She's wearing yoga pants and sneakers and a T-shirt. Her red hair is in a ponytail. A canvas Whole Foods bag dangles from one hand, a plastic Duane Reade bag from the other. A brown leather purse is slung over one shoulder.

  She looks...ordinary. Without the clothes and red lipstick and postmodern shoes, she's not quite the Angelina Jolie femme fatale I picture every time I think of her.

  "Duane Reade," Kathleen murmurs. "Bet she's on drugs for syphilis."

  I start giggling again. God, I haven't laughed like this in ages.

  Then Emmanuelle stops, and Kathleen says, "Shit!" and pulls me down lower so we're sitting on the sidewalk, both of us wheezing with laughter.

  I peek out again.

  Emmanuelle has stepped in gum. Or dog shit. At any rate, she's scraping off her shoe on the curb.

  "Karma, bitch," I whisper, and that sends us off into more paroxysms of laughter.

  Emmanuelle lifts her shoe so she can inspect the sole. Then she hops awkwardly, and her Whole Foods bag upends.

  One giant red apple rolls into the gutter. A green glass bottle--Perrier--breaks. Green leaves rain down from a salad container.

  "Damn it!" Emmanuelle says. She picks up the detritus of her groceries, then stomps off into her building.

  I'm not laughing anymore.

  Imagine taking the trouble to schlep to the grocery store for one sad, low-calorie meal. A wet Sunday afternoon spent with nothing but work and a sleek apartment. No little voices, no husband, no burgeoning grocery bags filled with all the things required for a family of five. No good smells or happy music. Just quiet and self-imposed distractions and one apple for dessert.

  I wonder if she really needed to go out, or if she was just climbing the walls.

  "She must be lonely," I say, based on nothing but that grocery bag.

  "She's earned it," Kathleen says. She stands up and looks at me. "Don't you dare feel sorry for her."

  "I kind of do," I murmur.

  She rolls her eyes. "Let's go get dinner," she says. "I'll drive this bad-boy home so you can drink. You need it."

  It's funny. As we drive down the West Side Highway toward the Village, I feel more like myself than I have in ages.

  Jenny

  When I get home from the cemetery, I go straight to Leo's door. "Hey, Jenny," he says as he answers. His eyes rest on my face a second, and something comes over his expression. "Okay," he says, as if he already knows what I've seen. He probably does. He's always been a mind reader where I'm concerned. "Come in, then. Get into some dry clothes first."

  Though I could just run upstairs and change into my own clothes, I don't. Instead, I accept the bathrobe he hands me and go into the bathroom, strip off my wet clothes and towel off my hair. My reflection in the mirror shows a white face, made even paler by the contrast of my wet hair.

  Leo's bathrobe smells like him. I wrap it tight around me--it's warm and flannel and his, and I'm cold, no matter that it's summer.

  He's waiting for me in the living room, in the chair across from the couch. There's already a box of tissues there, as if he knows I'll cry. My eyes are already full.

  "So you went to the cemetery," he guesses.

  I nod.

  "And you saw my wife's grave."

  "Yes," I whisper.

  He sits forward, his long-fingered hands clasped loosely, and looks at the coffee table. "Right. Well. I was married for three years. We were in a car accident. Amanda was seven months pregnant with our son. They...they tried to deliver him, but he was already gone." His voice breaks a little, but that's all.

  I take a tissue and blot my eyes, then another and another, and try to speak. "Oh, Leo, I'm so sorry." The words have to be forced from my locked throat.

  Leo's words seem to press him downward with their horrible weight. His elbows rest on his knees, and he stares at nothing.

  As the rain murmurs in the gutters and hisses on the flagstones, Leo tells me the story he wanted to keep from me, a story I don't want to hear--a woman, an ambulance, the shocked sobs of onlookers, the panicked shouts of the paramedics during their heroic--and futile--efforts to save a mother and her an unborn baby.

  As he tells the story, Leo isn't exactly calm. He's simply...gone.

  Finally, he clears his throat. "Loki was her dog," he says. "She had him long before she had me." He gives a half smile, but it doesn't quite make it.

  "Leo...why didn't you tell me?"

  He sighs, sounding so tired that I wish I could wrap myself around his heart and protect him.

