Think about it.

Five and a half years from now, people would be addressing her as doctor. She’d have a time-honored degree and the respect that went along with it. Then there was the income that went with the profession, a surefire guarantee of self-reliance.

Think about it.

Holidays. He remembered what a good cook she’d been. There’d be a Thanksgiving table loaded with food—a big fat stuffed turkey, glazed yams with marshmallows on top, plates of fresh cooked vegetables, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie for dessert. How about new clothes for Easter mass? And what about a real Christmas with a big tree dripping in ornaments, dozens of presents underneath for her and the kid? Because this wasn’t only about her, right? Didn’t Gabe deserve to know his real father, not just some guy who pretended to like the kid when in reality all he wanted to do was get into her pants? He had things to offer Gabe. He knew that their son was gifted musically. From where did she think he had gotten the talent? He had attributes, things he could share with his son. But, of course, he’d never get in her way. She’d be the final decision when it came to Gabe’s upbringing.

Think about it.

For her, he was erasing the past and all the bad feelings that went with it, replacing it with a secure future instead. And all he wanted from her, all he needed from her, was a few days every couple of months. Not too steep a price to pay, considering that there had been a time when she had done it for nothing. It wasn’t too much to ask, was it? Some… flexibility in her attitude toward him? Because, c’mon, be honest, there were still sparks between them. This wasn’t just about sex; this was about a relationship.

She listened intently. She listened without interruption. But she didn’t answer him. No matter. He took her silence for acquiescence.

The next day, he went to work while she was in school and the kid was in day care, making his offer a fait accompli so she couldn’t change her mind. He found a modest but clean two-bedroom furnished apartment complete with pots, pans, dishes, and utensils, and within walking distance to bus stops and the El. He went shopping for her, stocking the cupboards and refrigerator with food, filling the dresser drawers and small closets with needed clothing: winter apparel for her and for the kid—sweaters, pants, coats, boots, and scarves. He found a Gulbransen spinet piano in a thrift shop. It fit perfectly against one of the living-room walls. When he picked them up in the limo that evening and showed her what was possible, he was 99 percent sure it was over. Then when the kid went over to the piano— wondrous awe in those saucer mint-green eyes of his, tiny fingers tapping out the first couple of bars of Mozart’s Piano Concerto in C Major—man, he knew he had her. He gathered up her mail, took it back with him to New York, and began the arduous process of sorting through her numerous bills.