Things unfolded in a slow sure way, people dividing up the household tasks with perfect equanimity, everybody contributing for groceries according to their means, and no friction—or even the suggestion of it—over whether a family of five (the Eggerses) should put in more than a single couple like Charlie and Alice. She was going to have to get a job sooner or later, she knew that, but during that first month, as fall settled in and the trees turned color and the group sessions deepened their attachment to one another till they were like a single organism connected everywhere and at once by tendrils of perception and emotion and the deepest level of transpersonative harmony she’d ever known, she hardly gave it a thought. They had enough to get by—she’d recovered the deposit on the apartment and still had fifty dollars left out of her father’s check. And they had their savings, or what was left of them. Of course, the biggest factor by far was rent—or the lack of it. Without the burden of rent, she felt solvent for the first time in her life, the roof over their heads no more a worry than the air they breathed.

She even made a joke of it one night, laying two dimes on the tabletop in front of Tim as they were sitting down to dinner. Everyone was there, making small talk, and Dick and Fanchon, who’d collaborated on a pot-au-feu, accompanied by a Caesar salad, fresh-baked bread and a selection of cheeses, had just set the serving dishes on the table. Tim made a show of examining the coins in the palm of his hand, slapped them back down and shot a glance around the table to be sure everyone was watching, and asked, “What’s this for?”

“Rent.”

“Rent? But we don’t—”

Charlie cut in: “We don’t pay no stinking rent.”

All eyes were on her now, even the kids’. “Oh, really?” she said, bringing a hand to her mouth as if in surprise. “My understanding was that our bloodsucking landlords are demanding a whole dollar a year, isn’t that right?”

Fitz was cracking up. Fanchon tittered.

“Well, if that’s the case, then this is our share—for the three of us, that is, which comes out to fifteen cents.” She slid the two dimes across the table to him. “You owe me a nickel.”

Not to be outdone, Tim said, “I’ll flip you for it.”

“Sure,” she said, “that’s only fair,” called heads and lost.

Tim held up the coins so everyone could see them, then shifted one hip and slipped them into his pocket, poker-faced.

“There,” she said, “now we’re even, right?”

And he said, “Till next year anyway.”