“We’re getting a better count of the damage at Starbucks, Dave.” A young reporter was on the scene. “The dead count is now forty with around seventy wounded. Among those believed to be dead are at least three Juilliard students, a number of New York City Ballet apprentices, and the Upper East Side art dealer and socialite Jil Taillou.”

“What?” Frankie looked up at the television.

“Apparently, Mr. Taillou was at the opera tonight and left after the first act.”

Frankie stood up. “I’m going to Jil’s house.”

“Frankie, sit down.” Charlie put his hand on her leg.

“I should go over there. I should see his daughter.”

“Frankie, you’re not going anywhere tonight. They could be blowing up Starbucks all over Manhattan.”

“I don’t care.”

“Well I do.”

“Charlie, you know as well as I do that it was some water main break and homeland security—or fatherland security for all I know—is turning it into a bombing so we can invade the entire goddamn Middle East.” Frankie stood up and began to walk to the door.

“Frankie, take it easy. You’ll make yourself sick.”

“Charlie, what the hell did Jil do to deserve this? He was a nice man who sold art and went to parties.”

“Isn’t the point, Frankie, that none of them deserve this? And it could have been you and me who walked out of the opera tonight.”

Frankie sat down beside Charlie again.

Charlie put his arm around her. “It’s my fault for putting on the stupid television.”

“No, no,” Frankie muttered.

“Tell you what. I have a proposition.” He turned off the TV and put his hand on her face. “Since the world is so lousy, do you mind if I spend the night here? We can eat Fig Newtons and tell each other our nightmares.”

Frankie looked at him. A few years ago she would have said, “Sure, you can stay on the couch,” assuming they were really only friends.

“Yes.” She took his hand. “I’d really like that.”

“Good. And I think Jil would have liked it, too. He always told me I should get to really know you.”

Charlie pulled her toward him and ran his hand along her breast and neck. He wiped away her tears and kissed her.

“Don’t cry, honey. I’m here now and I’m going to take care of you.”

“Charlie, how can you sound so hopeful?” she answered between her soft gasps for air.

“I promise you.” He put his arm around her waist and unfastened her skirt. “This is the most positive thing we can do.”

Charlie pulled her up from the couch.

“You’re very strong, Charlie,” she whispered as he led her to the bedroom.

“No, you’re strong, Francesca Weissman. I am surprisingly weak.”

While sirens and ambulances whirred down Columbus Avenue Frankie and Charlie made love.