Rosemary pushed the cat off her lap and brushed clumps of fur from her robe. “A romantic. That’s charming. Not to me, but to a lot of people. The book is full of truths, Desmond, truths of the human heart. If it weren’t, you wouldn’t have responded to it as you did. And the desk in my bedroom wouldn’t be stacked to the ceiling with mail from readers wounded by love and death and the rancid bore of daily living. Is the book completely honest about my relationship with Charlie? Only he and I know, and neither one of us is talking.”

She raised her thin, carefully plucked eyebrows, as if to say, Any more questions? He ought to invite her into his Creative Nonfiction class, have her give a lecture on this very point. Really, she should be the one teaching it. His students seemed to have grasped half of what she was saying—the withering dismissal of honesty as a concept with any relevance—and then done her one better by tossing truth into the trash heap as well.

“I had a very interesting call from Jane about an hour ago,” she said, “just after you called me.”

The tone in her voice suggested she had some tragic piece of news she couldn’t wait to report. Desmond moved away from the window and cleared off a chair opposite her. “Everything all right?”

“In the long run, yes. In the short term, a big stir. Joyce . . .”—she flicked her hand—“whatever her name is . . . Cody, I suppose, finally decided to go into labor, and guess where Brian was?”

“I have no idea,” Desmond said, probably too eagerly. At least not at my place, he thought.

“No one does, that’s just it. In any case, not at home. Thomas Miller ended up rushing her off to the hospital and poor Jane was calling all the likely suspects, trying to locate her brother. I have a feeling you might have a message from her on your machine, although I assured her you were headed in this direction for a visit.”

“What bad timing. I wonder where Brian could be, on a Saturday night?”

“Frankly, Desmond, I thought you might be able to answer that question.”

No, he was happy to be able to tell her, he had no special insight into Brian’s whereabouts. And that was the honest truth.

“My apologies for misreading our little encounter on the street. I had the most wonderful time imagining what was going on with you two while I sat at that café, attempting to read my students’ papers. I hate when someone all of a sudden develops a conscience and shoots your plans to hell. He couldn’t stand the thought of cheating on his wife?”