“Mabel Cannon’s here,” she whispered, as if announcing a descent from the rafters of the importunate batty aunt. Adam got up, forgot why he had, sat down, remembered, got up, forgot again, and sat down. Tabitha kindly ignored the entire procedure.

“She came up with Don,” Tabitha said in a normal voice. “He wants to see you too. But first he has an interview.”

“Quite a news day. I think that we … There’s also … Let me see how …” Adam stalled out. He stood there. Tabitha walked forward a step and closed the door. “Adam Aaron, let me call that young woman from NPR, let her know that you need to set up another time.” Tabitha always called him by his first and middle names. She had not known his mother, but she was old enough. Tabitha’s son was also named Adam. Adam Rebander Collins.

“Thank you. And show Mabel in.”

Mabel had never called. It was two weeks, maybe three, since Don Grady had had weekend duty and told Adam that Mabel wanted to try for managing editor. Now here she was, no call, no appointment, no warning. To Adam’s dismay, he was nervous.

When she walked in, he realized he had never taken a good look at Mabel Cannon. Back before they were who they were now, she had been not good-looking, or at least not anyone he thought was good-looking, though many others, as he could just recall, thought she was. As he looked at her now, it occurred to him that he didn’t really have much of a definition of good-looking. He was something of a duffer when it came to a woman. His first wife had been the first girl he’d kissed. His second wife had been the grade-school teacher of his youngest daughter, who had special needs. He had fallen in love with Joan, instantly and illicitly, because she had been so painlessly understanding, so calm, as he wasn’t, and so unworried, as his first wife, Carol, couldn’t be, about their irreparable child. It didn’t feel like his life to have been married twice; he was shocked by it on the most regular basis. Yet his chief fantasy lately, unaccountably, was walking away from Joan, from this office, from what was by any reckoning a full life. The thought of it was like a clarinet playing in an empty street.

Mabel had been the one everyone wanted. Adam was the one who hadn’t bothered to look. Her hair was brown, long. Brown eyes, he thought, looking quickly.

“Adam,” Mabel began, “this is just ridiculous.”

“Mabel,” he said. “Good to see you. You look wonderful.” Sometimes when he blushed he could feel it, but he didn’t appear red to the casual observer. Maybe now it was that way.

“I am so sorry that Don made up this bullshit.”