“I was wondering if I ought to go looking for her. I thought maybe Oliver …”Lately, he was relying on Ollie more, which wasn't like him either.

“I'll have him call the minute he comes home.” And that would mean the end of their dinner out, unless she came back before. But on the other hand, maybe it was just as well. Suddenly, Sarah didn't want to be alone with her husband.

But George called again before Oliver got home. Phyllis was home safe and sound. She'd had trouble getting a cab, and didn't have the change to call. He didn't tell Sarah that she looked disheveled to him somehow, and the cabdriver had told him she'd had trouble remembering her address, and when George questioned her, he realized with shock that she no longer knew their phone number, and that was why she hadn't called him. “I'm sorry I troubled you, my dear.”

“Don't be silly, George. You can call us anytime. You know that.”

“Thank you.” At the other end, he cast a worried glance at his wife, humming to herself as she wandered aimlessly around the kitchen. Lately, he had been cooking for her, but they both pretended that it was because he liked having something to do, and he liked to say that he was a better cook than she was. “Give Oliver my love when he comes home, and if he has time, please ask him to call me.”

“I will,” she promised, and promptly forgot when Oliver got home a few minutes later. He was hurrying to shower and dress and insisted that he wanted to take her out to dinner. “But Sam will be all alone tonight.” She wanted desperately to stay home, not to face him alone across a table. There was nothing she could say to him. Not yet. And it was easier to hide here in their own home. To hide behind the children and the television set. To hide behind anything. Anything was better than having to face him.

“Is Agnes going out?” Ollie questioned her as he shaved, watching the news at the same time, barely glancing at her, but pleased at the prospect of their evening together. He had a surprise for her. He had just gotten a big promotion and a raise. The top of the ladder, at his firm, was in clear sight now. At forty-four, Oliver Watson was the stuff that business legends were made of. He had it all, he knew, and he was grateful for that, a job he loved, a wife he adored, and three kids he was crazy about. What more was there in life? Absolutely nothing he could think of.

“No, Agnes'U be here, but I thought …”

“Don't. Get dressed.” He gently patted her behind as she walked past him, and then stopped her and put his arms around her as he turned off his razor. “I love you, do you know that?” She did. Only too well. And she loved him, too, which made everything she wanted to do now that much harder.

“I love you too.” Her eyes were sad and he pulled her closer.

“You sure don't look happy about it. Tough day today?”

“Not really.” There was no tough anymore. The kids were busy and almost gone, Agnes took care of the house, she had been slowing down her committee work for the past two years, to give herself time to write, which she never did anyway. What could be tough in the perfect life? Nothing, except constant emptiness and total boredom. “Just tired, I guess. Oh … I almost forgot. Your father called. He wants you to call him.”

“Everything okay?” He worried about his parents a lot. They were getting old, and his father seemed so frail ever since his heart attack. “Is he feeling all right?”

“He sounded fine. Once your mother got back. He called because she went shopping this afternoon and she was late coming back. I think he was worried about her in this weather.”

“He worries too much about everything. That's why he had that heart attack. She can take care of herself, I keep telling him that. He keeps insisting that she gets confused, but I think she's a lot less confused than he thinks. I'll call him when we get home, if it's not too late. Come on,” he urged her on with a smile, “hurry up. Our reservation's at seven.”

They kissed Sam good night when they left, and gave Agnes the phone number of the restaurant. Benjamin was already gone, and he hadn't said good-bye to them. He had taken the keys to Sarah's car and left right after devouring most of the meat loaf, two plates of vegetables, and a piece of Agnes's apple pie. And Sarah felt sure that as soon as he got to Bill's he would eat again, and probably finish off the pie when he got home that night. She used to worry that he'd get fat, but there seemed to be no fear of that, he was a bottomless pit, and if it hadn't been for the broad shoulders, he would have looked like the proverbial beanpole.

