“You okay, Mom?” Meg asked softly, and came to sit down on the bed next to her, looking worried.

“I'm fine, sweetheart. Just tired.” It was like recovering from an accident, or a major illness. It had been her first time out in public, and it had cost her. She had had to dredge up every ounce of courage she had just to be there. She couldn't even enjoy it. The strain of seeing Peter, so estranged from her, was almost too much for her, and he had barely spoken to her. He had been civil, but distant. They weren't even friends now. She felt like her own ghost as she got through it, returning after her death to haunt the people she once knew. She no longer felt like the person she had been. Even to herself now, she felt like a stranger. She wasn't even married now, or not for long anyway, and her marriage had been such a major part of her identity. She had given up everything she once was to be Mrs. Peter Armstrong, and now she felt like no one. A faceless, unloved, unwanted, abandoned single woman. It was her worst nightmare.

“How was Dad when he talked to you?” Meg had been talking to Wim at the time, but she had seen them together, albeit briefly.

“Okay, I guess. He didn't say much. I just said hello, and then went to talk to Natalie and Virginia. It seemed simpler. I don't think he's too anxious to talk to me now. It's too awkward.” He was sending her a constant flood of papers to sign, settlement offers, which included the house, as he had promised. But just seeing the papers depressed her. She hated to read them, and sometimes didn't.

“I'm sorry, Mom,” Meg said sadly. She had been shocked by how thin her mother was, and teased her that it was obviously due to Wim's cooking. But at least for once he wasn't worried about her, he could leave her in Meg's hands, and celebrate his graduation. He was leaving for Europe over the weekend. Paris had insisted he stick to his plans. She said she had to get used to being alone at some point. She was beginning to feel like a patient in a psych ward, and knew she had to deal with it before it killed her.

“It's all right, sweetheart,” Paris reassured her. “Don't you want to go out and see your friends? I'm just going to go to bed in a few minutes.” It was all she did now.

“Are you sure you don't mind if I go out?” Meg hated to leave her. But by Sunday, she'd be truly alone. Meg had to go back to L.A., and Wim would be in England. He was planning to travel around Europe until August, come back for a few weeks, and then leave for college. These were her last days with him at home, the last with both him and Meg under one roof. Their life of living together as they had once known it was already over.

And when she took Wim to the airport on Saturday, Paris felt as though someone had finally cut the umbilical cord when he left her. She had made him promise to buy a cell phone as soon as he got to Europe, so she could keep track of him and call him, but she finally had to let him go, and have faith in his ability to take care of himself, and be responsible. She felt as though she had lost yet another huge chunk of her life as she drove back to Greenwich. And she was utterly bereft the next morning when Meg left, although she tried not to show it. She wandered around the house like a ghost afterward, and nearly jumped a foot when she heard the doorbell. It was Virginia, whose son had left for Europe with Wim the previous morning. She looked faintly embarrassed when Paris opened the door, and felt she had to apologize for showing up without calling.

“I figured if you were as nervous as I am about them, I'd better come over. Have they called you?”

“No,” Paris said with a smile. She was dressed, her hair was combed, and she had put on makeup for Meg's benefit that morning. But she still looked as though she were recovering from a severe case of tuberculosis, or something equally unpleasant. “I don't think they'll call us for a few days. I told Wim to get a cell phone.”

“So did I.” Virginia laughed, as Paris went to make coffee. “Where's Meg?”

“She left half an hour ago. She couldn't wait to get back to her new boyfriend. She says he's an actor. He's been in two horror pictures, and half a dozen commercials.”

“At least he's working.” Virginia was glad to see her up and dressed, but the toll of the last month and Peter's perfidy was all too visible. It was the look of despair in her eyes that was so haunting. As though she no longer believed in anything or anyone and had lost hope and faith in everything she had once believed in. It was brutal.

They chatted over coffee for a while, and Virginia finally looked at her, fumbled in her bag, and pushed a piece of paper at her. It had a name and phone number on it, and an address in downtown Greenwich.

“What's that?” Paris looked startled as she read it. She didn't recognize the name. It just said Anne Smythe, with a Greenwich number.

