They circled a few more blocks and eventually wound their way back to the commotion on Boylston Street. From the corner where they were standing, Desmond could see the front of the Boylston Hotel; Jane had pointed it out to him one day and said it was a good place to get drunk, should the urge hit him. What a miserable betrayal of Jane, to be spending the afternoon with her brother under these circumstances. What a deeper betrayal of Joyce, but after all, he didn’t know her, not really, even though he was firmly convinced that he would be a better, happier, and more interesting person if his allegiance were to her and not her narcissistic, pansexual husband. At least Desmond was doing his best to wedge her name into the conversation every once in a while. That must count for something. Brian, too, seemed to be gazing at the Boylston Hotel. Perhaps he’d had a nefarious encounter there, or maybe he was about to launch into another one of his disparaging rants. Just to discourage him, Desmond said, in a tone of voice he hoped wasn’t overly friendly, “Do you give this Welcome Wagon tour to every new arrival?”

“No,” Brian said. “Not unless the new arrival interests me.”

Since Brian had shown absolutely no interest in Desmond’s writing, teaching, life in New York, opinions of what they were looking at, or general impressions of the city, there was only one way to interpret the comment. But even that was a stretch considering that Brian had rarely looked in his direction throughout this long, opinionated excursion. Sooner or later Desmond was going to have to make a move, if for no other reason than because he was tired of looking at buildings, and wanted to get off the street. “You know,” Desmond said, “I live only a few blocks from here.”

“Yes,” Brian said. He brushed dust off the sleeves of his jacket, finally acknowledging the existence of the outer world. “I do know.”

“You asked Jane?”

He seemed offended by the suggestion. “I don’t ask anything of Jane. If I did, she’d come back with a mile-long list of favors.”

“There’s a great view of the river from my window. You can see Bunker Hill Monument, too, if you get just the right angle. Shall we head back there?”

“That’s fine with me. I could use a cup of coffee.”

Desmond had run out of coffee a few days ago, but hopefully it wouldn’t come to that anyway.

As they were crossing Newbury Street, he heard someone call out Brian’s name in a weary singsong, and looked up to see Rosemary Boyle coming toward them. Her hair was pulled back in its tight bun and her eyes were carefully hidden behind a pair of round sunglasses. She looked from Brian to Desmond and back again, seemed to make the obvious assumption, and said, “Out for a stroll?”