Jay looked middle-aged to me that day. Worn and paternal. And, for the first time, flawed. I didn’t want to see it. As I sat across from him in the flattering light, I longed for the old flirtatious, conspiring Jay, the one who felt something more for me than just gratitude and protectiveness. I wanted the brilliant, powerful Jay I’d adored, who’d adored me back, when we both believed in our story, and in each other. The desire wove through my body like a steel fiber, so that when we rose after lunch and walked down the restaurant’s alleyway toward the street, I was so tense, I sprang. I pulled Jay toward me and I threw my arms around him and kissed him on the lips.

He gave a little grunt of surprise. He didn’t kiss me back, but his hands found their way to my waist, and for a moment we hung there, bodies pressed tight, the kiss finished but our eyes locked, staring into each other’s.

He murmured my name and let me go. We strolled to the street together. He fumbled for conversation again, but I had nothing to say. I had said it with the kiss and the look.

It’s still one of the most intimate moments of my life.

We parted at my car, and I never saw Jay Eastman again. To this day, I am sure that if we had met at night for drinks, if I had kissed Jay in our office instead of the alley, if I’d had my own place nearby to lead him to, my own bed, or if he’d been younger or more willing to take what I’d offered—then we would have slept together. It is just as possible as the alternative: the single kiss. Sex would have thrown my life into worse confusion. But I am haunted by what might have been, by the certitude that if I went back to that moment in the alley, I would still want it, the carnal release.

16

THE CREW MUST HAVE BEEN working all night. When I entered the Westing, I regretted that I hadn’t gotten to watch them. The edifice was real now, an architecture to step into, to train the eye upward, toward the skylights. The columns rose into arches of shoes that extended to the ceiling, not in an exact string but in an arrangement that ribboned and dangled, exposing the sharp grace of the high heel, the loafer’s comfort, the sturdy boot.

The scents of sweat, leather, and rubber had intensified, blending into something arid and sweet. The light in the gallery was alternately broken and open. Mundane, ethereal.

I didn’t know how they’d done it, but the feeling of cathedral had arrived.