“My shrink's phone number. I couldn't survive without her.” Paris knew that she and Jim had had their ups and downs too. He was a difficult man, had suffered from chronic depression at one time, and had improved immeasurably with medication. But the dark years he'd spent before that had been hard on Virginia and their marriage. Paris knew she saw someone but had never thought much about it, nor asked her.

“Do you think I've gone crazy?” Paris asked sadly, as she folded the piece of paper with the number and slipped it into her pocket. “Sometimes I think so.” It was almost a relief to say it out loud and admit it.

“No, I don't,” Virginia said honestly. “If I did, I'd have the guys here with butterfly nets and a straitjacket. But I think you will end up that way, if you don't get out of this house, and talk to someone about what happened. You've had a hell of a shock. What Peter did to you is about as traumatic as it gets, short of having your husband drop dead in his dinner. And that's probably a lot easier to survive than what he did. One minute you're married, think you're happy, have a husband and a life you've known and loved for twenty-four years, and the next minute he's gone, he's divorcing you, and you don't know what hit you. And to make matters worse, he's living an hour from here, and dating someone twenty years younger. If that doesn't kick your self-esteem and psyche in the ass, I don't know what will. Shit, Paris, most people would be sitting in a corner, drooling.”

“Well, I've thought of it,” she said with a grin, “but it's so messy.”

“I'd be a basket case, in your shoes,” Virginia said, with profound respect for her. Even Virginia's husband had admitted to her that he wouldn't have survived the blow, with or without medication. And her friends realized that there was always the possibility that she could get suicidal over it. With the exception of the comfort of knowing that her children were out in the world somewhere, she had very little to live for. She definitely needed someone to talk to. And Virginia thought Anne Smythe might be just the person. She was warm, down to earth, sensible, and combined just the right amount of sympathy with all-right-fine-now-what-are-we-going-to-do-about-this? She had gotten Virginia back on her feet and out of the doldrums after Jim's depression. After he was fine again, Virginia had suddenly felt depressed and without purpose. She had been so used to centering all her attention on him that when he no longer needed her as much, she started to feel useless. “She saved my ass, and several of my friends whom I referred to her. I think she's terrific.”

“I'm not so sure my ass is worth saving,” Paris said as Virginia shook her head.

“That's exactly what I mean. You think there's something wrong with you because he left you, instead of seeing that this is about him, not you. He should be feeling like hell about himself, for what he did to you, not you feeling like that because he left you.” All Virginia wished was that Paris would get angry, and even hate him, but she didn't. It was obvious to anyone who knew her that she still loved him. As devoted as she had been to him, it would take a long time for love to die, longer than it would take for him to get the papers he wanted to free him. The divorce could dissolve their marriage, but not her feelings. “Will you call her?”

“Maybe,” Paris answered honestly. “I'm not sure I want to talk about it, particularly to a stranger. Or to anyone. I don't want to go out, because I don't want to watch everyone feeling sorry for me. Christ, Virginia, it's so pathetic.”

“It's only pathetic if you let it be. You don't even know what life has in store for you. You might wind up with someone a hell of a lot better.”

“I've never wanted anyone except Peter. I never even looked at another man, or wanted to. I always thought he was the best of the breed, and I was so damn lucky to be with him.”

“Well, it turns out he isn't, and you weren't. He did a rotten thing, and he should be strung up for it. But to hell with him. All I want is to see you happy.” Paris knew that Virginia meant it.

“What if I'm never happy again?” Paris asked, looking worried. “What if I'm in love with him forever?”

“Then I'll shoot you,” Virginia said with a grin. “Try Anne first. If that doesn't work, I'll find an exorcist. But you've got to get this out of your system, and get over it. If you don't, it'll kill you. You don't want to be sick and miserable forever.”

“No, I don't,” Paris said thoughtfully, “but I don't see how she can change that. No matter what I say to her, Peter will still be gone, we'll be getting a divorce, the kids will be grown up, and he will be with a woman fifteen years younger than I am. It isn't pretty.”

“No, but other people have survived it. I'm serious, you may wind up with a guy ten times nicer than he is. People lose their husbands, they die, or walk out on them, they find other people, they remarry, they have good lives. You're forty-six years old, you can't give up on your life now. That's just plain stupid. And wrong. And not fair to you or your kids, or any of the people who love you. Don't give Peter that satisfaction. He has a new life. You deserve to have one too.”