She’d confided in Ned Spires that she’d once been engaged. In the spring of her senior year of college. Like a dream it had been, she’d been a fiancée and had had a fiancé. Like a dream, it faded from memory as soon as she’d wakened.

And you didn’t love him? The fiancé?—with gentle irony Ned Spires spoke, like one teasing out inaccuracies in a child.

No. I didn’t know what love was.

And now—you know what love is?

Are you laughing at me? That isn’t nice.

Am I laughing at you. Darling, no. But I am wondering if you are laughing at me.

Ned Spires went away, his wife’s mother had died. All the family was gone to Milwaukee, Wisconsin, for eight, ten, twelve days.

In the Wild Goose, she’d waited patiently at her place at the bar. Drink before her, vodka on the rocks. A pack of cigarettes. (But she rarely smoked, allotting herself only seven cigarettes a week.) Shutting her eyes, loving the guttural Johnny Cash voice, words directed to her. Turn, turn, turn.

Wheel of fire.

Ned returned from the ordeal of death, burial. They saw each other again. He’d missed her, he said. His life was being torn in half.

She’d gone away, angry and hurt over a slight. No more than an intonation in the man’s voice. He had not pursued her into the parking lot and beyond, and so in desperation late that night she dared to call him at home—I think I love you. We’ve gone too far. You have caused this, Ned. The words were astonishing to Juliana, purely invented words, like froth on her lips. No idea what she was saying. Why she was even calling Ned; she’d promised she would never call him at home and only on his cell phone if the call was urgent.

How many times had she ever called a man, any man, at his home?—not ever.

Hearing Juliana’s voice, Ned was not so welcoming as she’d expected. Not so consoling, confiding. In a lowered voice cautioning her—I can’t talk now, Juliana. This isn’t good. Don’t call this number again, please. I thought I’d told you. Juliana was shocked by such a rebuke, she could not reply. In silence like a gaping wound, she broke the connection.

Had she been drinking—well, of course. But not drunk.

For hours then, the man would worry, lie awake and worry that Juliana might have injured herself. Done some violence to herself.

Some violence to herself that might involve him.

In her heart she hated the man. Had not the slightest intention of seeing him again, calling him again. Not the slightest intention of respecting his wishes, his marriage. Returning to the Wild Goose the next night, where she used a public phone so that he would not block her call.