“Yes, I have,” Paul confirmed with a broad smile as he and India walked into the building.

Rosario wanted to tell him how sorry he was about his wife, but with a pretty blonde with him, it didn't seem appropriate. He wondered if it was his new girlfriend, and hoped so, for his sake.

India rode up in the elevator with him, and waited while he looked for his key in his briefcase, and as he fumbled with the lock, she saw that his hand was shaking. She gently touched his sleeve then, and he turned to look at her, thinking she was going to ask him something.

“It's okay,” she said softly. “Go easy, Paul….” He smiled at her. She knew exactly what he was thinking. She always did. And more importantly, what he was feeling. She was that way on the phone as well, and he had come to love her for it. She was a place he could always come to for comfort. And before turning the key in the lock again, he put his briefcase down and hugged her.

“Thank you. I think this is going to be even harder than I expected.”

“Maybe not; Let's try it.” She was right there with him, as he had been for her for the past six months. She knew she could always call him and find him, waiting for her, on the Sea Star, Suddenly the face she saw no longer seemed so separate from the voice she knew like a brother. It was one man, one soul, one person she had come to rely on.

And slowly, he turned the key in the lock, the door opened, and he turned the light on. No one but the cleaning woman had been there since September. The apartment looked immaculate, but seemed very empty and silent, as India looked around a spacious black and white hallway, filled with lithographs and modern sculptures. And there was one very handsome Jackson Pollock painting.

Paul didn't say anything to her, but walked straight into the living room, and turned more lights on. It was a huge, handsome room, filled with an interesting mixture of antique and modern furniture. There was a Miro, a Chagall, and a group of bright, interesting paintings by unknown artists. It was all very eclectic, and for some reason, reminded her enormously of Serena. Everything in the apartment seemed to have her stamp on it, her style, her force, her humor. There were photographs of her everywhere, from her book covers mostly, and there was a large portrait of her over the fireplace. Paul stood silently beside India, mesmerized by it.

“I had forgotten how beautiful she was,” he said in a ragged whisper. “I try not to think about it.” India nodded, knowing how difficult this was for him, but she also knew he had to go through it. She wondered if he was going to move the painting eventually, or leave it there forever. It had a commanding presence, as she had. And then he walked into a smaller, paneled room, where his desk was, and set down his briefcase, as India followed. She was beginning to wonder if she was intruding, and should leave him. There was no way to know, but to ask him.

“Should I leave you?” she asked quietly, and was surprised when he looked disappointed, and a little hurt, as he looked up at her.

“So soon? Can't you stay a while, India? Or do you have to go back to the children?”

“I'm fine. I just don't want to be a nuisance.”

He left himself bare then, but she knew him anyway, and he was not afraid to show her his sorrow. “I need you. Do you want a drink or something?”

“I shouldn't. I have to drive back to Westport.”

“I hate having you do that,” he said, falling comfortably into a velvet settee that faced a smaller marble fireplace than the one in the living room. The whole room was done in deep blue velvet, and the painting over the mantel was a Renoir. “I should get a driver for you when you come into town. Or I can drive you back myself sometimes if you'd prefer it.”

“I don't mind driving.” She smiled, grateful for the thoughtful gesture. He got up to make himself a drink then, a light Scotch and soda, and she accepted a Coca-Cola. “The apartment is beautiful,” she said softly. But she had expected that. The Sea Star was no less lovely than this, and in some ways it was more so.

“Serena did it all herself,” he sighed, looking at India, and seeing again how beautiful she was. She was even more striking than he remembered, with all her blondness, and classic features. She sat on the couch with her long legs crossed gracefully. It reminded him of the summer before, when they had sat for hours, talking on the Sea Star. “Serena had so many talents,” he said, thinking of his late wife again. “I don't think there was anything she couldn't do. Sometimes it was hard to live with.” He had said as much to her before, but here in the apartment, India could see it. The whole place had an easy elegance, and a kind of wit and spice that had been characteristic of her. “I don't know what I'll do with this place,” he sighed. “I guess I should pack it up and sell it.”

“Maybe you shouldn't,” India said, sipping her Coca-Cola. “It's a wonderful apartment. Maybe you should just move things around a little.”

