More footsteps. From the direction of Mr. Jonas. Man. Definitely. The bite of the heel into the pavement said that. And the length of the stride. White man, most likely. A black man around at this time of day was most likely making deliveries. Which most likely meant sneakers.

Other steps from the opposite direction. On the other side of the street. Voices too and the creak of wheels. One voice Hispanic. The other white ethnic … Italian maybe … and younger. Homemaker out with the nanny and baby. Baby who just cried out. “Put da blanket da baby.” The other voice stalled, not knowing if this was question or statement.

A car washed those sounds away and the other footsteps drew closer. Began to slow down.

A helicopter cut through above her, heading for Wall Street across the harbor.

The footsteps were replaced by the silence of a shadow.

She felt the coolness. Felt the darkness on her skin through her clothes. She anticipated the question—directions perhaps. But none was forthcoming. And the shadow was lingering.

He was watching her intensely, she could feel it. Which made her uneasy now. The neighborhood was safe but … She was vulnerable with her head down. What if he were a burglar, scoping apartments? Or a rapist?

She had to look. But should she be discreet or brazen? If she saw his face and he was in fact a criminal, that might scare him. But if he was truly dangerous, should she draw attention to herself? Or even allow him to see her face?

She heard the pavement crunch beneath his soles as he swiveled to move again. Which relieved her. Until the first step came in her direction. Up the steps.

On adrenaline now, she raised her head and wedged her hand across her brows to block the sun and defend herself and saw that it was Fire—freshly shaven, his hair brushed back, dressed in a white linen shirt that was open at the neck, and black dress pants and square-toed shoes that shone like the wheels of a new Mercedes.

Calming her with his shadow, steadying her with his eyes, he smiled at her and called her name softly, and gave her a posy of freshly cut tulips.

“I can’t … believe … you’re here,” she said, feeling the sweet release of tears. “I can’t believe you came. To see me … I thought … it was a … joke.”

He lowered himself to his haunches and took her face in his hands, holding it as if it were a porcelain vase.

“No. I wasn’t joking,” he said, using his thumbs not so much to wipe away the tears as to massage her face. “This is madness between us. And madness is a serious thing. Yes, Sylvia, I’m here. I’m here to see you.” He brushed his lips across her brows. “Why’re you crying, sweet girl?”

“Just lots of stuff,” she replied. “Nothing I’m ready to talk about right now.”