Was the old man besotted with her? Juliana laughed, uneasy. She must calculate her escape. She must leave soon.

But no: they were planning to shop for an engagement ring. Of course. That was why Juliana was here, in this sour-smelling bed.

Let the old man spend money on her, it was what she deserved, Juliana thought. She’d earned it. She would marry Gordon, or possibly not marry Gordon, but she would keep the engagement ring, for she’d earned it.

“You do know the effect you have upon men, Juli-an-ya, don’t you. Of course, you aren’t a child. You know.”

Almost wistfully Norman Kechel spoke. Juliana wondered if, in some wild flight of fantasy, the father of the fiancé might take the fiancé’s place: divorce the old, worn-out wife, marry the beautiful young fiancée. A preposterous turnabout, but not impossible.

It’s up to you—Juliana told herself. No one else!

The smooth apricot-colored liquor had gone to her head, very pleasurably.

Stroking her thigh, leaning down now and then to kiss it, his wet lips against Juliana’s shivery flesh, Kechel was telling Juliana about his business in Kansas City. She’d missed the part where he’d identified a product. Or possibly there was no product, just a service of some kind. He spoke of his wife’s family—“Pioneer stock.” He was immigrant stock, second generation.

In that wistful yet somehow reproachful tone Kechel spoke of his children, sons. He did not speak of Gordon by name. My sons. Good kids. But needing guidance. Juliana had resolved as an adolescent to have no children of her own. Not ever. Children are the disappointment, always falling short. Always, strings attached. No. Already too many of them inhabited the world, choking and smothering one another.

Juliana was becoming dizzy. She’d had only two, three mouthfuls of the exquisite apricot-colored liquor. Had to lie back on the bed, against the headboard, one of the pillows crooked and uncomfortable beneath her. Eyelids heavy. Had she made a mistake? Had she miscalculated Norman Kechel? Had the man drugged her? Poisoned her? Confusing Kechel with the visiting professor in film studies who’d also drugged/poisoned her.

Whiskey wasn’t her drink, whiskey was a man’s drink. Straight whiskey. Still, the taste was good. Soothing. You could not deny that.

No, no more! Thank you but no more.

Her eyelids were heavy. A hand removed the whiskey glass from her hand, gently.

Must’ve slept. Time was confused. Was she alone? Or—

Not Gordon. Vaguely she understood—Not the film professor and not Gordon.

Whoever this was beside her, a heavy, humid weight. And now he was standing above her. A kind of triumph, heaved to his feet. Vaguely she could see the face, not a familiar face. Not a kindly face. Not a fatherly face. In that heavy-jawed face, disapproval and dislike.

Wearing a white terrycloth bathrobe out of the hotel closet, the man stood above her swaying, gloating. The terrycloth white was bright and potent and hurt her eyes.