“I’m sorry it’s such a circus,” Zanne said. “I wish I had somewhere better to leave you.” Someplace more private.

“This is fine. Thanks again.”

But how could this be fine?

“I’ve got a better idea. Come on.”

As they crossed the terrace, Phoebe asked, “How long have you been working here?”

“Eight years.” She’d started in June. Eight years exactly as of last Monday. And in two weeks, she’d be nine years sober. Both anniversaries felt momentous, the twin pillars of her survival, and for so long there’d been a comfort in watching the numbers grow together.

Phoebe nodded. She was old enough to understand how quickly eight years could pass. “Do you still write?”

“Oh. Um. Sort of. I used to. We’re so busy. The circus, you know?”

Zanne took the composition notebook from her back pocket and opened it to the page where she’d tucked the postcard for Warrior Bride. She smiled and Phoebe smiled back.

“Too bad.”

Phoebe was right. There was no reason Zanne couldn’t have been writing all this time. Phoebe was a teacher. She must have worked long days, and still she’d found time to make her film. Even knowing how difficult it would be, knowing as she surely must have that Hollywood wouldn’t value her the same way they valued Ted. Zanne could have written a dozen scripts by now. Instead, all she had to show for her eight years here were the ideas in this little notebook.

They stepped down to the driveway, where two women dressed like a NASCAR pit crew were stationed by the bumper cars. Buckle up, Bumpers! said the sign. Zanne and Phoebe veered into the garage.

James saw them coming first and stood. “Hey,” he said, touching the knot of his tie as if to check that his head was still attached.

Phoebe smiled. “Hi.”

“Where’s your car?” Zanne asked him. There was only one SUV in the garage—Holly’s car, the one Ilya drove.

“Oh, I moved it to the parking lot to get it out of the way.”

Zanne nodded. “I thought you two might want to catch up.”

“Absolutely,” James said, tucking his hands in the pockets of his slacks.

Zanne looked at Phoebe. “Maybe I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Phoebe said.

Now that she had Phoebe squared away, Zanne went back to her desk at the administrative cottage. She wasn’t ready to face Ted yet. He probably wasn’t ready to see anyone either. If he wanted to stick to the schedule, he could get himself to the gym for his run on the treadmill. It was all there in his calendar.

Zanne felt tired and used, like a wrung-out rag after too many car washes. You seem pretty numb, Gaby had said when they’d fought over the dress. Zanne wasn’t numb now.