Glenna said, “Are you still with that consulting firm?”

“I sold my partnership last month.”

“What were you doing? I remember you told me it was like journalism, except it paid better.”

I gave her the abridged version. “I ran around the world, watched military exercises, talked to people, and wrote up my impressions for the government.”

“Sounds dangerous.” Though she tried to keep her voice neutral, I heard her disapproval, dismissing the work as another of my risky adventures.

“For the most part it was safe.”

“And when it wasn’t?”

“I brought company.”

We trudged on, saying nothing. As we stepped around a mountain of snow at the corner of West Forty-Seventh, I said, “I want to give writing another try.”

“Good for you.” The confidence in Glenna’s tone took me back to when she had believed that I could do anything, and her faith was the only proof I needed to believe that all I dreamed would be mine.

Glenna said, “What’re you going to write about?”

“My misspent youth.”

“About us?” she asked.

“I’m not sure I know the end of the story.”

“Is that what you came for, Gordon? The end of the story?”

I didn’t answer, but a familiar pain and numbness spread through me, an iciness that made the wind blowing over us seem like a breath of summer.

“You know I had a life,” Glenna said.

“Had?”

“Have. I have a good practice. I was married for twenty-two years. My husband died eighteen months ago.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, and I was, even though I’d felt a flash of jealousy.

Stopping and staring up at me, Glenna said, “You never did understand, did you? About me. That there is other sadness in the world besides your own.”

“I—”

“Do we have to dig up ancient history?”

“No.” I couldn’t bring myself to meet her gaze and aimed my eyes downtown toward the lights of Times Square, a neon kaleidoscope glowing through the snowy haze, with silhouettes, outlined against the blazing colors, moving slowly along the sidewalks.

“Gordon, why are you here?”

“For the nice weather?”

I don’t know what Glenna saw in my face; snowflakes were landing on my cheeks and melting; maybe she thought they were tears, or maybe they were. She reached up and wiped the water away with a gloved hand.

Softly Glenna said, “What do you want?”

“A drink. I want a drink.”

She started walking again. I followed her up a block and into Lally’s Tavern, a dimly lit joint with barn-wood paneling and a big stone fireplace. A few people were drinking on the stools at the horseshoe bar, but the rough-hewn-plank tables in the dining area were empty.

“Manhattan rustic,” Glenna said, and began slipping out of her coat. I helped her off with it, letting my hands linger on her shoulders. She glanced back at me, the tightness in her features a sign that my touch had come as an uncomfortable surprise. I removed my hands, feeling myself blush.