“But now you’re free,” Sheila said. There was a nudge of irony in her voice but her dark eyes were fixed compassionately on Monica’s face.

“I’m free,” Monica said lightly. “I’m living in a place in Pennsylvania I didn’t know existed a year ago.”

“And are you happy?” Sheila asked.

“I’m happy,” Monica said, again lightly. “I’m very happy.”

“Do you know why?” Sheila asked, watching her closely.

Monica drained her glass. Her voice was brave though faintly trembling. “Because I’m here,” she said. “In Glenkill. In my own life. My name is Jensen again—it was always Jensen. I don’t need to care whether I have a ‘husband’—whether he’s faithful or unfaithful—whether he loves me too much—as he thought at one point he did—or doesn’t love me at all—”

Sheila interrupted to ask whether Monica’s husband had actually been unfaithful to her; and really, why had it mattered? “Men are always unfaithful to women in one way or another,” Sheila said.

“Did you feel that way when your husband was unfaithful to you?” Monica asked sharply.

Sheila shrugged her shoulders. She smiled and showed her damp predator’s teeth. “I don’t remember,” she said.

Monica told herself she should leave: it was time to go home: it was past the time to go home: she’d feel wretched in the morning. But she stayed. The Irish setter’s chin resting on her foot was so warm, so comforting, her head ached half-pleasantly, a low dull throbbing at the base of her skull. She stayed until two, two-ten, two-twenty. A freezing rain had begun, pelting the windows. She found herself speaking rapidly and a little crazily about her marriage. Yes it had been this, yes she’d told herself it was that, no she had been lying, yes she had been lying, the secrets were so clumsy, so obvious, why was she crying?—making a fool of herself?—drunk and maudlin as her husband had always detested in women: and of course her soul was as shallow as a tin spoon. Sheila had seen through her at once, Sheila couldn’t be deceived. . . . She heard herself saying that her marriage had been doomed because it hadn’t been blessed—there was such a thing as “blessed”—she didn’t know how to explain and she wasn’t religious any longer but she did believe—didn’t Sheila?—that some relationships were blessed and others were cursed. And you always know, Monica declared, her voice slurred, you always know.