Facial—12:30 on the Appointments list was code for her own shrink. Not that she felt any shame about that either, but if Thomas got wind of the fact that she’d started seeing Dr. Berman again, he’d probably ask why, in that wounded way of his, and she might have to explain that for the past year she’d felt a thin crust of boredom forming over the top of their marriage. Or, to be more accurate, she’d begun to feel the thin crust of boredom that had always been over the top of their marriage thickening while she swam in the cold waters below trying to find a hole or an air pocket so she could catch her breath. She wasn’t ready to talk openly about that with Dr. Berman, let alone with Thomas. After three months of twice-weekly sessions, she’d gone as far as explaining to the doctor her fears that her career was at a standstill, something she presented as neurotic insecurity, even though she had ample evidence it was true. Discussion of marital concerns would have to wait until she felt more solidly in control of them.

Finish reading Westerly biography. This referred to a book by someone named Desmond Sullivan, a soon-to-be colleague of Thomas’s. She’d agreed to read and summarize it for her husband weeks ago. Thomas was too busy preparing his courses to read it himself, and too earnest to simply compliment the author with nebulous praise and then drop it. She’d had most of August, but thus far she hadn’t done more than scan the index to find references to people who interested her more than the subject himself. The author would be showing up at Deerforth College any day now, and she’d written this little note to herself so Thomas would find it and be reassured that it was only minutes before she completed the tome and gave him her book report.

Up at the top of the Bills To Pay list was Pay Roofer. That stumped her. If she had to guess, she’d say it referred to some petty indulgence she wasn’t interested in admitting to. Unless it meant that the person who’d reflashed their chimney six months ago still hadn’t been paid. On a separate list, she made a note to look into that one.

When her direct line rang, she pushed the papers to the back of her desk and, assuming it was Rosemary Boyle calling about the show, grabbed the receiver on the first ring. But it wasn’t Rosemary. It was Caroline Wade. Or, as Jane had come to think of her, Just Caroline.

“Hi, Jane, it’s just me.”