“Yes, it’s time to get ready. You get in the shower. I’ll take care of this.”

He stands, steps out of his clothes. I reach out my hand.

• • •

When we arrive at the restaurant, we are seated at a luxuriously large table by the window. “Sorry for the rather inconvenient size, it’s the only table available,” the maître d’ says.

“It’s fine,” I say. I order a martini, Chip a club soda. I spread my napkin on my lap, lean back in my chair, and look out at the beautiful room. Then, coming through the door, I see Mrs. Peters. “Oh, my God,” I whisper. “Look who’s here!” Chip nods, smiling. Mrs. Peters spots us, waves, and heads directly for us.

“Wait a minute,” I say. “What is this? Did you—?”

“Mrs. Peters!” Chip rises to kiss her cheek. His napkin falls, and I pick it up for him, put it on his chair.

“Thank you for inviting me,” she tells him. “This is a real honor.” He invited her to dinner?

“Hello, Myra.” Mrs. Peters leans down to kiss me. She smells wonderful. She’s wearing a midnight blue dress, conservatively cut from some beautiful, crepelike fabric. Diamond-and-sapphire earrings, a matching bracelet. Her hair is styled into an elegant upsweep.

The waiter glides over. “The usual, Mrs. Peters?”

“Yes, Basil, thank you.”

After he disappears, she says, “Such a nice man. He’s forty, can you believe it? He doesn’t look a day over thirty. He’s a twin, he and his brother live in the South End. He’s an aspiring actor, quite good, really, I’ve seen him in a few plays around town.”

There’s a great commotion at the door, and then I see DeWitt coming in, wearing a dark suit, a blindingly white shirt, and an electric blue tie.

Open-mouthed, I stare at Chip, who simply smiles back at me. Who knows what DeWitt was arguing about, but everything seems to have been worked out. He comes to the table, smiles widely at Chip, salutes me, and then, upon being introduced to Mrs. Peters, leans over and pumps her hand enthusiastically. “Very charmed to make your acquaintance, how you doing?”