“So you stayed in the waiting room?” Jane asked him.

He hoisted the beer can to his mouth and shrugged. “I wasn’t going to go into the delivery room. I just wanted to be sure everything went smoothly.”

She was ashamed of Brian—abandoning his wife, leaving Thomas there to pick up the pieces. On top of that, she was ashamed to be his sister and, here was the hardest point to accept, to be so much like him in so many ways. Narcissistic, self-centered, unfaithful, unreliable. “Poor Joyce,” she said. “What’s going to happen to her? She deserves so much better.”

“Joyce isn’t as fragile as you think, Jane.” There was something steely in his voice, as if he took this very personally, as if he were defending himself as much as he was defending Joyce.

He’s in love with her, Jane thought. It became so obvious to her now—all the attention he lavished on her, the compliments he paid her, the interest he took in her work, the way he diligently read the children’s books that she’d edited—she couldn’t imagine how she’d missed it before. Then again, how typically self-centered of her to have missed it. How surprising that she finally recognized it. They were in love with each other, or infatuated with each other. When you thought about it, they were made for each other: two kind, honest, intelligent people. What a decent, happy, healthy couple they’d make. “She’d be happier married to someone like you,” Jane said.

“She’s married to your brother.”

“You’d be happier, Thomas, if she were your wife.”

“Oh, Jane,” he said. He closed his eyes and rested the beer can on his chest. His breathing was heavier, with a slight whistle in it, a sign that he was about to fall off to sleep. “I’d be happier if you were my wife.”

Nineteen

The Last Dinner

1.

Chloe knocked lightly on Jane’s office door, pushed it open a crack, and peered inside in that halting, apologetic way of hers, as if she were afraid she’d find Jane in there torturing a small animal or rolling around on the carpet naked. Or maybe she was afraid she’d find Jane doing exactly what she was doing: staring out the window at the gathering clouds, watching the wind torment the trees, and banging a pen against her desk with nervous distraction.

“Is there a problem?” Jane asked.

Chloe looked over her shoulder. She was catching on; she knew enough to know that there was always going to be someone standing behind you, peering over your shoulder, ready to knock you off your pedestal. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Did one of the guests cancel?”