  "I liked being something other than the tragic widower," he says. "After they died, all our friends... You remember that woman in the Hungarian restaurant? She was Amanda's best friend." He runs a hand through his hair. "All anyone could see or think about was that day. I was a walking reminder of a horror story. I was the horror story."

  God, what a burden to carry--not just the grief of his unspeakable loss, but the...the brutality of that ending.

  "That's why I moved here," he says quietly. "I was kind of...absent that first year. I don't remember a lot of it. And then her mom got diagnosed with Alzheimer's and started going downhill fast, so I moved here to be closer. I didn't have to run into people who knew me." He looks at his hands. "Amanda didn't grow up here, but her mom lived here for years. She wanted Amanda buried close to her."

  I nod.

  "The, uh...the worst part," he says, looking out the window, "is that we were late. We were going to her baby shower, ironically. I was driving. She said the highway would be faster. But I knew better. Half a mile from the restaurant, we got T-boned in an intersection. Not a scratch on me, but she died." He hesitates, then adds, "Almost right away."

  Almost. The image is too horrible.

  How do people live through so much? I have to fight to keep from sobbing, but a little squeak escapes my throat just the same. "Leo," I whisper, but that's all I can get out.

  "I know," he says. "It's a fucking nightmare. Just one that you don't wake up from. So once her mom moved into Silver Elms, I bought this place, gave a concert at the elementary school, started getting students so I could do something other than drink, though the truth is, I'm hugely fucking wealthy, thanks to the lawsuit against the driver."

  "And Amanda's mom? Mrs. Walker? How is... Is she aware?"

  "No. Losing Amanda and the baby...it pretty much felled her. She's lucky, though. She's forgotten all this. She doesn't even remember Amanda anymore." His voice breaks a little, but he clears his throat. "She thinks I'm her son, and I don't have the heart to tell her I'm not. Amanda was her only child."

  "That's very kind of you."

  He gives a short, bitter laugh. "Yeah, well, since I killed her daughter and grandson, it's the least I can do."

  "Leo, you can't--"

  "Am I forgetting anything?" He cuts me off. "Oh, the fourth floor. Some of her stuff. Some of our stuff. All our pictures. Is there anything else you want to know?"

  I bite my lip. "Is there anything at all I can do for you?"

  "No. But thank you. You've been...very...distracting." He tries again for a smile and again fails.

  "Did you have a name picked out for the baby?" The question comes out of left field.

  He blinks, and currents of sorrow traverse his face. "Sean. I liked Sean. She was leaning toward Daniel. But I just think of him as...baby." He swallows hard. "I got to hold him for a minute, but he was already... He's buried with her."

  This time I can't suppress the sob.

  Leo rubs his eyes with one hand. "Okay. Well. I'm sorry I had to tell you all this. It was three years ago."

  "No, no. I wish I'd known before."

  "I'm so glad you didn't. I never wanted to get to this point, the point where you'd know. I mean, I guess I would have, eventually. I just... I liked the way you saw me, Jenny. I shouldn't have rented to you, because the second I saw you, I knew you'd be trouble."

  He does smile now, the most heartbreaking smile I've ever seen. "But when I said I was for recreation only, I meant it. I don't ever want to be in that position again. It's not that I can't love you. You're very lovable." He looks at me with terrible kindness. "It's just that I don't want to. Not because of you. Because of me." He's quiet for a long time, the rain pattering on the flagstones outside. "When she died, she took everything. I can't get over it. I can't play anymore, I can't-- I can't be involved with someone else more than I was with you. The truth is, I'm just killing time."

  The pain in my chest swells hard and sharp. "Leo, don't say that. I know I can't imagine how--"

  He reaches across the coffee table and takes my hand. "Whatever you're about to say, please don't. I've heard it all before. Please just stay the Jenny who thinks I'm a lazy womanizer with bad handyman skills."

  I swallow loudly, and two more fat tears spill out of my eyes. "Okay," I whisper.

  Because I've got nothing. There are no platitudes I can dole out, no wisdom I can share, and my love isn't going to save him, because some things--and some people--are beyond repair.

