“November,” Rosemary announced. She obviously had no intention to eat, and passed her napkin across the table to Jane. “Although I’m fully prepared to assist with the delivery if someone miscalculated.”

Brian was several years younger than Jane, and Desmond found himself distracted by his handsome, silent presence on the opposite side of the table. He was recognizably Jane’s brother, but it looked as if the family features had been tested on her before being perfected for him. He was pale and gaunt, not in an unhealthy way, but as if he was troubled by profound doubt—a man of the cloth who’d devoted his life to God and then, when it was too late to switch professions, discovered he was an agnostic. His dark hair was cut in flawlessly clean lines above his ears and up around his temples. Vain, Desmond thought, taking in the gray silk shirt and the perfectly knotted green tie. Here was a man who knew how to wear clothes; Desmond’s expensive efforts at dressing up for Jane’s sake had apparently failed miserably. Brian was an architect, which perhaps explained the affected haircut and some element of fastidiousness in his erect posture.

Joyce was a children’s book editor at one of the few remaining publishing houses in Boston. A perfect profession for her, Desmond thought, listening to her talk about an illustrated book for five-year-olds she’d just bought that day. As with a lot of people who work with or for children, there was something childlike about Joyce: her colorful, little-girl dress, her short, little-boy haircut. Rosemary was staring at Joyce as if she were trying to remember who she was. When Joyce finished describing her book purchase and apologizing for going into such detail about it (“I guess it’s not really all that interesting”), Rosemary said, “Did your publishing house bid on Dead Husband?”

Joyce looked momentarily distressed and glanced toward Brian for help. He, however, had barely looked in her direction since they’d sat down. She confessed she had no idea: the children’s editors didn’t have much connection with the adult division. “They probably couldn’t have afforded it,” she apologized.

“Too bad,” Rosemary said, making it clear the loss was not hers.

The food was what food was these days: a meeting of the UN in the middle of a large dinner plate with a dusting of something green around the edges. Jane complained that this was the last time she’d use the catering school since everything they’d ever served ended up looking and tasting the same, with variations only in the inedible parts of the meal: the elaborate garnish or the plate itself. None of which, Desmond noted, prevented her from eating with immoderate enthusiasm. She leaned forward slightly as she ate, her colorful beads swinging out from her chest.

“I think it’s delicious,” Thomas said. “Are you enjoying it, Joyce?”