The warm wind and bright sun stung Desmond’s face. He was beginning to feel sandblasted. Brian still looked dashingly pale, unaffected by the elements the way many architects, Desmond had noted, tended to be. He had on a snug green suit, and was wearing a pair of tiny, dark green sunglasses that made him look like an actor going incognito so he’d be recognized.

“Wouldn’t it make more financial sense for you and Joyce to own?” Desmond asked.

“Some people are renters and some are buyers. It’s in my nature to be a renter.”

Thus far, Brian hadn’t mentioned Joyce’s name once. If Desmond hadn’t met his wife, he’d find it hard to believe Brian wasn’t a bachelor. When they were touring the Italian neighborhood in the North End of the city, Brian had spoken at length about the trip “he” had taken to Italy and the hotel “he” had stayed in in Rome and the way “his” time in Bologna had influenced his own work. It wasn’t until Desmond pressed him for details, asking specifically if he’d gone alone, that it became apparent the trip under discussion was his and Joyce’s honeymoon.

When Desmond returned from New York, he’d called Brian’s office and left a message, thinking it would be good for his ego to arrange a distraction, especially one that involved ambivalent flirtation. Brian had returned the call promptly and here they were, four days later. But throughout this boring tour business—on the whole, Desmond probably would have preferred one of those gossipy, inaccurate spins around the city in a retired amphibious military vehicle—Brian had been cold and evasive, so much so that Desmond had begun to wonder if he’d been mistaken about his intentions all along. It didn’t matter that much to him; merely placing the call had made Desmond feel marginally better about whatever it was Russell was or wasn’t doing.