What was I supposed to say to that?

"Maybe you don't even want the weekend. Or maybe you can't handle it, which is also fine. But if it's going to make you act weird around me, then we should forget it."

Me weird? Who offered the weekend? But did I ask that? No, instead, I stammered, "How would it, uhm, work?"

"It's simple. We both clear our schedules. We meet somewhere. A hotel. We don't speak of it to anyone, because we don't want to hurt anyone."

I must have looked perplexed.

"You know, our spouses."

"Oh. Oh, right."

"For one weekend, we forget everything and leave our lives behind. For one weekend, we do anything and everything. Whatever we feel like."

Anna was cool and collected. We may as well have been planning a trip to Costco. "But you have to stop acting weird."

Half a block back, Claudia called out, "Hey, you two, wait up!" She and Tess, dressed for Pilates, were hurrying to catch us.

"We'll cover the specifics later. For now, Tim, just don't think about it. It's something we'll do in May, if it makes sense at the time."

"Okay, sure."

"Anything you want to say?"

Oh, there's plenty.

"Because at the speed they're moving, you have about thirty seconds . . ."

Here's what I wanted to say: I haven't been naked in front of anyone other than Kate since I was twenty-two. Also, strange rogue hairs grow on my body. I have the beginnings of man b.r.e.a.s.t.s. I don't have much body hair, although some of my pubic hairs are gray. I could pluck those. And what about s.e.xually transmitted diseases? I can't bring anything home! Did you read that article online about the recent proliferation of a.n.a.l warts? But all I could muster was this: "Spoons. Do you sleep in the spoon position?"

Anna laughed, reminding me of the pleasure I got from making her laugh. "Now, Tim, it's not until May. So put it out of your mind."

The girls caught up. "Hey, didn't you hear us?"

"Oh," I said. "Sorry."

"You guys must've been talking about something important."

"Not at all." Anna sighed. "We were just scheduling a playdate."

KATE.

WHILE WALKING TO TAZZA ON HENRY STREET, I TRIED TO DETERMINE MY REAL reason for having lunch with Anna Brody. Between Philip's claiming that Anna talked about me all the time and my prurient interest as to whether there was any truth to Claudia's gossip, I felt torn between the friend I was thought to be and the nasty neighbor I was becoming. I'd invited Anna to lunch out of both guilt and a desire to help her through this hard time. Another part of me was just plain curious about how she would look.

Great. She looked great. And the weight she'd gained made her look healthier. The most surprising change to her appearance was that she'd hacked her hair off at chin level. It looked like she'd done the job herself. Why anyone would cut off hair like hers is beyond me, but I didn't even have a chance to ask her why, because Anna started talking right away.

First she told me about their trip to the South of France, where she had rented a rustic cabin. "Philip got all fidgety after three days. So it was mostly Sophie and me roughing it. No amenities. No dishwasher. It was the kind of place where you and Tim would stay."

Yes, but not by choice! It's the only kind of place we could afford! "So where was Philip?"

"Oh, he was wherever Philip goes. Here, there."

Anna moved on to the re-redecorating (if that's a word) of her house. "Philip has given me carte blanche to do whatever it takes."

"Whatever it takes to what?"

"To make me happy."

"It seems to be working. You seem happy. Very, actually."

"I'm redoing everything."

The more she talked about her house, the more I thought about her marriage. I wondered if she knew about her husband. Maybe she was just another one of those smiling wives who put up with untold betrayals and disappointments. Maybe she knew that the real reason Philip was letting her redecorate was so he could carry on with someone else, or many others.

But she seemed so positive about everything, I couldn't tell what she knew. So I pressed and asked if it was hard to be married to such an important man.

"What are you talking about? You're married to an important man."

"What I mean is, Philip's a public figure."

"Big deal."

"Well, that can make things complicated. You see, I was once with a famous man. Before Tim. So I have some idea what you must be facing." I lowered my voice and said, "I hate it when people name-drop. But I used to be lovers with Jeff Slade."

Anna didn't say anything.

"It was very pa.s.sionate, purely physical, but somehow raw in that end-of-the-world way."

(Hopefully, I wasn't this ridiculous, but this is the conversation as I remember it. Maybe I knew that you don't get something unless you give it. So I came prepared to sacrifice, to open up in hopes that she would follow. But clearly, I tried too hard to make her feel comfortable, to impress her. How else do I explain the series of weak segues that led from "How have you been?" to a frank recounting of my Jeff Slade experience, in which I neglected to mention that I had dated him twelve years before he became famous, so my intimation that what we had in common was powerful, famous men was a complete and utter lie.) "Jeff Slade? Should I know him?"

Nothing worse than having to explain the name you just dropped.

"You'd recognize him. He's on TV all the time."

"I don't watch TV," Anna said sweetly.

"Oh, well, neither do I."

From that point on, our conversation went off track. Something I said sounded like a criticism of Tim. I had mistakenly thought it would encourage Anna to open up about Philip. Instead, she came to Tim's defense, arguing that he was a unique and special man.

