me a favor? Please list your ten biggest mistakes in no particular order. Any explanation as to why these ten and not any of the many others would be appreciated. This is not meant to be vindictive or to hurt you. My sister and I both would like to benefit from your hard-earned life lessons. By making new and different mistakes, not only do we honor the past, it's how we also honor you.

Your son, Tim I addressed the envelope, sealed it, and affixed a LOVE stamp. The next morning I dropped it in the mail.

Two days later, our phone machine's message light was blinking. It was Coach: "What kind of bulls.h.i.t is this? Mistakes? List my ten biggest mistakes? That's weakness, Tim. Plain and simple. Sissy talk. What's happened to you? I can't figure it out. I thought New York would toughen you up. What have you been doing, going to church?"

No, but it occurred to me: Now, there's a good idea.

If ever a person needed church.

That Sunday I woke the boys, plied them with Frosted Flakes, got them dressed, and took them along while Kate slept in.

I hadn't been to church in years. As a kid, I rarely went because my father loathed organized religion. According to the Gospel of Coach, G.o.d was a terrible dad. "What kind of father would let his son die on a cross?" (A fair question.) "No," Coach liked to tell me when I was little, "if I were G.o.d, and you were my only son, do you know what I'd do for you? I'd make you a winner. Every time out, son, you'd win!"

So which church?

I chose the closest.

Grace Episcopal was a beautiful gray stone structure, built in 1847, with Tiffany stained-gla.s.s windows, an ornate altar, and Sunday school/ child care for toddlers and preschoolers. A friendly usher pointed us to the bas.e.m.e.nt, where I left my boys as they began a messy but fun-looking arts-and-crafts activity that consisted of gluing dried macaroni to paper plates. "Be good," I said.

I sat in the last pew. I spent much of that morning learning when to kneel and sit and stand, the complex switch from the black prayer book to the bigger dark blue hymnal to the church bulletin, and somehow, amid all the kneeling and standing and sitting and hymn singing, I managed to eke out a little prayer-something about wanting guidance, the nature of sin, and needing direction. During the closing hymn, when all the other parishioners were standing and singing "O G.o.d, Our Help in Ages Past," I dropped to my knees and prayed: Please, I don't know what to do about Anna Brody's offer. So, G.o.d, if there's a G.o.d, just send me a sign.

KATE.

MOST PEOPLE BELIEVE THEMSELVES CAPABLE OF KEEPING A SECRET. TIM SAYS I'M one of the few who actually can. Even as a little girl, when my mother confided in me things no daughter should ever have to know, I prided myself, almost to the point of gloating, on my capacity for sealed lips. As long as I can remember, it has been one of my best attributes, or so I thought. In my dark period, that endless year before I met Tim, it was my raison d'etre. So much so that I once considered having a T-shirt custom-made that would read: I AM AN ACCOMPLISHED KEEPER OF SECRETS.

I know that's what made Tim so appealing. His lack of secrets. That's what made our first days together so refreshing. Secrets, the kind I had kept, were exhausting. I was exhausted. And with Tim, I could finally rest.

Anyway . . .

I needed to get rid of Anna's dress. As long as I had it, I'd be haunted or, as Claudia suggested, cursed. (Perhaps it had been a mistake, but I told Claudia about Tim's blurting out Anna's name. Claudia cringed when she heard, then said, "We all think about other people from time to time, but who wants to be reminded of it?" For Claudia, there was no question as to whether I would return the dress. In her mind, I couldn't do it fast enough.) I'd heard that Philip had taken Anna and Sophie to France for the month of January. My plan was to return the dress while they were away, leaving it with their housekeeper.

But to my surprise, after I knocked, Philip Ashworth opened the door. He was fresh from a shower and smelled of English soap. I remember thinking if this were an old black-and-white movie, he'd be played by Gary Cooper or a blond Henry Fonda. But the black-and-white part would be a pity, because his eyes were Paul Newman blue.

"Oh," he said, "I thought you were the car."

I handed him the garment bag and said, "If you could give this to Anna."

He looked puzzled. "What were you doing with this?"

"I'm returning it."

"Why did you have it?"

"Well, your wife gave it to me. But now I'm giving it back."

His jaw dropped slightly. He looked down. He sighed. "Won't you come in?"

"I'm late for work."

"Please, Kate. Please, come in."

That he remembered my name was what carried me inside.

We stood in the foyer with the light blue Egyptian tile floor and the ornate tin ceilings. Near the door, a leather carry-on was packed, ready for travel. Even though he spoke softly, the sound bounced around in the cavernous front room. He wanted specifics. He seemed most interested in the time frame as to when had she given me the dress. I told him that she'd lent it to me for the Yuletide Ball, that she hadn't wanted to go alone. He seemed pained by my saying it, but I thought it was better to be honest. Then I explained that she'd insisted I keep it. I said it was too much, I didn't feel comfortable receiving such a valuable gift. He thanked me for returning it.

Something was knocked over upstairs. He didn't seem to notice. A woman's voice called out, "Philip?" or at least I thought so.

"Was that someone calling for you?"

"No," he said. "We're the only ones here."

Then the doorbell rang.

"Not anymore," I said, my attempt at a joke.

"That's the car." He went for his bag. "I'm going into the city, Kate. Can I offer you a ride?"

