He said, “Only you would bring a hostess gift to a sexual rendezvous.”

“That’s not what this is,” she said.

He said, “Wanna bet?” And in one fluid movement, he scooped her up with his strong right arm, threw her over his shoulder, and carried her to the bed.

There was only one thing to do: she laughed.

“Stop!” she said.

“What?”

“Turn off the burner on the stove,” she said. “You don’t want to burn the house down.”

“Wanna bet?”

It was the same, it was different. She didn’t have time to say what was which or which was what because there was no thinking involved. It was, in fact, like going up in flames. His mouth devoured every part of her, his skin burned against hers, his size crushed her, but as much as he gave her, she wanted more, faster, more. He sucked her nipples and she groaned, pressing herself against his thigh, leaving him wet there. How long had it been since she’d felt this way? When he thrust into her, she nearly broke in half; she opened her mouth and howled like an animal. She had slept with only two men in her life—Clen and Box—but Clen now was a third person. She was intoxicated by his physicality. His tongue, his lips, the way he tasted, the way he smelled, her hands in his thick hair, her cheek against his beard, skin on skin. It had been years since she’d even remembered she had a body, desire, needs.

When it was over, he peppered her face and neck with kisses as the sweat cooled on her body. She reached out and stroked the curve of his stump. The skin there was as soft as a baby’s skin.

She closed her eyes. She saw cherry blossoms, bubble gum, and raspberries so ripe and juicy that they fell from the branches with the slightest touch.

When it was time for Dabney to head home, she started to cry.

Clen said, “Oh, Cupe, don’t.” Which made her cry harder.

“Come tomorrow,” he said.

“I can’t!” she said.

“Just for five minutes,” he said. “Please.”

The next day, Dabney signed out on the log at noon, writing errands/lunch.

“More errands?” Nina said slyly.

Dabney gave her a pointed look.

“I don’t think you should sign out on the log when you leave,” Nina said. “Just go. Vaughan hasn’t checked the log in years.”

Dabney appreciated Nina’s leniency and her willingness to be an accomplice, but signing out on the office log had become a discipline of working at the Chamber, and Dabney couldn’t bring herself to abandon it. She would conduct her love affair during business hours, but she would still sign out, thereby holding fast to one shred of her personal integrity.

The “five minutes” turned into an afternoon by the pool. Clen made watermelon margaritas and they floated on blow-up rafts. Clen was still a good swimmer, despite his missing arm; he moved through the water cleanly, with power. Dabney gazed at him with amazement and he said, “I bet you thought I’d go in circles, didn’t you?” The water brought out his playful self; they splashed and dunked each other and poured more margaritas and generally acted like the teenagers they had been, so long ago.

Every time she thought to get up and leave, she found a reason to stay.

She said, “I can’t believe I’m going to miss Business After Hours. I haven’t missed a Business After Hours in fourteen years.”

He said, “I’ll order pizza and french fries and wings.”

She said, “I can’t have pizza. I’ve given up wheat.”

He said, “That’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard.”

He was right. Whatever was wrong with her, it wasn’t a wheat allergy.

He said, “You’re too thin.”

She said, “I’m down to 106, which is what I weighed in eighth grade.”

He said, “Jeez, Cupe.”

She thought, Lovesick. She hadn’t allowed herself to feel any guilt yet, but when the guilt kicked in, she feared, she would disappear. Box was in London. He stayed in a suite at the Connaught, and his daily life included a chauffeured Bentley that transported him back and forth between the hotel and the School of Economics, and to dinner at Gordon Ramsay and Nobu. His landscape was Big Ben, St. Paul’s Cathedral, the National Gallery, Covent Garden, the London Bridge, and the Thames. Dabney could say the names of these places and things, but she had no concept of what his life there was like, just as he had no clue what her life was now like.

When he returned, she would have to tell him.

They ate dinner in bed, and Dabney drank a beer, something she hadn’t done since the summer of 1987. She groaned and grunted with delight as she ate, she pulled strings of cheese from the pizza with her fingers and dangled them into her mouth. She sucked the sauce off the chicken bones, she dragged piping hot fries through ketchup, mayonnaise, and mustard, then back again. She would never have eaten like that in front of Box, but with Clen she was perfectly at ease.

It was for this reason, she supposed, that she said, “I’m worried about Agnes.”

The name Agnes, although spoken casually, sucked all the oxygen out of the room.

Dabney immediately stiffened. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“No, no,” Clen said. “Please. Please tell me. What is it?”

“She’s engaged,” Dabney said.

Clen coughed. “Agnes is getting married?”