  But I stand up and go over to him and wrap my arms around him, and he hugs me back, his head against my chest, my tears leaking into his hair. "I do love you, you know," I whisper.

  "Thank you." He looks up at me for a long moment. "I'm sorry if I broke your heart."

  "It's fine." We both give a little laugh at my stupid answer, though mine is choked with tears.

  And then I go upstairs, still in his bathrobe, because there's nothing more I can do.

  *

  The next morning, my eyes are nearly swollen shut from crying. Good thing the shop is closed. A sobbing wedding-dress designer isn't that great for business.

  Leo has sent me an email.

  Thank you for the sympathy. I do appreciate it. You have seven months left on the lease, but it might be best if you moved. If you don't want to, I'll be happy to find another place. Even if I do own this building. --Leo

  It seems telling that he can make me smile even as I'm crying yet again.

  I call the Realtor and tell her I'll be looking for a new rental.

  But I can't quite bring myself to pack just yet. And I don't want Leo to have to hear me packing. I answer his email and tell him I'll be looking for a place of my own, so no need for him to leave. I also tell him I'm going to stay with my sister for a while and help with the girls.

  And then I go upstairs to the fourth floor and sit on the stairs in front of the locked door and cry for Leo's lost wife, pray that she didn't know what was happening. I cry for the baby, who went from one otherworld to the next, sliding right past ours, past his father.

  But mostly, I cry for Leo, for the horror and terror he must've endured in the time between almost and right away, and after, as the paramedics tried to save his child, and the heart-crushing loss he's endured all these months since.

  My sister welcomes me with all the love and gentleness that defines her. She tells Adam to give me some space, and I have to hand it to him; he's very nice over the next few days. The girls are a balm; it's hard to stay in bed, weeping, when a thirty-pound child launches herself onto your stomach, never mind three of them at once. When I walk into work on Tuesday, Andreas takes one look at me and says, "Jesus. Do you want to talk about it?"

  "I do not," I answer.

  "I'm getting you a coffee and three doughnuts," he says. "Back in a flash." His kindness makes me feel almost worse, and he senses it, so after an awkward pat on the shoulder, he goes back to his laptop, reading me lurid scenes from his novel, which is no longer a gay erotica but now a gritty crime story set during the time of Richard the Lionheart.

  The week drags by. In order to get out of town, I opt to spend a couple nights with my mother. Yes. It's come to that.

  "It's so nice to have you here," she says, and it's odd, not having a guilt trip attached to those words. We're sitting on the porch on Saturday night, watching the highly gifted children of Hedgefield zip by on their bikes and scooters, all of them appropriately helmeted and chaperoned.

  "Will you make me tuna casserole tomorrow?" I ask.

  "Oh, sure, honey," she says. "It's so bad for you, though."

  "But good for the soul."

  Mom smiles. "So is it Owen? Are you jealous? Has him becoming a father finally hit you?"

  "No, Mom. I fell for someone else. And it didn't work out."

  "You never did choose that well," she concurs.

  "Oh, come on. You think of Owen in the same league as Jesus and George Clooney."

  She laughs. "I don't know about that. He was always a little sanctimonious, don't you think? Owen, that is. George Clooney is perfect."

  I stare. "Um...yes, actually, that's a fantastic word for him."

  "I was going through some of your father's things the other day," she begins.

  "Oh, yeah? Why is that?"

  "No reason. Just to see them." She looks at her hands, seeming embarrassed at her devotion.

  But now that I know about Leo, I understand better, and shame pricks my conscience. I never did cut Mom a lot of slack when it came to Dad. I always thought she should move on.

  "You must miss him so much," I say.

  "I do."

  "A friend of mine lost his wife and child." Predictably, my eyes fill. "I don't think he'll ever get over it."

  "Of course not," Mom says. "You don't get over it, ever."

  "So how do you keep going?"

  She sighs. "Some days, you don't. Some days, you're just stalled." She takes a sip of her iced tea. "You know what I miss? I miss complaining about him. There was such a guilty luxury in calling up a friend and telling her just how aggravating my husband was."

  I wipe my eyes surreptitiously. "I thought Dad was perfect."

  "No husband is perfect. Not even Adam."

  My glance flickers her way. "What makes you say that?"