The restaurant was lovely when they arrived, cozy, quaint, with French Provincial decor and a fire roaring in a fireplace. The food was good, and Oliver ordered an excellent California Chardonnay. They both relaxed and Sarah listened as he told her about the promotion and the raise. It was strange listening to him now. For years, she had lived vicariously through him, and now suddenly she had her own life. It was like listening to someone else. She was pleased for him, but his success was no longer a shared accomplishment, It was his alone. She knew that now. And as they finished their meal, he sat back and looked at her, sensing that something had changed, but not sure what it was. He usually read her well, but not tonight. There was something distant and sad about the way she looked at him, and he suddenly felt a finger of fear touch his heart. What if she were having an affair? Even a passing one … one of those suburban wives' involvements with the insurance man, or the orthodontist, or one of their friends. He couldn't believe it of her. She had always been so loyal to him, it was the way she was, straight-arrow and sure and honest, it was part of what he loved so much about her. It couldn't be that. And he had never cheated on her. But he just couldn't figure out what was going on with her, and as he ordered champagne and dessert, he looked at her in the candlelight and thought she had never looked lovelier or younger. At forty-one, she was better-looking than most women at thirty. The dark red hair still shone, her figure was great, her waistline almost as trim as it had been before their babies.

“What's bothering you, sweetheart?” His voice was a caress as he reached out and took her hand. He was a good man, a decent one, she knew that, and she also knew how much he loved her.

“Nothing. Why? What makes you say that? I had a wonderful time tonight.” She was lying, but she didn't want him to know. He always did anyway. He knew her too well. Twenty-two years was a long, long time.

“I'd say on a scale of ten, tonight was about a two in your book. Maybe a one. If you count going to the dentist as a zero.”

She laughed at him, and he chuckled as he poured her champagne. “You're crazy, you know that?” she accused him.

“Yeah. About you. Imagine an old fart like me still being nuts about his wife. Pretty amusing, huh, after eighteen years of marriage.”

“I take it forty-four is an 'old fart' now? When did you decide that?”

He lowered his voice conspiratorially as he answered. “When I couldn't make love to you the third time last Sunday night. I think that pushed me over the edge into that category forever.”

She grinned. Their lovemaking was almost always terrific. “I thought twice in an hour and a half wasn't too shabby myself. Besides, you'd had a hell of a lot of wine to drink. Don't forget that.”

He looked at the empty wine bottle and the champagne in front of them and grinned at her. “I guess that blows tonight, too, huh?”

“I don't know. Maybe we ought to go home and check it out before you're too far gone.” She was laughing at him, glad they'd gone out to dinner after all. It had relieved some of her tension.

“Thanks a lot. But I want to know what's bothering you first.”

“Absolutely nothing.” And at that precise moment, she was being honest.

“Maybe not now, but a little while ago, something was. You looked like your best friend had died when I came home.”

“No, I didn't.” But she had been feeling some of that. He was her best friend, after all, and if she went back to school, in some ways she would lose him. “Don't be silly, Ol.”

“Don't try to bullshit me. Something's worrying you, or preoccupying you. Is it your writing?” He knew she hadn't written anything in two years, but it didn't matter to him. He just wanted her to be happy.

“Maybe. I'm not getting anywhere with that. Maybe I can't write anymore. Maybe that was just a flash in my youth.” She shrugged and for the first time in two years, it didn't seem to matter.

“I don't believe that, Sarah. You were good. I think it'll come back to you in time. Maybe you just haven't figured out what you want to write about. Maybe you ought to get out in the world more … do something different …” Without knowing it, he was opening the door to her, but she was terrified to walk through it. No matter what she did, or said, or how she said it, once she told him, everything in their lives would be changed forever.

“I've been thinking about that.” She advanced cautiously.

“And?” He waited.

“What do you mean 'and'?” She was scared of him. It was rare for her. But for the first time in her life, she was terrified of her husband.

“You never think about anything without coming to some kind of conclusion, or taking action.”

“You know me too well.” She smiled, suddenly looking sad again, and desperately not wanting to tell him.

“What aren't you telling me, Sarrie? Not knowing what's on your mind is driving me crazy.”

“Nothing is on my mind.” But she wasn't convincing either of them, and she was going around in circles. “Maybe it's just midlife crisis.”