"Really? Well, I'm glad you understand because I sure don't. I mean, Wes's friends are successful, reasonably intelligent men. What's the matter with them? Do they really think that all that fawning over them from their Barbies is sincere?"

"Maybe they don't care."

"Maybe you're right. Maybe they don't care. What a thing to say. Well, how's this? Maybe pretending to be in love leads to believing you're in love."

"Really? Do you believe that?"

"I'm not so sure about a lot of things anymore. Maybe love is a calculated gamble."

"How so?"

"Because you're signing up for a lifetime tour? Maybe it's doomed to fail from the start, and there's nothing you can do about it."

"What on earth do you mean by that?"

My lovely Dr. Katz must've had live-in help around the clock.

"Look, when the husband leaves home in the morning, his wife is still dead tired from doing dishes the night before until eleven thirty, and she looks it. But there she is at six A.M., making his three-minute egg and one slice of lightly toasted whole wheat anyway."

"Wives and mothers usually make breakfast unless they're sick. Don't they?"

"What? Egg duty? Hello! The kids are out of the house, and I think a man can boil an egg as well as a woman. But that's not the point and it's not where I'm headed. Unconsciously or not, he all but refuses to make eye contact because his actual scary number age is reflected in her puffy, no makeup face, and he hates to think about the fact that he could drop dead any minute from natural causes."

"Mrs. Carter, isn't that a bit harsh?"

"Nope. Not one bit. And when he gets to the office there's the secretary or coworker or junior partner who's just blown out her hair and got herself all gussied up and she smells like some subtle fragrance that's acceptable for the workplace, something that's not overtly bait. Nonetheless, it is definitely bait. He takes a whiff, compliments her; she smiles and, doing her best to be all innocence even though she's the scheming slut of the world, she thanks him. Demurely. At least as demurely as she can manage."

"Okay, I'm getting the picture now."

"You don't know the half of it. In his mind, the affair is off and running. It's all he can do not to think about her night and day, and what's even funnier is that he thinks the blossoming affair is his idea. What he doesn't know is that she has already memorized his favorite restaurants, movies, music, football team, and the names and ages of his wife and children. She knows that Little Johnny is the class clown but a straight A student and that Little Lulu only wears lavender and wants to be a ballerina when she grows up."

"How does she know all this?"

"Because she's done her due diligence. She's over thirty. Her prospects for a wealthy husband have all but vaporized, and she can't trade on her looks much longer. But she chooses her target because she knows this guy has enough financial assets to give half to the current wife-which assuages whatever modicum of guilt she can muster-and that because he's young enough, he'll still earn enough to give her a better life than she could ever have on her own. She knows exactly when the last child will be leaving for college to minimize the trauma of his divorce. You know, women still only earn seventy cents to every dollar a man earns."

"I'm aware. So continue down this road. Where does it lead?"

"Well, it leads to any number of scenarios, but they all involve a bed."

"And you find this to be . . . what? Appalling?"

"It used to be that appalling was the only thing I could think about it. And all that lying and betrayal is terrible. But now I'm thinking that maybe those women are doing us a favor! Well, not in every single case, but think about it. If I had just half of all our assets in my name, I'd have much more expendable income than I've ever had in my whole married life! Did I happen to mention to you that I found a bank statement showing we had ten times as much money as I thought?"

"No, you didn't."

"Well, I did. I'll be a very wealthy woman if I divorce Wes. Maybe life's like that old song by the Beach Boys-'Two Girls for Every Boy.' "

"So is money very important to you?"

"What kind of a question is that? Of course it is! Money gives you the freedom to decide things. To make choices. I could live anywhere I wanted to live. I could spend my time exactly as I'd like to spend it. And I wouldn't have to answer to anyone."

"Do you feel like you have to answer to your husband?"

"Ha! That's a good one! Dr. Katz, my husband thinks he's in charge of everything, including where I go to fill the car with gas and which road I take to get there. If I need a hundred dollars more than what he usually gives me to run the house for a month, he wants an explanation. Can you imagine such a thing? After all these years? Do you know how demoralizing it is to live like that? But does he ask me when he orders new golf clubs? Custom golf clubs? What do you think?"

"Hmmm. What about commitment? You know, the till death do us part part of the deal?"

"I'm thinking that must have been written into the wedding vows when you died at sixty and before all these men started having zipper trouble."

"That's very funny, Mrs. Carter."

We both knew that zipper troubles were the bedrock of his practice. Why, not one week ago that poor Mrs.-what was her name?-Del Mastro-yes, that's it-wasn't she about to lose her mind in the lobby over her husband's flagrant carrying on?

"Thanks. I've been known to turn a phrase now and then. But Wes thinks my sense of humor is stupid."

"Hmmm." He made a note. "Do you think your husband has zipper trouble?"

"I do not have solid proof, but I don't believe Wes is immune to the world."

"So then is fidelity less important to you now than it was, say, ten years ago?"

"I'm not sure how to answer that, but I'd say that recent events have prepared me to consider fidelity in new ways."

"Go on."

"Well, fidelity is about standing by someone, isn't it? Isn't a marriage supposed to consider the needs of both people?"

"You tell me."