Paul chuckled at the suggestion. “Serena would have killed me for that. She always felt that if she put something somewhere, God had told her to do it. She raised hell if I moved an ashtray. But maybe you're right. Maybe I need to make it more mine. It's still so her now. I'd forgotten until we just walked in how powerful her style was.” She had never touched anything on the boat, or cared about it, that had been Paul's world, which was why it had been so easy to be on it since September. There, the reminders were fewer and more muted. Here, she resonated from the rafters.

“What about you?” he asked then. “Are you going to redo the house in Westport, and get Doug out of your hair? Did he take a lot of his things?” There had been some discussion of it, but in the end, other than his computer, and a few old souvenirs from college, he had taken very little. Neither of them had wanted to upset the children more than they had to.

“He didn't take much. And I think it would unnerve the kids if I started making changes. They already have enough to adjust to.” He knew it was like her to think of that, and to suggest to him he only “move” things, rather than tell him what to get rid of. That wasn't her style anyway, but she was also well aware that it was not her place to tell him what to do with his apartment. She was, as in all things, respectful of him, and he liked that. In all the months he'd talked to her, he had never felt threatened by her. Instead, she provided a safe haven for him. And then, she wondered about something. It seemed a safe question to ask him. “Are you going to bring the boat back here now?”

He looked thoughtful as he answered. “I haven't decided yet. It depends how long I stay, and I haven't figured that out yet. It depends how it goes.” He looked at her, and she assumed he was referring to his business, and how comfortable he was in the apartment. “I was thinking I might bring it to the Caribbean for a while. Maybe in April. That's a nice time of year in that part of the world. Have you ever been there?”

“It's one of the few places I've missed,” she laughed easily. “They haven't had any wars there.”

“They did in Grenada,” he teased.

“I missed that one.”

“Maybe if I bring the boat to Antigua, you and the children could come down for a few days, or over one of their vacations.”

“They'd love that,” she said easily, in spite of Aimee's seasickness, but she knew she could give her medication for it. And as she spoke to him, she saw Paul glance at one of Serena's pictures with a look of discomfort. There seemed to be one on every table, and she felt sorry for him. “Are you hungry?” she asked him then, trying to provide some distraction. “Would you like me to make you something to eat? I make a great omelette, or a peanut butter sandwich.”

“I love peanut butter.” He grinned, aware of what she was trying to do, and grateful to her for trying. But it was hopeless, and he knew it. Being in the apartment they had shared was like breathing Serena's perfume. “I love peanut butter, with olives and bananas.” He laughed at the face she made.

“That is disgusting. Don't tell Sam about it. It sounds like one of his concoctions. Do you have any here? I'll whip up something.”

“I don't think there's much here, but we can look.” He wasn't sure what was still in the freezer. And at least in the kitchen, he knew he wouldn't be so overwhelmed by memories. Serena never set foot in it. They ate in restaurants, hired a caterer or a chef, or Paul cooked for her. In eleven years, she had never once cooked him dinner, and had been proud of it.

India followed him through the dining room, with a huge antique table and silver everywhere, into the spartan black granite kitchen. It looked like something out of Architectural Digest, and she was sure that at some point they had photographed it.

But all they found were some ancient frozen hors d'oeuvres some caterer had left, and a neat row of sodas.

“Looks like you'll have an interesting breakfast tomorrow.”

“I didn't tell anyone I was coming, and I guess my secretary didn't think I'd stay here. She said she'd get me a reservation at the Carlyle in case I decided not to. I might try that tomorrow.” He looked at India with an odd expression, and she smiled at him. It was so good to see him. “I'm sorry I don't have anything to feed you, India.”

“I'm not hungry, I just thought you were,” and then she glanced at her watch. “You must be exhausted.”

“I'm holding up. It's nice being with you.” He wasn't happy thinking about being alone in the apartment with his memories, and all the reminders of Serena. He knew that all her clothes were still in her dressing room, and he dreaded seeing them. He hadn't asked anyone to do anything about them. And later, he would have to walk through all of it to get to his own closets. He cringed inwardly, knowing what he'd see there, her slippers and her dressing gown, and her handbags and dresses, all arranged in neat rows by color and designer. She had been incredibly organized and obsessive about everything, even her wardrobe.