“Well, anyway,” he said as we turned off the highway, “I have one of those stories for you. The mystery kind. Starring me.”

4

4

HE’D SKETCHED the outlines by the time we arrived at the house. Caitlin, my wife, was in the dining room, sorting through a delivery of wine. Rows of freshly unpacked bottles stood before her on the table, glittering in the sunlight. She liked organizing things and she liked wine, so she was in excellent spirits. She liked Marco, too. His good looks and slight air of dissipation brought out a sort of answering rakishness in her. She’d had a wild youth herself, before we got married, and she enjoyed being reminded of it.

“I’m plotting out the drinks’ menu for today and tomorrow,” she said. “I thought we’d build up to something really stellar. Maybe these Volnays?”

Marco was always pleased to see her, though I sensed he was wary of discussing his situation in front of her. He hadn’t told Hanan, for instance, his girlfriend of four years. “You don’t know how people are going to react,” he’d explained in the car. “Hanan especially. She may be supportive or she may decide she has some obligation of sisterly solidarity with Julia. I don’t want to put her to the test if I can avoid it.”

We talked about other things at lunch, mainly what Caitlin was going to do with her life now that our kids had left for college and the demands of motherhood were tapering off. Marco, who’d always seemed genuinely intrigued by her decision to become a full-time mother, participated valiantly. But as he was quizzing her on her various pre-motherhood jobs, she interrupted him, putting her hand on his arm:

“It’s nice of you to be interested, Marco, but what’s going on with you? You don’t seem happy.”

He hesitated, before nodding.

“You’re right. I’m not. I’m about to have my life destroyed.”

The three of us spent the rest of the day talking about it. When it grew chilly in the kitchen we moved into the living room and lit a fire. At intervals Caitlin went over to the dining room table, and, after carefully reinspecting the bottles, chose one to suit the drift of conversation, and refilled our glasses.

In concrete terms, what had happened since Sauer’s email inviting Marco to write something to “defend” himself, was a protracted standoff.