When they got into the apartment, he put her in the living room and returned a few moments later with a pair of handsome silver candlesticks. Placing these on a table and lighting them, he then went to the closet near the dining room and pulled out every one of the large number of silver candlesticks that Charlie had inherited from his mother. Soon the hall, kitchen, living room and dining room were filled with bright candlelight. Maggie sat on the sofa watching him.

“Nice apartment.”

“Thank you. I inherited it. What would you like to drink?”

“Red wine.” In the candlelight, Maggie’s red hair took on a magical glow. Her face looked softer. Her manner seemed to relax a little, too. “Maybe you could whip up a little soufflé.”

“I’m a terrible cook.”

She got up and had a look around while he got the wine. Then she sat down, cradling the wine glass thoughtfully.

“So,” she said with a smile, “this is your technique, is it? You invite the girl round for a drink, so she can see the beautiful apartment. Then you take her out for dinner telling her that you’re too helpless to cook. By this time, she has decided that you and your apartment need her tender loving care.”

“Absolutely inaccurate. If true, I’d be married by now.”

“Poor defense.”

They talked very easily. He told her how he’d always planned to live in the city since he was a little boy, and asked her why she had come there.

“Actually, it was my brother. He lives down in the Village, and one Sunday he took me out, and we walked into Soho. This was early in ’73, when the World Trade Center towers had recently been completed. It was an overcast morning, but the sun was trying to break through the clouds. And there was this great, gray tower in the sky below Soho, kind of grainy, and as the sunlight caught it, the tower seemed to change its texture. It was one of the most magical moments in my life. That’s when I decided I had to come to New York.”

“I thought you didn’t like that kind of architecture. The international style.”

“I usually don’t. But the towers are different somehow. It’s the surface I guess, the play of the light.”

“Is your brother married?”

“No. Actually, he’s gay.” She paused. “My parents don’t know.”

“That must be difficult. When did you find out?”

“Eight years ago. Martin and I are very close, and he told me. That was 1969, the year of the Stonewall riots after the police raided that gay bar in the Village. I was still at school.”

“Isn’t it time he told your parents?”