As they drove through the swampy, overgrown back streets on the outskirts of Gulf City, Jane noticed that many of the houses had their windows shuttered. She ought to be concerned about the storm, she knew, but this hateful, selfish part of her had to take into consideration the fact that no matter how many roofs leaked and how many houses suffered damage from water or wind, not one of them would be hers. Her house, she supposed, was suffering damage of a different sort. Tropical storm Jane had blown through and thrown life there into disarray, and she didn’t know how to start the cleanup. Make a resolution, that was usually the way she began. Except that now she was beyond resolutions. She’d broken too many. She no longer believed herself. This project was rapidly spinning toward disaster, and she was spinning right beside it. She’d bared her soul to Desmond, revealed every piece of information she could think to reveal, until finally she’d ended up feeling shredded. And she still didn’t have a clue what to do to put her life back together. I’d be happier if you were my wife. But what if now, after her transgressions this fall, she didn’t know how to be his wife?

They stopped at a light, and off to the right she saw a low, stucco house with an overgrown lawn, and an immense satellite dish off to one side. Three children in bathing suits were chasing each other with buckets of water, while their mother, hair in curlers, cigarette in mouth, washed the car. That was the sign of either reckless optimism or stupidity, washing your car as a drenching tropical storm bore down on the Gulf. The woman looked up at the car, and Jane waved at her. Good job, she wanted to tell her. The car looks great. When you’re done, want me to help you wash your windows?

Outside Lorna’s house, a thin man was standing on a stepladder, adjusting the shutters over the big windows of the living room. “That’s Frank,” Desmond said, “Lorna’s husband. He’s the principal at the school where she teaches. I imagine that’s how they met. Not a bad guy, but he’s used to having the last word, so it’s best not to contradict him.”

“In that case, I’d better keep my mouth shut.”

Desmond pulled into the drive, shut off the engine, and they stepped out into the hot, soupy air. The sky was a deep, dark green, a lovely color for a ginger ale bottle, but a little disconcerting for the usually cerulean heavens.

“Can I help you?” Frank asked as they approached the house.

“We have an appointment to see Lorna,” Desmond said. “Although we might be a few minutes early. I don’t know if you remember me. I interviewed you a couple of years ago about your mother-in-law.”