Leaving me, I thought, when we had just found each other. That part of the world would swallow Clen up for another twenty-seven years, and I would never see him again.

He said, “I agreed to the job on the condition that I be allowed to come back to Nantucket for the month of August every year. It’s monsoon there; most of the country takes a vacation. So you’ll get me thirty-one days a year, when I’ll be at your disposal, I promise.”

I felt my face soften. Every August together was a good compromise.

He said, “And you and Riley can come visit. You can come to Singapore on your honeymoon!”

At that moment, Riley swooped up behind me and hugged me with such gusto, he picked me right up off the ground. “Did somebody say ‘honeymoon’?” he said.

Couple #44: John Boxmiller Beech and Miranda Gilbert. Together.

Box: There was always work. Harvard, my textbook, the secretary of the Treasury, who was now bandying my name around for Federal Reserve chairman, as the current chairman had been caught in a scandal and would most likely end up resigning. I would teach my seminar at the London School of Economics in June, and I was to be the keynote speaker at the annual Macro conference, this year held in Atlanta.

It was on a whim that I found myself in New York City. I had a former student named Edward Jin who had abandoned graduate work in economics in order to train as a chef. Apparently he was quite talented and successful; he had secured enough backing to open his own restaurant, called The Dividend, on the Bowery, and he invited me to the soft opening. It just so happened that I had nothing scheduled the weekend of this invitation, and I was partial to Manhattan in the springtime. I called Edward Jin and told him I would attend, and I booked a junior suite at the St. Regis.

The soft opening at The Dividend was an intimate affair—thirty or so friends and family and investors of Edward Jin’s gathered in the bar area, which featured wood floors salvaged from an Amish farm in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, a chandelier made from an old wagon wheel, and a lot of copper pots and candlelight and hand-muddled cocktails made from ingredients like kale and fresh ginger. This was the way with many restaurants now—farm-to-table, organic, produce and meats assiduously researched and hand-sourced. It was good and fine and noble, but I missed Dabney’s cooking.

I knew no one except Edward Jin and he was, naturally, too busy for anything but a warm hello and a single introduction—to his married sister who was a stay-at-home mother in Brooklyn. I mentioned that I had taught Edward at Harvard; she responded that the family had all been stunned when Edward was admitted to Harvard since he’d been rejected from Brown, Duke, and Dartmouth, and I laughed and said that yes, college admissions were arbitrary and capricious.

After that, we had pretty much exhausted our conversational possibilities. I panicked and wished fervently for Dabney, who used to be able to carry on a conversation with an ox or a doorstop.

I was saved, however, because at that moment, Miranda Gilbert walked in.

If I say that my heart stopped or my breath caught I would sound like the heroine in one of the English novels Dabney so loved to read. Leaping heart, snagged breath, I wasn’t sure how to describe it but something happened when I saw Miranda.

What was she doing here?

Then of course I realized that she had been Edward Jin’s TA for more than one of my courses, and I remembered that they had hit it off rather well and used to meet for beers at the Rathskeller, which I did not approve of since she was, after all, responsible for giving Edward Jin his grades.

I was initially consumed with jealousy. Were Miranda and Edward now seeing each other?

Miranda gasped when she saw me and came over right away. The lighting was low in the restaurant but I thought she looked flushed.

“Box,” she said. “My God, I had no idea you would be here.”

“Nor I you,” I said. I kissed her cheek while holding both her hands. She smelled like Miranda always smelled, like an apricot rose, or something as delicate and lovely.

She said, “I was so sorry to hear about Dabney. You got my card?”

“Yes,” I said. “Thank you.” I had gotten many, many cards; most of them, including Miranda’s, I had left unopened because it was too difficult to read them. I put them in a larger envelope and forwarded them to Agnes.

“She was a special woman,” Miranda said. “She had a gift for love, the way other people have an eye for color.”

This was so true, it made my eyes burn, and I blinked rapidly.

“Yes,” I said. “She did. She was always right about love. It was uncanny.”

Miranda and I switched place cards at the long harvest table so that we could sit next to each other, and we spent the evening in a bubble of great food and better wine and esoteric conversation that left everyone else at the table out.

I said, “Have you seen much of Edward, since you’ve been in New York?”

“Edward?” she said, as if she didn’t know whom I was talking about.

“Our host,” I said. “The chef.”

Miranda laughed. “No,” she said. “I haven’t seen him at all before tonight. I didn’t even know he was in the city. He tracked me down on Facebook.”

I felt happy to hear this. Miranda and Edward were not together! But this didn’t mean she was available.

“Are you…dating anyone?” I asked. “Has anyone replaced the good doctor?”

She sipped her wine and nudged her glasses up her nose in a way I found bewitching.