Back at the pensione, Costanza had read through the entries from the time before they met. She listened in, or so it felt, as Morton battled his black moods and worried whether his return to the city had been a mistake. She watched him agonize over his writer’s block; she saw him fight, then quickly make up, with an old editor friend; and she saw him struggle with Howard, who kept trying—and failing—to get him to go out into the world.

Then she came to that April:

A remarkable astonishing thing has happened: Howard, for once in his life, was actually right about something.

On his last visit into town my brother apparently noticed an invitation to one of Nathan’s book parties on my desk. I haven’t gone to those things in years. Howard—the sneak—made a mental note and then simply appeared here last night at five.

This was as far as she had read. Now, after taking another sip of wine, she continued: