“I decided not to bother this year. I’m really not home that much anyway.” He poured me a cup of coffee from the pot. “I’m sorry, I don’t have cream, but would you like sugar?”

“Just a little, thanks.”

“Go ahead and sit down. I’ll bring it to you.”

I wandered over to the dark brown leather sectional and lowered myself at one end, facing the fireplace. Looking around, Henry’s house seemed just like him—the decor was rustic in a masculine way, but beautiful too, with touches here and there suggesting he liked the occasional luxury. On the coffee table in front of me were several oversized hardcover books on wine. The mantel was made from what might have been reclaimed wood, and upon it were a few black and white photographs, a pair of wrought-iron candlesticks, a stack of old books, and a small plant. Actually, there were several plants around the room. The wall to my left was all wooden shelves—his television was mounted in the middle, and the rest were filled with books, framed photos, and what looked like mementos from his travels.

I wanted to study them all and ask about them—where had he gotten that old map? What place in the world did he love best? Did he like vineyards more than beaches? Did he like upscale hotels in the city or small cabins in the mountains? Was he an ocean or lake person? Did he prefer snow skiing or water skiing? If he had all the money in the world, would he still live here and do what he did?

On the other end of the couch was a chunky double-knit throw blanket in a soft camel color, and I wondered if someone had made it for him. For a moment, I let myself imagine the two of us on a wintry afternoon like this one, wrapped up in it and each other, right here on the couch. I missed that feeling of just being close to someone, that effortless, easy affection. Would I ever feel that again?

A moment later, Henry came over with two cups of coffee and handed one to me. “Here you go. Let me know if you’d like it sweeter.”

“I’m sure it’s fine.” I sipped it, scorched my tongue, and suffered silently, totally unsure how to start this conversation. I was having trouble focusing on why I’d come here—all I could think about was his body pressed close to mine in the dark. “So you’re probably wondering why I’m here.”

He lowered himself onto the opposite end of the couch, as far away from me as possible. “I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

I took another scalding sip. “I thought maybe we should talk about what happened last night.”

His expression was something between a frown and a grimace. “I’m sorry about that. It was totally out of line.”