I am reminded of those easy evenings at their house, of being grateful to have his buffer between me and my sister and our tendency to get into little spats, but now I feel I must defend her from him. Don looks at me incredulously, as if he cannot believe I am trying to block him from entering.

Then, from the other end of the foyer, her voice softer now that she has approached, Elizabeth says, “Let him in.”

Grudgingly, I step aside. Elizabeth watches him blankly, her hair pulled away from her face only halfheartedly. Donovan moves forward but stops shy of touching her, even though his hands are outstretched.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she says without inflection. “And so is Julian. Is that all?”

He glances at me with a look that asks me to leave them alone, but I refuse to move. The front door is still open, inviting him to exit and inviting in the frigid winter air.

“Lizzie,” he says. “Can we talk?”

Silence lingers like smoke, subduing the foyer in its somnolence. Elizabeth stares at her husband with eyes beset by purpled bags, and the wind shivers her hair over her face. Finally, when the silence has grown so pregnant I expect it will burst at any moment, Elizabeth says, “Sam, would you close the door already? You’re letting in the cold.”

Shutting the door feels like defeat. I will be closing him in here with us instead of pushing him back outside where he belongs. “Are you sure?” I ask, my hand on the door.

“Yes.”

“But what about—?”

“Sam, close the door.”

All right. I close the door.

It requires a certain amount of convincing for me to leave the drawing room and allow the two of them to talk, although I do not go far, instead electing to eavesdrop from the hallway. My mother, after appearing and disappearing again, keeps away, mumbling to herself all the things she has to be getting on with.

If I keep my ear to the door, I can just hear them.

“Come home with me,” says Don.

“Come home with you?”

“I’m your husband.”

“For how much longer, I wonder?”

“We made vows, didn’t we?”

“Yes,” she says, sounding wistful. “We did.”

They sit in silence for a moment, or perhaps they are continuing the conversation with their eyes. I’ve seen the way Don looks at her—he can put on a gaze with such intensity that I would be uncomfortable to have its sights turned on me, but it is a gaze that must be flattering to Elizabeth, must make her feel special.

“You can’t take care of that baby all by yourself,” he says at last.

“I’m not all by myself,” Elizabeth counters, but her voice no longer sounds quite so sure of itself. Don has a way of making her falter.

“Lizzie.” His voice is earnest, gentle, as he can be, sometimes. “This isn’t the way. You know this isn’t want you want.”