Rosemary gave her address and the driver pulled out into the speeding traffic, windshield wipers flapping. Through the rain-washed windows, the street was a blur of pretty, garish lights, and the city looked like a carnival. Melanie took off her jacket, some leather, military thing, and draped it over Rosemary’s shoulders. Maybe inviting Melanie along had been a bad idea—if only she’d left before that goddamned song had come on. But the jacket was warm, and Melanie, who couldn’t seem to stop grinning, had insanely beautiful teeth. And after all, if you didn’t take a few chances in life, you’d never discover anything new about yourself, you’d never have a fresh source of inspiration, and you’d end up dragging around your dead husband for eternity.

The driver was a genius at navigating the lights, and in no time at all they were gliding up Broadway, a mere few minutes from her building. Now or never, Rosemary thought. If the whole thing was a complete bust, she could take a Valium. She reached out and touched the gold stud in Melanie’s earlobe. “What do you say we stop and pick up a bottle of cheap Chianti?” she asked. “You’re not allergic to cats, are you?”

Acknowledgments

My thanks to the Ragdale Foundation, the Writers’ Room of Boston, the Dorset Colony House, and Chuck Adams.

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