  "Oh, sometimes I think he looks at other women a little too long," Mom says.

  Well, well. Mom is more observant than I gave her credit for.

  Since I seem to be staring at her, she shrugs. "All men do, I suppose."

  My decades-old secret stirs. I wait a beat, then ask--finally. "Did Dad?"

  She doesn't answer for a minute, just swings her foot, clad in its ever-present sneaker. "Well, no. But there was a time when... I don't know."

  "What, Mom?"

  She shrugs. "When I thought he might've had a little...thing for someone. A crush. A midlife crisis." She's carefully not looking at me.

  "What if he did?" I ask.

  She takes a long sip of her iced tea. "He probably didn't," she amends. "And even if he did, he loved me."

  I look at her, my mother the widow, who has let that one loss define her as nothing else. She's sixty-five years old. If I tell her Dad did have a thing for someone, what would it do to her? Would it free her? Crush her?

  "He sure did love you," I say. "But you know he would've been remarried two weeks after your funeral."

  She laughs. "Yep. You're right about that. He was helpless outside of that dentist office."

  A hummingbird hovers at her hanging basket of lobelia, the buzz of its wings low and sweet. "Mom, did you ever think how that day might've been different? How, if you could've changed one little thing, Dad might not have died?"

  She looks at me sharply. "All the time. You know, I almost called him at the office to ask him to pick up the dry cleaning. But I forgot. If I hadn't, he'd be alive today."

  Well, holy crap. Seems I'm not the only one with a little guilt. "I...I thought something similar. If I'd said something, then he wouldn't have gone to that store."

  "Don't feel guilty, honey. The only people who were responsible were those idiots who shot him."

  Suddenly, I'm crying before I even knew I wanted to cry. Mom scootches over on the glider, and I sit with her arms around me and bawl like a little baby. "I miss him," I say, and she kisses my head.

  "I know, honey. I know," she says, and for once, she just let me have my grief without trying to up the ante, and I cry and cry and cry, and honestly, I can't remember when I've loved her more.

  A hundred memories are unchained all at once--Mom taking care of me when I had the pukes, Mom coming to get me at school when my period came for the first time and I almost passed out from cramps and the evil gym teacher wouldn't let me out of class. How I hated when my teeth were loose, and she--not Dad the dentist--would be the one to gently tug the baby tooth from its bed.

  "Mom, I hate thinking of you living the rest of your life on your own," I say, wiping my eyes and nose on my sleeve like the classy person I am. "You've never wanted to date?"

  "No!" She says it as if I've just asked her if she's ever wanted to eat a baby hedgehog. "Your father was enough for me. Some of us are better at being alone than others. Rachel and I, for example, are fine with our own company."

  "What? Who? Is that a joke?"

  "You're the one who was born to be married." She takes my hand. "I'll find you a nice man to date, honey. Don't worry. You won't be an old maid for much longer."

  "Gosh. That's so sweet, Mom." But I put my head back on her shoulder, and we watch the kids go by, and the wind dries my tears and flutters my hair.

  *

  When I get back home the next afternoon, music--if you can call "The Wheels on the Bus" music--seeps out of Leo's place. I creep up to my place to grab a few things. The Realtor has some apartments she wants to show me, but for now, I'll go back to Rachel's.

  I check my voice mail--two missed calls, both from Owen. Right. I was supposed to have dinner with him, but we never rescheduled. The thought of going into the city makes me tired. If he wants to see me, he can come up here.

  As I'm getting some clean underwear, I see the little pink clay dog Leo made when the girls stayed with me. It's been on my bureau since that night.

  Without further thought, I go down to Leo's.

  I glance through the window and see Austin, son of a Hungry Mom, banging out "Lightly Row"--I know all the beginner songs, horribly. The mom is staring at the back of Leo's head.

  I knock on the door, loudly. "Leo? Can I see you for a second?"

  "Lightly Row" stops--praise Jesus--and some pounding begins from Austin's destructive little fists. His mother doesn't tell him to stop.

  Leo is at the door surprisingly fast. "Hi."

  "Hi." Suddenly, I feel stupid. I didn't really plan this out. But there he is, and I haven't seen him for six days, and my heart lurches and wobbles.

  He looks tired.

 

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