“No, no. That’s okay. Heck, why not? Sure. What did you have in mind?”

“There’s a wonderful place up in Sag Harbor. Banner’s. Do you know it?” She hoped he didn’t. She didn’t know it either, which meant that no one there would know her. But she had heard that it was good and quiet and dark.

“No, I’ve never been there,” said Hooper. “But Sag Harbor. That’s quite a hike for lunch.”

“It’s not bad, really, only about fifteen or twenty minutes. I could meet you there whenever you like.”

“Any time’s all right with me.”

“Around twelve-thirty, then?”

“Twelve-thirty it is. See you then.”

Ellen hung up the phone. Her hands were still shaking, but she felt elated, excited. Her senses seemed alive and incredibly keen. Every time she drew a breath she savored the smells around her. Her ears jingled with a symphony of tiny house sounds—creaks and rustles and thumps. She felt more intensely feminine than she had in years—a warm, wet feeling both delicious and uncomfortable.

She went into the bathroom and took a shower. She shaved her legs and under her arms. She wished she had bought one of those feminine hygiene deodorants she had seen advertised, but, lacking that, she powdered herself and daubed cologne behind her ears, inside her elbows, behind her knees, on her nipples, and on her genitals.

There was a full-length mirror in the bedroom, and she stood before it, examining herself. Were the goods good enough? Would the offer be accepted? She had worked to keep in shape, to preserve the smoothness and sinuousness of youth. She could not bear the thought of rejection.

The goods were good. The lines in her neck were few and barely noticeable. Her face was unblemished and unscarred. There were no droops or sags or pouches. She stood straight and admired the contours of her breasts. Her waist was slim, her belly flat—the reward for endless hours of exercise after each child. The only problem, as she assessed her body critically, was her hips. By no stretch of anyone’s imagination were they girlish. They signaled motherhood. They were, as Brody once said, breeder’s hips. The recollection brought a quick flash of remorse, but excitement quickly nudged it aside. Her legs were long and—below the pad of fat on her rear—slender. Her ankles were delicate, and her feet—with the toenails neatly pruned—were perfect enough to suit any pediphile.

She dressed in her hospital clothes. From the back of her closet she took a plastic shopping bag into which she put a pair of bikini underpants, a bra, a neatly folded lavender summer dress, a pair of low-heeled pumps, a can of spray deodorant, a plastic bottle of bath powder, a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. She carried the bag to the garage, tossed it into the back seat of her Volkswagen beetle, backed out of the driveway, and drove to the Southampton Hospital.