I don’t think that Jeannie’s dad was ever a model of husbandly faithfulness. A man with his enticing charm has one woman after another hoping his exquisite attention is evoked solely and uniquely by her. But regardless of the competition for his attention, he stayed married to Jeannie’s mom. And the women, one at a time, drifted away.

But Sue was different. Twenty years younger just as he was entering the last gasp of his own virility. A woman who shared his work zeal. A work wife.

Sue and Jack spent hours in his office, the door closed.

“You need some help?” Jeannie asked her.

“Help?”

“Hey, if you’re having some problems getting the hang of things, come to me.” Jeannie squeezed her arm. “I can show you the ropes. I mean, I’ve worked here forever.”

“Your dad say something to you?” Sue brought her eyebrows together.

“No. Not at all.”

“I’m doin’ okay, I think.” Sue smiled glossy red, revealing perfect whitened teeth. She looked, always looked, as though she had spent a week in the sun. She complemented her dark hair with silver chains around her neck, her wrists, her ankles. Her eagerness and determination were softened by her petite size. And these days she dressed in shades of turquoise and navy, bringing out the richness of her dark hair.

But the meetings continued.

When I asked Jeannie how it was going, she said, “I don’t know, but I always felt good being with Rosie and Sue. Now I feel almost excluded from my own family.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, it’s just work. My dad always spends a lot of time with new employees.”

But unease crept around the edges of her words. A year later there weren’t long lunches anymore. Then one time Jeannie needed to ask her dad a question and couldn’t reach him. He wasn’t in the office. He wasn’t at home. He didn’t answer his cell phone. She thought maybe Sue would know the answer but couldn’t reach her either. Jeannie shrugged it off. A month later it happened again.

One night Sue wasn’t at the Friday happy hour. “Where’s Sue?” I asked.

“Who knows?” Jeannie looked away and wrapped her fingers around the stem of her wineglass.

“Probably selling a Vue,” Rosie added. “She’s become so, so work obsessed.” And then she glanced at Jeannie. But it was a fleeting look followed by a flush that only I observed.

“Hey, that’s not my fault,” Jeannie said.

“I know,” Rosie almost whispered.

Prickles walked up my spine.

AND THEN EIGHT or nine months later, I got a call at seven A.M. At first, it was incorporated in a dream, the ring a mewling kitten accidentally locked in a closet. Before I could open the door, I realized it was the phone.

“Marnie?” Jeannie’s voice was thick, her nose clogged.

“Jeannie?”