In the morning, he couldn’t believe it all over again. She was even more beautiful in the light streaming in from Boylston Street. She had literally no physical flaws. She was perfect.

“I have to go to work,” said Cassie, once she was showered and dressed. She worked as an assistant at a gallery on Harrison, in the South End, and concentrated on her own art after hours. She was beautiful and creative. Anthony had won the lottery.

“Don’t go,” said Anthony. He was still in bed, rejoicing. She leaned over him and her long blond hair tickled his bare chest. She’d used the toothbrush that came in the overnight kit in the hotel bathroom; her breath smelled minty, pure. Her skin looked like snow and felt like butter.

“But I’ll see you again, Anthony Puckett.”

His sort-of girlfriend called, and called again. When Anthony was cagey on the phone, the sort-of girlfriend said she wasn’t interested in a long-distance relationship: Anthony was away so much! Distracted all the time, with the book. Was there really a future for them?

Anthony agreed: He was away. He was distracted. “You shouldn’t have to put your life on hold, waiting for me,” said Anthony. “It’s not fair to you.”

She sighed, relieved. “So, we’re cool, then?” she asked.

“Very cool.” He thought about the way Cassie’s enormous eyes tipped up at the corners.

Huxley Wilder reported in. The publisher was very, very happy with the sales numbers.

Anthony’s publicist was a nervous young man with a twitch in one eye. “This is going phenomenally well,” he told Anthony. “We’re booking you into more venues. You’re available, right?”

Available? He was available. He was on top of the world.

“I’m pregnant,” said Cassie, six weeks later.

Something turned over in Anthony. He felt a click that told him everything was falling into place. “Marry me,” he said. He got down on one knee, though he had no ring. He’d buy one! He’d buy the nicest one. The book was selling and selling. Number eight on the list, then five, and then it cracked the top three. Then one.

He called his mother. “I’m going to be a dad,” he told her. “I’m going to be a husband and a dad.”

“Are you sure?” asked his mother.

He’d never been more sure of anything.

He and Cassie got married under a wildflower arch and walked down a path made of cedar chips. Now Anthony was a husband. They bought the house in Newton, because the schools were excellent and Cassie wanted to keep her job at the gallery, working for a visionary named Glen Manning. Anthony could work anywhere, and was ready to leave New York. Now they had a garage, neighbors, real estate taxes.

After a seventeen-hour labor with no epidural, in the obstetrics wing of Newton-Wellesley Hospital, Max was born. Max came out blue and Anthony thought he was going to lose his mind. Then Max started crying and his color developed: he scored 9.6 on his second Apgar test. He was perfect. Anthony had never known a fierce and unshakable love like this.