At quarter of seven he was still fussing over the last-minute details—obsessively, he’d be the first to admit it—and she was at the door in her heels and a tartan plaid skirt and nylons that showed off her legs, saying, “Come on, Fitz—you’re the one who’s going to make us late this time,” and then she started in on a mini lecture about how anal-retentive he was, because really, didn’t they have the right to go out and enjoy themselves once in a while without making a major production of it? Implicit in this, of course, was the promise of sex, the kind of unbounded primal sex they’d skyrocketed into the last time and hadn’t even come close to replicating since, and that was a mighty persuader, so that when he did finally usher her out the door the merest touch of her sent an electric jolt through him. Everything was settled, everything was fine. They were going to Tim’s. For a session.

The problems with the car were beyond counting, but he’d sprung for a tune-up and a new battery and with the coming of warmer weather the thing had started up more often than not, as it did now, gratifyingly. A rumble, two quick blasts of backfire, and they were off. Joanie insisted on stopping at the liquor store for the same label of wine they’d brought last time—low end, but French at least—and he didn’t fume over being late as he sat at the curb with the engine running and the black budless trees waving in the breeze because he’d seen how casual it all was at Tim’s, a party, a session, pairing off, the inner depths. Or heights. Definitely heights.

This time they didn’t bother with the doorbell, just walked right in as if they belonged. They slid out of their coats and dumped them without ceremony on the pile in the entranceway, then went on into the main room beyond, Joanie cradling the wine and he pausing to light a cigarette (not that he was nervous, he told himself, but just to have something to do with his hands). Chatter flew round the room. Everybody was here, though it was a bigger crowd than last time, and there were several faces he didn’t recognize. The fireplace was going—actually, he saw now that there were three fireplaces, all ablaze—though the day had been fine, with temperatures reaching into the mid-fifties. Was it too hot? Maybe. He felt a prickle under his arms, drew in the smoke to calm himself.