“What did Hudson want?” I asked.

“Nothing much, really. He just told me he was looking forward to the article about Ruth Kowalsky.”

“Must be nice,” I said. “Hudson’s never acknowledged anything I’ve ever finished, much less something I’m still working on.”

“This is an exception for me as well,” Allen said. “He must think this story is going to sell a lot of papers. Hudson’s always struck me as a bottom-line kind of guy.”

We got in the elevator and Allen pushed floors two and three.

“I look forward to dinner tonight,” he said as the doors closed.

“Like I said yesterday, don’t expect too much. For me cooking is more about survival than artistry.”

Allen smiled. “Don’t worry. Whatever you cook and however you cook it, I promise you I’ve eaten worse. That’s one of the realities of spending time in the third world.”

“I suppose my culinary skills can rise to at least those expectations.”

The elevator shuddered to a stop and I stepped out. As the metal doors shut, I wished the most useless thing in the world—that I’d met Allen Hemphill before Claire Pritchard had.

“I WASN’T SURE WHICH ONE,” ALLEN SAID WHEN HE ARRIVED, offering me the bottles of red and white wine he gripped in his right hand. He set a loaf of bread on the counter.

He had shaved and, like me, changed out of his work clothes. He wore brown chinos and a blue flannel shirt that matched his eyes. I suspected he too had spent more time looking in the mirror attentively than he had in a while.

“Red,” I said, taking the bottles from his hand.

“Can I help do anything?”

“No, it’s all taken care of, such as it is.”

“How about a glass of wine?”

“Sure,” I said, and lifted two glasses from the cupboard.

We went into the living room and talked about work while Emmylou Harris sang of love lost and love found. When we finished our wine Allen came to the kitchen as I cooked the pasta, but our conversation was stilted, like two people dancing but unsure of the other’s next step.

As we sat down for dinner I was glad I’d loaded the CD player with five disks. At least the music filled the gaps in the conversation.

“It’s not that bad, is it?” I asked, as Allen set down his fork after a few bites. I wasn’t sure if I was referring to the whole evening or the food.

“No, it’s very good.” Allen smiled weakly. “I’m nervous, so nervous I can’t eat. It’s like I’m back in junior high on my first date. I couldn’t eat then either.” He paused. “That’s what this is, isn’t it, a date?”