"Look," I said, "I think you idealize him. Us. Our marriage."

"I think you're a lucky woman."

"I don't know if you see us in the right way. We have our troubles."

"Well, are you worried about him?"

"Am I worried, what? That Tim would cheat?"

She nodded.

"No, I'm not. The truth is, I'd be much more concerned about me."

"How so?"

Understand I was realizing these things as I was saying them. "There is someone else that I think about from time to time . . ."

I didn't tell her everything. I didn't tell her it was Jeff Slade. Instead, I signaled to the waitress for the check.

Anna leaned in and said, "What's stopping you?"

I'd revealed too much.

"For starters, I'm married," I said.

"Yes, but it could be fun. No one has to know. And it doesn't have to mean anything."

Not mean anything? Is she whacked? I'd come to offer her encouragement, and now she was encouraging me to have an affair. I should have just ended the conversation. Instead, I asked, "But what if it did mean something?"

"Just decide in advance that it won't."

The bill came, and I started to calculate the tip. "Is it that easy?"

"I'll know soon enough."

I looked at her.

She gave a slight shrug and said, "I'm in the process of taking a lover."

That was when Anna leaned forward, took my hands in hers, and said with complete compa.s.sion, "It's okay, you know. Sometimes it's what we need."

TIM.

DURING THOSE STRANGE, UNCERTAIN WEEKS, I BECAME A BETTER THAN USUAL DAD and a kinder husband. Kate even said so. It proved to be an unexpected benefit from the Anna Brody of it all. However, one part of my life had been neglected. This was made all too clear when Dr. Jamison Lamson called and left an emphatic message on the phone machine: "Timothy, do you read your mail?" The stern yet hurt tone in his voice stung. That was when I remembered the letter he'd sent, a letter I'd skimmed and then tucked away behind the unpaid bills.

It took a few minutes to find and reread the letter. Dr. Lamson had written to all his students, past and present, announcing the end of his "invigorating" and "satisfying" teaching career. He thanked all of us for "the privilege of witnessing the wonderment of history catching fire." He wrote that he would miss us, his students, and that we had been his teachers, too. It was an exquisite letter, graceful and self-deprecating, worthy of framing, except in my case, he'd hastily scribbled across the bottom, Timothy-I need to see you ASAP!

As soon as possible was the following morning. After dropping Teddy and Sam at preschool, I caught the R train to Queens and sprinted across the St. Bernard campus to Dr. Lamson's corner office on the third floor of the J. Arthur Kresge History Building.

I found Dr. Lamson packing up his office, standing among the stacks of books and half-filled boxes. He had the stunned look of someone who'd only just realized he had way too much stuff.

Seeing me, he squinted in disbelief and said, "Was beginning to wonder if I'd ever see you again, Timothy. Thought you were dead."

I laughed nervously as he cleared a place for me to sit.

Never one to mince words, he got right to the point. "You're not going to finish in time, are you?"

I hemmed and hawed.

Dr. Lamson sighed and threw up his hands in surrender. "It's a pity."

Me, faintly: "Yes."

"What's frustrating, Timothy, is that in all the years I've been doing this, your dissertation is one of the few I actually wanted to read."

It occurred to me that he believed in me more than I ever would. It was probably cruel to continue this conversation, but he seemed upset, so I said, "Sir, not that it's possible, but when would be the last day that I could turn it in?"

Dr. Lamson didn't need to consult a calendar. "April twenty-third."

I flinched. April 23 was only six weeks away, and what I really needed was six months. "That early?"

"Please understand why I want to laugh. I want to laugh because of perspective. What you find to be early, I view as much too late. You are funny. Early. That's funny."

But neither of us was laughing.

Me: "There's no other possible-"

"Not if you expect the committee"-the committee: Dr. Lamson, Dr. Rita "The Noodle" Lovejoy, and Dr. Rejandra "Killer" Kanwar, the Elvira Krause Professor of German history-"to have enough time to prepare for your defense."

"My defense?"

"Tell me you weren't expecting to have that part of the doctoral process waved."

"No, sir." The truth was, I had blocked out the whole idea of a dissertation defense. Clearly, Dr. Lamson had been more hopeful than I. He admitted as much, saying he had saved the last remaining time slot just for me.

I had to ask. "Sir, what day would my defense have been?"

"The morning of the ninth."

"The ninth? May ninth?"

"Why, yes."

I nearly fell out of the chair. "You saved the morning of May ninth just for me?"

"Yes, but it's a moot point-"

"I can do it."

"What did you just say?"

"Not only can I do it, sir. But I will."

Perhaps this was the Second Sign. I didn't know yet. But I believed it was no accident. Here was an opportunity. Life was colluding. I never thought I would actually have a weekend with Anna Brody. And I'd been wondering, Why me? But now it kind of made sense. Maybe the real purpose of her offer (and little did she know) was to motivate me to finish my work. You see, everything was pointing toward May 9! I was so excited that I quivered like a piano moments after every key had been pounded.

I turned, looked Dr. Lamson dead in the eye, and said, "Pencil me in."