Later that same day I was riding with Claudia in her new Range Rover, running errands. We were hurrying to beat the rain. I thought I’d explained the story clearly, but apparently not, because she kept asking me the same questions. Here was what I’d told her: Jeff Slade had called the day before to share his good news. He had proposed to a “wonderful woman” who, “as fate would have it,” was also named Kate. This particular tidbit kept Claudia from hearing the rest, which was simple: Jeff and his fiancée, Kate, had made plans to visit Disney World, and, yes, it was last-minute, but Jeff wondered if Tim, the boys, and I might like to join them. I objected, saying maybe he and his fiancée needed some time alone, but he said that Tim and I were role models for him and that he wanted the other Kate to get to know us, and ever since Disney had acquired ABC a few years back, they’d made “D-World” pretty much carte blanche for people like him (meaning: stars of a super-successful Sunday-night family show like An Angel and His Wings). Claudia couldn’t understand why I would even consider going. “You hate everything about Disney.”

“But Tim loves it,” I said. “And since it was an all-expenses-paid offer, with first-class airfare, three days and two nights at the Wilderness Lodge, a personal guide provided by Disney, and free babysitting, I didn’t see how we could refuse. The drag is Tim can’t go.”

Claudia smelled blood. “What do you mean?”

“He’s got his dissertation defense. So he’s letting the boys and me go. He’ll be staying home.”

“Well, it’s either kind of him or really stupid. Dan would never let me travel with any of my great loves.”

“But this is to meet the fiancée.”

“Whose name is Kate, I might add!”

“Please, Claudia. It’s not like that,” I said, laughing.

“No?” Claudia swerved to avoid the new Grand Canyon-like pot-hole on Hicks Street. The windshield wipers batted away the fat drops of rain that, only moments earlier, had begun to fall.

“My thing with Jeff was a long time ago.”

“Which makes it worse.”

“How do you mean?”

“It makes you nostalgic.”

Claudia hit the brakes and skidded on the wet pavement. She pounded the car horn at a man who had stepped stupidly out into the street. “You coulda been killed, you ditz!”

As the man crossed, he gave a vague look in our direction. It was Philip Ashworth, in a gray raincoat, holding one of those cheap umbrellas you buy at a newsstand.

“Well, will you look at that. Even Philip Ashworth gets wet,” Claudia said. “Hey, have you heard the latest?”

“No.”