Jane was still trying to catch her breath after attempting to impress Desmond by climbing the three winding flights of stairs without stopping—as if he would notice or, in the unlikely event he did, care. “Why do you suppose it is,” she said, holding her breath so she wouldn’t gasp, “that the idea of being young again is so appealing when being young the first time around was such hell?” She glanced in his direction; in this room, he looked even more awkwardly tall and thin than he had at dinner the other night. She could see, through the disguise of graying hair, wrinkling skin, and the vague credentials of “biographer,” the gawky adolescent fending off insults and vainly attempting to fit in. It was obvious from his slightly hunched posture that he still wasn’t comfortable in his skin, which probably explained why he spent his time writing about other people’s lives. “It was hell the first time around, wasn’t it?”

“Hell might be a little strong, but close enough.”

“You’re lucky. Everyone I know who had a loud, happy youth has spent the last twenty years battling disappointment and depression.” Not that she hadn’t spent some of the past twenty years battling disappointment and depression, too, but at least she could go to Dr. Berman and complain. If she went and told him her problem was a happy childhood, he’d think she was insane, and she’d find herself slapped with one of those thirty-year analysis sentences with no chance of parole.

Desmond offered to make her a cup of tea and she surprised herself by accepting. “I can’t believe Deerforth set you up in a place like this,” she said. “Barking dog and all. And where’s the bathroom?”

“Down the hall.”

“Oh, God. People in bathrobes lined up for the shower?”

“I don’t have to share it.”

“Something to be thankful for.” Jane walked over to one of the round windows and rested her elbows on the sill. Warm, humid air was blowing in from the east, smelling of traffic and dust and the ocean. From here she could see the sailboats in the river basin. She’d never realized how many sailboats there were on the Charles, but since that afternoon with Dale, she saw them every time she looked in the direction of water, dancing across the surface of the river, unfettered, sails fluttering, like especially tall ice skaters. Best to file that observation and images of that whole long afternoon—river, boats, and abrasive kiss—into a locked chamber somewhere, perhaps of her heart. The room was probably stirring up memories. Awful as it was, there was something about it that filled her with intense longing—for what, she wasn’t sure. Maybe Desmond was right and it was the simple, obvious thing: youth. Which in her case, she quickly realized, was just a synonym for bachelorhood.