“I couldn’t stand the thought of cheating on mine. After I did, that is. Which is too bad because I don’t think Russell, the wife in question, is having the same crisis of conscience.”

“You’re one of the other widows.” There was a candle burning on the coffee table in front of the sofa, the flickering light sending shadows up to the high ceiling. Rosemary leaned down and put it out with her fingers, a surprisingly indirect signal, given her blunt personality, that it was getting close to closing time. “I have a certain amount of envy toward you, touched as you are by the glamour of abandonment and betrayal. Also because you, unlike me, have the possibility of making your dead husband feel sorry for what he did to you.”

As he was walking home through the dark quiet streets of Back Bay—no piano music now—it seemed to him that perhaps Rosemary had offered him some advice, even if unwittingly. He should follow her example and send Russell a letter full of truths of the human heart, of his human heart, possibly adding a few details that might provoke the faint stirrings of regret. Knowing that it didn’t necessarily have to be honest made the whole project seem easier and a lot less threatening. They were leaving for Florida in a week. He could send off the letter before he left and wait to see where the chips fell.

3.

As soon as Desmond left, Rosemary snuffed out the rest of the candles, turned out the lights, and headed for her bedroom. The goddamned cat was curled up on her pillow. The Realtor had told her this was the best apartment she had to offer, but cat sitting was part of the arrangement. Fortunately it was an independent creature that required little attention beyond the occasional bowl of nasty food. There was no threat she was going to form an emotional attachment to the thing the way Jane had with that ancient dog she’d been taking care of. Poor Jane attached herself to so many unlikely people and things—both husbands, that obnoxious child, the dog, the highly unlikely project with Desmond. She wasn’t a good judge of character, which was just another way of saying she didn’t have a clue about who she was or what she wanted. Or maybe she knew but refused to admit it, which was pretty much the same thing.

Rosemary poured the rest of the wine into a juice glass, shooed the cat off the pillows, and climbed into bed. She loved to lie in bed in this darkened room that belonged to someone else and look out at the great wall of lights on the other side of the street. Funny how such a big, imposing, impersonal thing as that could make her feel less alone, while a warm, furry cat cozied up against her stomach threw her into an existential crisis.