She and Alice mounted the steps side by side behind him and she focused on the heels of his white tennis sneakers, which were as spotless as if they’d just come out of the box, one foot rising, then the next, tennis sneakers that were like tennis balls bouncing up the stairs instead of down, and she realized she was drunk—or exhausted. Or some combination of the two. It had been quite a day. Still, tired though she was, she wasn’t ready for bed yet—she was too exhilarated, too full of the present and the future even to think about shutting her eyes.

“How you feeling, Alice?” she asked, putting a hand on her arm as much to steady herself as draw her attention. Was she woozy? No. She’d had—how many drinks? Two martinis, wasn’t it? The wine with dinner, then the cognac. But what about the marijuana cigarette? a voice inside her asked and then immediately answered itself, But that was hours ago, miles ago, all the way back in Boston, which didn’t even seem possible. Had she really gone from Boston—from the seedy discount motel in Waltham, actually—all the way here in a single day? It was too much, like going from one planet to another.

Alice—her face was a marvel, the smoothest unbroken complexion, the high forehead and thick-lashed eyes—just smiled and said, “Great. Never better.”

Tim had the best rooms of all, a suite really, that looked out on the front garden and the fountain that had receded into darkness hours ago. He’d pushed his desk up against the window of the main room and there was a typewriter there and his books and papers were scattered about as if he’d jumped up from his desk in medias res when they’d come rumbling up the driveway. There was a couch, a pair of armchairs and an Oriental rug that took up half the room and a king-size bed in the adjoining room, the double doors to which were flung open.

“Sit down, make yourselves comfortable,” he said, gesturing to the couch. “After all, every space here is everybody’s space, because we’ve got to get over this possessiveness game, mine, mine, mine all the time. Spread your wings, ladies, put your feet up. As they say in Mexico, ‘Mi casa es tu casa.’”

They both settled into the couch and Alice said, “I can’t believe this place, I just can’t. I mean, I feel so lucky.”

He had the cognac decanter in his hand still, another magic trick, and he produced three snifters and poured them each a drink. “I know what you mean,” he said. “And if you think you’re lucky, just look at me—hounded out of Harvard and Mexico and I—we—end up here? Is this the best of all possible worlds, or what?”