They all agreed that Riley would start work the following Monday, he would bring two forms of ID for his W-2, and he would meet Celerie.

As Riley Alsopp was walking toward the door, he stopped at Dabney’s desk and picked up a framed photograph of Agnes.

“Is this your daughter?” he asked. “Or, wait…your sister?”

Dabney tried not to let any gloating show on her face. People always mistook her and Agnes for sisters.

“My daughter, Agnes.”

Riley Alsopp stared at the photograph. It was an artsy black-and-white shot of Agnes standing at the top of Main Street in the snow. She wore a white knit hat and gloves, and her long, dark hair cascaded over her white ski parka. “She’s beautiful,” Riley said. “Like, really beautiful.”

Dabney studied Riley for a moment, and something inside her unfolded. “Thank you,” she said. She, of course, thought Agnes was the loveliest creature ever to grace the earth, but Dabney was always surprised when other people called Agnes beautiful. Dabney sometimes felt almost jealous, believing Agnes was hers alone to appreciate. But Dabney was pleased by Riley Alsopp’s compliment. She could tell that it was genuine.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Dabney asked. As soon as she asked, she realized the question was inappropriate and absolutely none of her business.

“I’m free as a bird,” Riley said. “The only two females in my life are my mother and my chocolate Lab, Sadie.”

His mother and his chocolate Lab, Sadie? What a doll! It took everything Dabney had not to swoon.

Box

He stood at the lectern and read aloud the standard exam procedure while Miranda Gilbert passed out blue books to the squirming, anxious Econ 10 students. Box was dreadfully old-fashioned, he knew; nearly everyone else at Harvard administered exams via the Internet, but Box refused. Next year, he would have to capitulate. Next year, he supposed, the company that made blue books would be out of business.

He yawned, more loudly than he meant to, into the microphone. One of the students in the back row called out, “Late night, Professor Beech?”

A muted chuckle rippled through the room. Miranda turned to offer him a sympathetic smile, and Box said, “You all fail,” which roused genuine laughter.

He had not been able to fall back asleep after the phone call from Dabney.

Tell me something real, she had said. Tell me how you really feel.

He had really felt annoyed, and unamused. Two o’clock in the morning! Had she been drinking? he wondered. The call was entirely out of character. Dabney had never, ever, not once in twenty-four years of marriage, done anything like that.

We’re not close anymore. We don’t have sex anymore. I want to know if you love me. If you desire me.

Normally, after the Econ 10 exam, Box took Miranda to lunch; it was the only time during the semester that he did so. He liked to keep their relationship professional; this was really the best way, especially since they spent so much time together. It was always Miranda who tried to forge something like a friendship. She occasionally coaxed Box out to see a movie, which he agreed to only when the solitude was getting to him. They dined together with colleagues, but never alone, except for this one lunch. Box didn’t want people to talk, although he assumed people talked anyway. Miranda was a very beautiful woman, smart as a wizard, and she’d worked for him for four years, demonstrating her loyalty, patience, and steadfastness. Box could recognize all her enticing qualities without feeling anything romantic. His only mistress was his work, his reputation, his career. But it was helpful to have boundaries.

The phone call from Dabney was bothering him so much that he decided it was best, all the way around, if he passed on lunch with Miranda.

“I’m afraid the chap in row thirty-five was correct,” Box said. “I didn’t sleep well last night. I have to forego our usual lunch, I’m afraid. I’m sorry.”

“No apology necessary,” Miranda said, though her rich, plummy voice was clipped. He had hurt her feelings, he supposed. It seemed that where the women in his life were concerned, he could do nothing right.

Dabney

Thursday morning, there was an e-mail in her in-box from Clendenin Hughes. Subject line: ?

Dabney clicked on it, thinking, ?!???!!

It said: Meet me tonight at 9:00, Quaker Cemetery.

“Oh my God!” Dabney said, then she clapped her hand over her mouth. Again, the Lord’s name in vain! All the virtue she felt after lighting the candles on Monday evaporated.

“What?” Nina said. She squinted at Dabney and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Is it Clen?”

Dabney nodded. It was a relief to have someone to tell. Keeping it bottled up inside wasn’t healthy. “He wants me to meet him at the Quaker Cemetery tonight,” she said.

“That’s spooky,” Nina said. “Will you go?”

“No,” Dabney said. “No way.”

On Thursday nights Dabney always stayed home for Sandwich and a Movie, and this Thursday, she decided, would be no different. She picked up a Cubano from Foood For Here & There, arranged it on a plate with some potato chips, fixed herself a glass of ice water with lemon, and switched on the TV in the den. She noticed that Love Story was playing on TMC, starting five minutes hence. Love Story was Dabney’s favorite movie of all time; that had been true even before she went to Harvard. One year, Dabney had dressed up as Jennifer Cavalleri for Halloween, which basically meant she wore what she usually wore—a red turtleneck, headband, and pearls—and carried a copy of Love Story, the novel, as a clue to her identity.