Anger bubbled up, pushing aside good intentions. She grabbed Brad by the sleeve and dragged him out to the foyer. “That’s it,” she hissed. “I get your mother’s message loud and clear: I’ll never be the person Patricia was. And I can’t be Winky, either! Well, I don’t want to be like any of those people your mother likes. I can only be me, and if that’s not good enough, then we won’t be seeing each other again.”

The outburst felt good, even cleansing. In al-Remal, her family had been among the elite, and even here, she was a respected professional. So how dare Brad’s mother treat her with such disdain!

But after she slammed her own front door and flung her handbag against the wall, her sense of righteousness began to evaporate. The Badir temper burned hot and cooled quickly. When reason returned, there were sometimes regrets. Yes, it was true, Brad’s mother had behaved very badly. But was Brad’s own behavior bad enough to warrant storming out of Abigail’s house? Without even having a bite to eat? Jenna almost laughed at herself, for she now realized how hungry she was.

The refrigerator had little to offer, and as she rifled through it, trying to assemble a meal from odds and ends, she came up with some limp lettuce, a small tomato, a piece of cheese. Not very appealing.

The doorbell rang. Jenna pushed the intercom. A rough voice: “Pizza delivery.”

Had a genie conjured a meal for her? Had to be a mistake. “I didn’t order a pizza.”

“I got a pizza for this address, lady.”

Something about the voice. She went downstairs and looked through the peephole. Brad—with a large pizza.

She opened the door. “You’re lucky I’m hungry,” she said, unwilling to let him know how relieved she was to see him, how very glad she was that he didn’t just let her go.

Sitting in her kitchen, she devoured the everything-but-anchovies pie, letting him do the talking.

“Jenna, we don’t really know each other that well. Is your mother still alive?” “No. She died when I was a teenager.”

“Ah. That must have been hard. I’m sorry.” Brad touched her hand. “Let me ask you this, then: If she were still alive, wouldn’t you put up with all kinds of silliness on her part, just because she was your mother and you loved her?”

Jenna had to admit she would.

“Okay. It’s no different with me. Look, the lady I was so subtly paired with tonight—”

“Winky,” Jenna noted acidly.

“Yes. Winky, God help us. Gwendolyn’s her real name. We’ve been bud- dies since we were six.”

“Yes?” Jenna’s best professional listening attitude.