This Dr. Katz was suddenly borderline insufferable.

"Well, I've always believed that it's supposed to be about both people and their dreams and needs, and all the stuff of life should get equal billing. It should be an equitable relationship. At least that's what I think."

"And, correct me here, but are you saying that egalitarianism is a concept beyond your husband's grasp?"

Egalitarianism? Touche, Dr. Katz! A most propitious use of the word, you arrogant ass.

"By light-years," I said politely. I hadn't been doing the New York Times crossword puzzles for years for nothing. "Anyway, I'm telling you all this to demonstrate how the younger women are calculating love and how the older women like me are calculating a new net worth."

"Our time is up, Mrs. Carter, but I wanted to give you something to think about until our next session."

"Sure."

"Do you think it's possible that the death of your friend and the divorces of all your other friends compounded by your accident in Edinburgh may have caused you to emotionally disengage to protect yourself?"

I had to admit I had never considered that as a reason to leave Wes. A gossamer veil of confusion floated up from hell and settled quietly all around me.

CHAPTER 4.

Wes in Dr. Saunders's Office God! Didn't she have kids or a husband or anybody in her life? Where were all the pictures? Nothing but books on analysis on the shelves and photographs of a beach somewhere on the walls. Maybe she shared the office with a neat freak. Or maybe she didn't want me to know anything about her life. Yeah, that was probably it. This woman was pretty buttoned up. She had gone to the ladies' room and I was waiting, wondering how many times we were going to rehash the same old crap before we moved on to some solutions. But then that's what I am-solution oriented. And this Dr. Jane Saunders? Well, the sooner we closed the case, the less money she would cost me. It was just like going to a lawyer, and don't get me started on that whole morass of bullshit billable hours! But I have to say this, and may God strike me dead if I'm telling a lie, she did have amazing legs.

She came back into the office and sat opposite me.

"Thanks for waiting."

"No problem."

She actually smiled, never mind it was the smallest smile that ever crawled across the face of an iceberg.

"So, Wes, when our last session ended, we were talking about how things are between you and your wife. You said that you never ran around too much . . ."

"Aw, come on. Did I really say that?"

"Yes, your words. I think this is a good place to pick up where we left off. Do you think your wife is threatened by the new young wives? Or do you think she's worried about you stepping out?"

"Humph. Les isn't threatened by anyone. She used to worry about what I thought. Did she look all right? Was dinner okay? Was I happy? Did I need anything? But these days? You'd think she doesn't have a care in the world."

"So there's been a marked change in her attitude?"

"A marked change in her attitude? Yeah, you could say that."

"I see, how would you describe it? Is she, say, hostile?"

"Hostile? Les, hostile? No, she doesn't have a hostile bone in her body."

"Then how would you describe her attitude?"

"There's a word for it-gimme a minute, it's right on the tip of my tongue-resolute! That's what she is! Resolute!"

"Okay. And how does this resoluteness manifest itself?"

I took a deep breath and exhaled. "She says she's absolutely not spending every weekend for the rest of her life with a bunch of women she has no desire to know who have no desire to know her. She's talking about the new wives of my friends. She ought to have a little respect."

"All of them?"

"Well, yes. One guy is a widower, but he remarried. His trainer."

"My goodness. So do you blame her? I mean, assuming these women are much younger than she is, do you understand why this might be an uncomfortable position for her?"

"No! I think if she really loved her husband, she'd suck it up. She always sucked it up before now. What's so different all of a sudden?"

"Wes. May I ask you a few questions?"

"That's why I'm here, isn't it?"

"No, actually. But in the interest of moving things along, I need a few more facts. Number one, you're a pretty serious golfer, aren't you?"

"You'd better believe it! I've been playing golf with the same guys for the last twenty-eight years! Weather permitting, of course."

"And how many holes do you and your friends play every weekend?"

"Somewhere between thirty-six and seventy-two."

"And how long does it take y'all to play just eighteen holes?"

"Around four hours if the guys in front of us play on as they should."

"I see, and after a round of eighteen holes, what do you do? Have lunch?"

"Sure! Then we go out and play another eighteen. Why?"

"I'm just thinking that if you're working all week and out many nights and traveling a lot for business, it sure leaves your wife a bit high and dry, doesn't it? I mean, it almost sounds like you spend more time at work and on the golf course than you do at home or in her company? Does it seem that way to you?"

"Look, Jane, Les likes to be on her own. She likes to go see the ex-wives, go to girly movies, shop, be with our granddaughter . . . she has her own interests. I have mine. And I do take her out to the club every weekend and as I told you last week, we go to Vegas at least once a year. Some years we go to the Bahamas. You know, just to mix things up."

"Does she like to go to Las Vegas?"

"I don't know. Of course she does, right? Why wouldn't she?"

Dr. Jane Saunders, the Ice Queen of Atlanta, just stared at me like I spoke Turd instead of English. What was she trying to tell me?

"I think we're ready for a joint session, Wes."

"Fine with me," I said.

Frankly, I couldn't see an inch of progress. I'd pay for one more session and after that? I was already losing interest in this whole charade anyway.

PART TWO.

HOW WE GOT HERE.