“And I guess it’s one of those situations where there’s not time to go home.” The hurt I feel is as old as time, but I won’t let it show. “She’d much rather have to turn around and go back,” I add.

“Also traffic is backed up in New York airspace like it has been all week because of the heat wave. Sea fog, thermals are a problem because the air is so much hotter than the water right now, and a lot of flights are on ground holds or are being rerouted. Depending on fuel, Mom won’t be landing until at least ten thirty.”

I check the time and it’s almost ten.

“And she’s got luggage,” Lucy says. “A lot of it.”

“Sounds like she’s planning to stay with you awhile.”

“I just hope her damn phone battery doesn’t die, and I’m worried about Janet connecting with her. Apparently Logan’s a real shit show, and you know Mom,” Lucy says as our feet thud dully to the top step. “Usually the last one on the plane. Good luck with her bags being there, and Janet can’t possibly go inside to help.”

“It’s going to be a very late night for Desi.”

“He’s been texting me that the traffic is terrible. State troopers are herding everyone, barely letting you stop your car when you drop off or pick up.”

“Well I’m sure he must be excited about Dorothy’s visit,” I comment halfheartedly as we enter the bright white Formica and stainless-steel galley.

“Yes, since she spoils him rotten. Have you talked to Benton?”

“Not since the Faculty Club,” I answer, and Lucy’s green eyes have that distant look I know so well and have come to dread.

She may be here in the flesh but in spirit she’s somewhere else, some remote emotional space she doesn’t share. Beautiful, brilliant, in her midthirties but much younger than that in many ways, and compared to most of the population, Lucy has every advantage. How sad that an obsession would become the path of least resistance for an overachieving highflier like her. Not that there’s anybody like Lucy, and her uniqueness is part of the tragedy.

What a waste that she naturally gravitates to Carrie’s isolated hateful place like water seeking its own level. Lucy believes she’s the captain of her own ship, the master of her own fate. That she has free will. But I’m not so sure anymore.

“Why? Have you talked to him?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says, and I would remove this curse from her if I could.

I would take it upon myself if it meant freeing Lucy. I would do almost anything. And strangely I think of the woman on the bicycle and what she said to me before she rode across the blistering hot street:

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.