“I wish,” Yegina said glumly. “I’m not ready to make this decision. We were just supposed to have a sexy week together in the capital, and now there’s this huge weight on us. Do I send him home?”

“Ask for time,” I said. “Tell him you need a week to soul-search.”

Yegina made a doubtful grunt. “I need a year,” she said. “I know he wants kids. That was a discernible section of the tree speech.” She hesitated. “There’s something else. It’s also complicated.”

“It might need to wait, then,” I said. “I’ve got to go back.”

“It might not happen anyway. We’ll talk later,” she said, and then her voice retreated.

I hung up, suppressing a surge of nerves. It wasn’t jealousy I felt. More like homesickness. Homesickness for a simpler time. A year ago, Yegina and I had been in the same place—heartbroken over crappy relationships, devoted to our jobs at a struggling museum and to our friendship. A grueling day at work meant we had to jump on the DASH and get mochi in Little Tokyo; a lonely night meant we’d meet for a silent movie on Fairfax. There were so many city pleasures to explore, to escape into, and put off the future for another day. But marriage and kids for her. A possible new career for me. The old days weren’t coming back.

My black dress brushed the windowsill on the way back into the gallery, streaking it with dust. I rubbed the cloth, then grabbed for the door handle, but a hand reached ahead of me.

“After you,” said a male voice. I look up into the close-shaven face of Nelson de Wilde.

“THE SHOEMAKER’S ELVES,” NELSON MUTTERED as he observed the installation. If he was pleased, he didn’t show it. He didn’t look angry, either, just focused, as if he could let everything else fall away when he examined art. He thrust his hands in his pockets, peering at every inch of it.

Pearson, Erik, and Zania kept working. Layla slumped, stood erect, then wandered deep into a corner.

Nelson didn’t acknowledge her. Instead he approached the desk, checking through the folders I’d made. “Any other calls?” he said in a low, intimate tone, as if he were speaking only to me.

“Uh, to the gallery? No.”

Nelson watched me now, for another long moment, appraising. It wasn’t like the way Ray and Alicia looked at people. They were sneaky and guarded about how sharply they observed you. Nelson turned on the full spotlight of his attention, and he seemed, with each passing moment, to be building a case study of who I was. After a while, he nodded and gave me a smile that was somehow also sexual, and not quite in a cheeky or predatory way, but just acknowledging his approval of me. It happened so fast, and with such possessiveness.