Desmond nodded. He and Brian Cody were standing on the corner of Commonwealth Avenue and Dartmouth Street, surveying the wide, tree-lined boulevard as a dusty breeze blew around them. They’d been together for over an hour, and so far, the tour of Boston had gone very much like this: Brian pointed out some of the historical and architectural features of a particular neighborhood and then gave a quick excoriating summary that emphasized an architect or developer’s poor judgment, lack of taste or professional expertise: the hideous concrete mistake of City Hall Plaza; the technical oversight that resulted in windows falling out of the Hancock Building; the ill-conceived, inelegant renovations owners had done on town houses in the South End. The message in every case was that if he’d been hired or consulted for the job, it would have been done with more taste, expertise, and professionalism. The tour had been a show of narcissistic self-confidence, but underneath that, Desmond sensed a foundation as spongy and suspect as the ground they were now standing on. Which was—not that anyone was mentioning it yet—a few short blocks from Desmond’s room.

“Still,” Desmond said, “it is a beautiful street.”

“It has its moments. This Beaux Arts birthday cake here is one, discounting the new windows, of course.”

“Where do you and Joyce live?”

“A Cambridge apartment. I started renting it when I was in design school, gutted it completely and redesigned the entire floor plan. It’s perfect for my needs.”

“And big enough for the three of you, once the baby’s born?”

He tipped his head doubtfully from side to side. “I may have to give up a corner of my study for a nursery, as long as I can soundproof it. Alternately, I’ll try to do something interesting with the walk-in closet in the entryway. It would be nice to have more rooms, but I’m not moving out to the suburbs to get them.”

Although Desmond agreed with most of Brian’s aesthetic opinions, he wanted to challenge him and counter the snobbery and self-aggrandizement in much of what he said. Giving up a corner of his study was an act of spectacular generosity? And what kind of person sticks his baby in a closet, walk-in or not? “I can’t imagine you fitting into suburban life,” Desmond said, hoping there was an insult buried in the comment somewhere.

“That building over there,” Brian said, “was once a finishing school for proper Bostonian girls. Now it’s a finishing school of a different sort: a plastic surgery center. They completely destroyed the interior—ironic when you think about it, making something ugly for the sake of beauty.”