She said this to cover for the fact that she had dreamed about Clen; she dreamed about Clen all the time now. Last night, she and Clen had been naked, holding hands, circling. They were models for Matisse’s La Danse.

Next, Box asked what was going on at the Chamber. How were the information assistants working out, had a love affair started between the two of them? How was Nina Mobley, her kids must be nearly grown by now. Were any of them applying to college? And what of George Mobley? Did he still have a gambling problem?

Dabney stared at Box, nonplussed. It was possible that three or four or eight or nine years ago she had yearned for Box to take an interest in the daily minutiae of her life this way. For years, decades even, she had rattled on about this and that with only half, or a quarter, of his attention. It was as though he had stored up every detail she had ever told him in some mental vault that he had only now magnanimously decided to unlock. She wished he would pick up the Journal and let her drink her coffee in peace. Was it horrible of her to think this way?

Box wondered about the date and location of the next Business After Hours. He wanted to go with Dabney; there were people he hadn’t seen in years whom he wanted to catch up with. And what about trying a new restaurant this week? What about Lola Burger, or The Proprietors? Should he include Agnes, or would it be more romantic just the two of them?

Romantic? Dabney thought.

She said, “I’m going for my walk now.”

“Dabney,” Box said.

She stopped at the door and turned around.

“You have to make a doctor’s appointment,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “I realize this.”

“If you don’t have time to call,” Box said, “then I’ll call for you.”

“I’ll call,” Dabney said.

“How’s your pain?” he asked.

“You have no idea,” she said.

Thank heavens for work. At work she was free, Nina knew all, so Dabney didn’t have to lie or pretend. She spent all morning planning the next Business After Hours, which would be held at Grey Lady Real Estate and catered by Met on Main. Dabney chuckled as she thought about how quickly Box would renege once he found out the locale. He detested all Realtors. In the spirit of Holden Caulfield, he believed them all to be phonies, and horrible gossips on top of it. And he had never wanted to go to Met on Main because there was a branch on Newbury Street in Boston that was supposed to be far superior. No, when push came to shove, he would pass on Business After Hours.

In the back office, both Celerie and Riley were on the phone; the rush leading up to August was upon them.

At noon, Dabney said, “I’m going to run some errands.”

Nina nodded her assent, and Dabney signed out on the log.

On top of the filing cabinet behind Nina’s desk were the wilting remains of the lilies Nina had received the week before from Dr. Marcus Cobb. Nina and Marcus Cobb were falling in love, and they were doing so without any help from Dabney. If Dabney interfered at this point, she would only mess things up. Her matchmaking ability seemed to be stuck in reverse.

Dabney turned to go, but at that moment they both heard the door downstairs open and then slam shut, and they heard footsteps on the stairs. Dabney worried that it was Vaughan Oglethorpe, and that at any second the office would be suffused with the smell of embalming fluid. Dabney would have to deal with Vaughan, and then light her green-apple-scented candles. She wanted to get to Clen; it had been four days since she’d seen him, and, like Nina’s flowers, she was starting to wilt.

“Hello, ladies!” The person walking into the office was…Box.

Nina gasped and Dabney felt so startled at the sight of him that she grabbed the edge of Nina’s desk.

“Darling!” Dabney said. “What are you doing here?”

“I was at home working when I had a revelation,” Box said. “I remembered how much you love that poem by William Carlos Williams, and so I brought you a cold plum.”

Dabney gaped at him. That poem by William Carlos Williams? “This Is Just to Say”—yes, Dabney had always loved that poem. In the years of Agnes’s growing up, a copy of the poem had been taped to the refrigerator door. It was an apology poem—forgive me, they were delicious, so sweet and so cold. Box was holding out the plum and a bottle of chilled Perrier with a silly grin on his face.

Celerie picked that moment to pop out of the back office for her lunch break. “What is this?” she said. She eyed the white-haired man holding the water and the plum. “You aren’t by any chance Professor Beech?”

He gave a little bow. “I am.”

“Your husband!” Celerie said, as though introducing him to Dabney. “And he brought you fruit and water. How lovely!”

Dabney was stymied. What was going on here? She took the plum and the Perrier, and, at a loss for the words to make both Box and Celerie disappear, she bit into the plum. It was succulent, and juice dripped down her chin. From his pocket, Box produced a napkin. He had thought of everything.

“You must be Celerie,” Box said, offering his hand. “I’m John Beech, but please call me Box.”

“My roommate is going to die when I tell her I met you,” Celerie said. “She was an econ major at Penn. She used your textbook!”

Box was used to this kind of godlike status among the collegiate and newly graduated. “I hope she doesn’t actually die.”

Celerie clapped her hands together at her chest, as if prepping for the next cheer. Dabney had to get out of there, but how? She made eyes at Nina, who was nervously sucking on her gold cross.