Outside, he looked older. The light of day accentuated his wrinkles, proving that even Philip Ashworth had to age. I found this comforting.

The driver held the door for me as I ducked into the car. While Philip went around to his side, I glanced up and saw a woman looking down from the Ashworths' third-floor corner window. Not the housekeeper, and not Anna Brody, although the woman in the window had the same coloring. She was an older, duller version of Anna, pale, not pretty, an earlier, rougher draft. This was my sense of her, but it all happened fast, the way she raised her hand as if to wave good-bye, and then, as Philip climbed in the back with me, she pressed her hand to the gla.s.s. It was a sad gesture, I thought, and one that only I saw. She must have noticed me watching, because she abruptly stepped away, and the curtain she'd been holding open fell back into place.

"What luck," he said, "getting to spend some time with you."

"Well, I appreciate the ride." I tried to quietly connect my seat belt. It made a loud click. Philip Ashworth slipped his on without a sound.

"So, Hank, what do we got?"

Hank was the driver. "Ray Charles."

"I hope you like Ray Charles," Philip said to me.

"Yes," I said. "He was a compelling argument for being blind."

Thankfully, Philip let my comment go. I forgave myself the odd choice of words, because my mind was still focused on the woman in the window. We're the only ones here, he had said. Apparently, the woman in the window didn't count.

Ray Charles came over the car stereo-raw, soulful, at a soft volume-as we turned onto the Brooklyn Bridge.

"Comfortable?" Philip asked.

"Yes," I said as I sank into the soft black leather seat. "Very."

Philip was in the middle of explaining his whirlwind schedule- back in the States for the day, a quick stop at the house to freshen up before an important meeting in midtown, then a rush to catch the last flight for Paris to rejoin Anna and Sophie in the South of France-when the traffic on the bridge came to a stop.

"Construction, sir, or an accident, I can't tell which."

Philip craned his neck to see the traffic situation on the bridge and said, "She talks about you all the time."

"Excuse me?"

"My wife talks about you all the time."

"No-o."

"Oh, yes, it's always 'Kate this' and 'Kate that.' She's always mentioning you and your husband."

"I wouldn't know why."

"She seems to think you have it all."

I couldn't help laughing. It was one thing for her to flatter me with such nonsense, but to brainwash her husband as well?

"How well do you know her?" he asked.

"Not very."

Philip sighed and said, "I was afraid you'd say that." He glanced out the side window. "It's her nature to inflate things. Sometimes she gets a wild notion in her head." He looked back at me with a mournful expression. "You really don't know her well, because she's tough to know. She doesn't trust easily."

Yes, but, Philip, maybe with good reason. I mean, who was that woman in the window?

"It's difficult to explain her. Suffice it to say she's a person of extreme sensitivity. Fragile, I think. It's what makes her Anna. It's what makes her vibrant and astonishing in my eyes."

No cars on the bridge had moved. In the van in front of us, a driver leaned on his horn.

"You better call ahead, Hank. Let them know we're running late." Philip turned to me and said, "Where were we?"

"You were telling me about Anna."

"If she likes somebody, she tends to idealize them. Like you and your husband. Also, she's extremely generous, almost to a fault."

"Yes, I know, the dress."

"You see, I never wanted to marry anyone. But she's not anyone. I couldn't have imagined Anna. I couldn't have dreamed her up."

A few years back there was an awards show on television where a noted philanderer received a lifetime achievement award. His much younger, almost as famous, very pregnant wife watched from the front row as he humbly thanked the many people who had aided/graced his career. The last part of his impressive speech was devoted entirely to a lengthy tribute he paid his wife. As if on cue, tears sprang from her eyes, and even a skeptic such as me felt something catch in my throat, the sudden rise of goose pimples. I turned to Tim, equally moved, and asked, "Do you think he loves her as much as he says?"

"We'll never know," Tim said. "One thing is certain, though: He's in love with the idea of us believing he's in love."

I wondered whether this was true of Philip Ashworth as he waxed on and on about Anna. "She's not made like you or me. She's unusual. Sometimes I think she has an extra set of nerve endings. She's complicated."

What I found funny, of course, was that Philip Ashworth was equally complicated. Maybe all of us are complicated, but because of our tenuous place in the world, our contradictory selves aren't indulged. And because they're not indulged, those interesting, inappropriate, shocking parts of us wither away, atrophy. Maybe Philip and Anna were complicated only because they could be.

At the same time, how like all husbands Philip seemed. Sure, he had too much money, too many houses, a driver who was his and his alone; he had his art collection, his wine cellar, his numerous business ventures (many that were mysterious), but underneath it all, he was just another husband afraid of his wife.

It was what endeared him to me.

"In her defense, she warned me. She did. Early on, after I proposed and she accepted, she said, while crying and smiling both, 'You do realize, Philip, that there are no brakes on this car.' "

He paused to check the traffic. Other cars were honking now, as if it would do any good.

"I was given fair warning, right? And it's what I love about her-the impulsiveness, the surprises. Even though some of the surprises lately-"

"You mean the dress?"

"Yes, the dress."

"It's beautiful. It must have been expensive."

"It's not the money. Please, that's not it at all."

"Oh. Sorry."

"It's that it was-it is-her wedding dress."

I wasn't sure if I heard him right.