“C’est la vie,” she said. “I wish you’d marry Ian because I bet his mother has a tiara she could give you as a wedding present, and I think a tiara would be wonderfully sparkly against your hair.”

“You are quite inspirational, you know, Nancy.”

“Yes, I know.”

Although Ian must have returned, he hadn’t called. When I thought about him being close by, I felt like a junkie trying to ignore a poster for free heroin on a liquor store window. And, like a junkie, I gave in to my desire.

Since Ian often saw me in my gardening clothes, I decided to wear something special. I changed into a black silk bra and thong, a garter belt and stockings, a lace-trimmed black slip, a clingy wrap-around plum-colored dress, and black heels.

I put my hair up to expose my neck and wore dangling Victorian garnet and gold earrings that Ian had given me. I stroked on dark eye shadow, layers of mascara, and glossy plum-red lipstick. As I got ready, I became aroused as I imagined how Ian would undress me and the many interesting ways I’d let him violate me.

I didn’t call him first in case I came to my senses at the last minute. It was likely that I’d stay the night, so I took Rosemary with me so I wouldn’t have to return to my loft early in the morning.

When I arrived at the California Crapsman after sunset, cars were in the drive. I rang the doorbell and a moment later Mr. K answered the door.

“Good evening, Miss Milagro.”

“Hi, Mr. K.” Rosemary scampered by me into the house, but Mr. K didn’t open the door farther. I could hear music and voices from inside. “Ian’s back, isn’t he?”

“Yes, miss. If you would wait a moment, I’ll announce you.”

“No need for us to be so formal,” I said, and stepped by him.

“Miss,” Mr. K said, but I was already through the foyer and then I turned toward the sunken living room.

It took me a moment to register the scene. A three-piece jazz band played while people chatted. A few had the too-smooth color of spray-on tans as they quaffed dark red drinks. Among the others, I saw bruises and scabs, the marks of blood tastings.

Ian wasn’t in the room. Someone whispered, “That’s Milagro,” and someone else said, “Mmm, mouthwatering.”

I ignored the comments and walked out of the room.

Mr. K said, “Please, Miss Milagro, allow me—” He tried to block my way and I moved around him, heading to the master suite.

The door was ajar and I pushed it open, saying, “Ian …”

He stood by the stone fireplace, facing out to the room, and Cricket was in front of him, her back to him, in a filmy pale yellow spring dress. His mouth was on her shoulder, his hands gripping her arms.