Chapter 11: L.B., 1961

I stood at the intercom screen and looked at Dylan's swaying face for a long time.

Harrison stood beside me with his shirt half buttoned.

"I can go down," he said.

"No," I said. "I want to do it."

I pressed the button.

"Dylan. It's midnight."

"Lena!" His whole face lit up. "I made a mistake. Camille's a lot. She cries at everything.

I know you. You're the only one who ever knew me."

"I know you too," I said. "That's why I'm saying no."

"I brought a ring."

"Leave it with the doorman. I won't open it."

His face crumpled, and then the charm came back.

"You'll regret this," he said.

"Probably," I said. "Go home."

He set the box on the desk with a thump and walked out into the rain.

The next morning the doorman handed it back to Harrison's driver, unopened, to return to Dylan's apartment.

Friday had passed with a ten-thousand-dollar check from Cynthia's lawyer and no word from Dylan.

The balance was twenty-six thousand, nine hundred.

I had written the number on a sticky note and put it on the bathroom mirror.

On Saturday at one o'clock, I walked into the Trelawny family yacht club with my husband's hand at my back.

It was a white building at the edge of the lake.

The dining room was full of round tables, with a wall of windows over the docks.

Sixty people in pastel clothes turned their heads.

I was wearing black, because I had made a decision about that.

Cynthia rose from the head table with her arms open.

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