Now at business lunches and dinners he bypassed hard liquor in favor of white wine, which scarcely registered on his internal alcohol meter. Going dry was really no big deal. He made do with iced tea, or soda water with lime. He slept better and he had more energy, but he noticed he was often bored. Friends and cohorts, who’d seemed so amusing when he drank, began to get on his nerves. He wasn’t as smooth or relaxed as he’d been in the past and he was aware that certain of his friends now shied away from him. And why would they not? He thought teetotalers were a tiresome bunch and he was sorry he’d been thrust into their ranks. It was also true that the temptation to drink was with him every minute of every day, like a low-grade headache he didn’t know how to shake.

With Carolyn gone, he tooled along Via Juliana, actively fantasizing about the highball he’d make for himself when he got home. He planned to sit on the back patio, which Carolyn had recently refurbished with faux wicker furniture, upholstered in a fabric impervious to the elements. Rain and sun could beat down on the cushions without ill effect. The view from the back terrace was still amazing to him, stretching across the hills and treetops all the way to the ocean. The air would be still, smelling of sage and bay laurel. He’d take his time, savoring a predinner cocktail. Then he’d have a pizza delivered and eat in front of the television set, maybe catch a golf match or a guy flick of the sort Carolyn would find tedious. He might allow himself a wee nightcap, but he’d wait and see what his mood was when the time came. He didn’t feel the same compulsion to drink as he had in the past. This was purely for the pleasure of it.

On his way home from the office, he’d stopped at the liquor depot and picked up a pint of Maker’s Mark, a quart of vodka, and a six-pack of Bass Ale, which he intended to parcel out to himself over the four nights his family would be gone. All he had to do then was dispose of the empties before Carolyn got home. Would she ever know? He thought not. He’d keep his drinking simple—whiskey with a water back, vodka over ice—and remove any telltale evidence first thing Monday morning. No mixers in the liquor cabinet, no bottle caps in the trash, no cut limes in the fridge, and no conspicuous rings on the glass-topped table, where he’d be sitting while the sun went down.