The wooden door in the center of the building opened, and Maryellen emerged—or rather, his eyes told him, a woman who could have been Maryellen’s mother. She didn’t look like Charlotte—never had—but an older variation of the young woman Frank Devlin had known twenty years ago. She was staring at him as he was staring at her. She was heavier, much heavier, weighing maybe as much as two hundred pounds, very wide through the hips, her face rounder, fuller, her eyelids puffy. The same honey-blond hair, maybe dyed now. Her eyes had a sadness that looked permanent. She smiled and came toward him, her firm, chubby arms reaching out. She used to worry about her upper arms “flapping in the breeze.” She wanted to hug him; he didn’t want her to. He saw Ann Elizabeth nod to him. Woodenly, even coldly, he put his arms around Maryellen, realizing at once how much he had been afraid to admit he had never stopped wanting this, the part of him that ruled his dreams, defying reason and experience, weeping like a pregnant widow for what might have been. He shuddered, and she felt it.

“Oh, Frank. I’ve missed you so much.”

He almost wanted to believe. He knew better, but that didn’t change what he felt. Like alcohol, he thought. Yes, exactly. Ann Elizabeth had just spoken of a metaphor that had changed her life, and now he understood. Just as he couldn’t take that first drink, he couldn’t let his guard down with Maryellen.

“Let me look at you,” he said, disentangling himself. She was wearing an expensive, perfectly cut glen plaid suit the same tone of gray as Ann Elizabeth’s uniform. “You look nice.” Maryellen’s eyes were filling up. He pointed to their clothing. “Plain and fancy.”

Maryellen laughed. “When they finally got out of those horrible old habits, they decided to dress like Aeroflot stewardesses.” When he didn’t laugh—because he didn’t want to relax—she looked quickly to Ann Elizabeth, then back to him again. “It’s her joke!”

“It is, Frank.”

He saw Maryellen form his name with her lips, as if she thought Ann Elizabeth’s using his first name suggested a deeper intimacy. Sexual? He didn’t want to believe anyone’s mind worked that way, and when he saw it, he saw his complicity in Maryellen’s power over him. Like alcohol. He had made his one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn. “Come on, give me another hug,” he said. This time she buried her face in his chest, reached for Ann Elizabeth’s hand, then turned and hugged her, and stepped back.

“I made some coffee. And found some apple pie. It’s not as good as Bickford’s, but it is the best in Duchess County.”