“I like him. Not the way you think, or the way you and Sally plotted, evil children that you are.” Paris smiled. “But he's a lonely man who needs someone to talk to. And obviously a very decent person. His wife's illness and death were very hard for him.”

“It was hard on Sally too,” Meg commented, and then looked sternly at her mother. “He doesn't need a psych nurse, Mom, he needs a girlfriend. Don't be so codependent.”

“I'm not codependent. I feel sorry for him.”

“Well, don't. Just enjoy him.” But there wasn't much to enjoy yet. He had spent the entire dinner talking about her doctors, and her disease, her death, her funeral and how beautiful it had been, and the monument he was still building for her. All roads had led to Rome, and whatever subject she brought up had led right back to the late Phyllis. Paris knew he needed to get it out of his system, just as she had needed to with Peter. And obviously it took longer to mourn a death than a divorce or a betrayal. As far as she was concerned, Jim was entitled, and she was willing to listen. Besides, she could relate to a lot of it. In some ways, she still felt less divorced and more widowed, because of the suddenness of Peter's departing, and the fact that she had no voice in it. He might as well have died.

“He said he'd call me,” Paris volunteered, and Meg looked pleased. Particularly when she answered the phone and it was he the next morning. After saying hello pleasantly to Meg, Jim asked to speak to her mother. And Paris took the phone from her quickly. They chatted for a few minutes, and Meg saw her mother jot a note down, nod her head, and say she'd be delighted to have dinner with him.

“You have a date?” Meg asked with a look of astonishment. “Already? When?” She was grinning from ear to ear as Paris looked nonplussed, and insisted it wasn't romantic. “Tell me that in three weeks when you're sleeping with him,” Meg teased. “And don't forget, this time remember to ask if it's exclusive.” Although they both agreed that with Jim Thompson that wasn't likely to be a problem, at least not for the moment. Sally said he hadn't even looked at another woman since his wife died. And Paris believed it. She wasn't sure he was looking at her either. He just needed someone to listen, while he talked about his late wife. “So when are you seeing him?” Meg asked anxiously. She felt like a little mother. She wanted this romance to work. They all did.

“Tuesday, for dinner.”

“At least he's civilized, and won't take you to the kind of places mine take me. I either get to go to bottom-of-the-barrel sushi places where I get food poisoning, vegetarian, or diners so scary I'm afraid to walk into them. The men I go out with never take me anyplace decent.”

“Maybe you need someone a little older,” Paris suggested simply, although Meg had never liked older boys even when she was growing up. They just didn't appeal to her. She always liked them her own age, and once in a while, a year or two younger. But then she had to put up with all the immature games that went with it.

“Call and tell me how it goes with Mr. Thompson,” Meg reminded her when she left, and Paris spent the rest of the evening doing laundry, which wasn't glamorous, but useful. And on Monday she and Bix got in high gear over the Fourth of July picnics they were doing that weekend. By Tuesday night Paris was up to her ears in details, and almost forgot she had a date with Jim Thompson. She ran home from the office at six, after flying out of a meeting with Bix, and telling him she had to go out for dinner.

“Do you have a date?” He looked startled. She hadn't said a word about meeting someone new, and she'd been emphatic lately about not dating. She was still bitching about the blind date from Santa Fe, and used him as ample reason to remain a born-again virgin.

In answer to his question, Paris looked vague and said, “Not really.”

“What does that mean?”

“I'm acting as a psych tech to the father of a friend of Meg's who lost his wife to breast cancer two years ago.”

“That's tough,” Bix said, looking sympathetic. “What's he look like?”

“Proper, uptight, nice looking. Normal.”

“Excellent. How old?”

“About fifty-nine or sixty.”

“He sounds perfect. We'll take him. Go.”

“Don't get yourself excited. All he does is talk about his late wife. He's obsessed with her.”

“You'll change all that. Steven was just like that when I met him. I thought if I heard one more time about how his lover had died in his arms, I would scream. It takes a while, but eventually, it goes. Give him time. Or maybe Prozac. Or maybe Viagra.”

“Never mind that. I'm just having dinner with him. This is grief counseling, not sex therapy, Mr. Mason.”

“Whatever, have fun. G'night!” he called after her as she hurried down the stairs, and half an hour later she had washed and blow-dried her hair, woven it quickly into a braid while it was still damp, and put on charcoal-gray slacks and a matching sweater, and she had just put on shoes when the doorbell rang. She was still breathless when she opened the door and invited Jim in.

“Am I early?” Jim Thompson asked hesitantly. She had that look of what-are-you-doing-here-so-soon?, but she was just harassed and in a hurry, and tried to relax as she smiled at him and he walked in.

“Not at all. I just got home from work a little while ago. It's a crazy week, it always is. If it isn't Fourth of July, it's Valentine's Day, or Thanksgiving, or an anniversary, or a birthday or a wedding or ‘just a little dinner party’ for forty on a Tuesday night. It's fun, but it keeps us on our toes.”

“It sounds like a happy business you're in. Lucky you. Banking isn't a lot of fun, but I suppose it's useful too.” He sat down on the couch in the living room, and she poured him a glass of wine. It was a beautiful night, and the fog hadn't come in that afternoon, so it was still warm. Often it was colder in the summer than in the spring. “What a lovely house you have, Paris,” he said, looking around. She had beautiful antiques, and obviously excellent taste too. “Phyllis loved antiques. We used to go antiquing in every city we went to. She preferred English, just as you do.” As she had the first night, Phyllis had joined them once again. And Paris tried to steer the conversation toward their kids, by asking him about his son. Like Wim, he had just left for Europe to travel with friends. “I don't see enough of him, now that he's on the East Coast,” Jim complained. “He doesn't seem to like to come home anymore, and I can't say I blame him. It's not a very happy place.”

“Are you taking any trips this summer?” Paris asked, determined to turn the conversation around, and genuinely trying. If she could just get him off the subject of his loss, he might actually have a good time, or even be one. There was nothing obviously wrong with him. He was solvent, intelligent, educated, employed, good-looking, almost handsome, and he had children the same age as hers. It was certainly more than enough to go on, if she could just get Phyllis out of the room. It was becoming something of a challenge to her, and Paris was determined to win, for his sake as well as her own. As Bix had guessed from her thumbnail sketch, he was the most likely candidate she'd seen. And the most like Peter in some ways. All they had to do was ease Phyllis gently back into her grave, where she belonged.

They chatted for a while, and then Jim drove her to dinner, at a little French bistro with a sidewalk café. It was an adorable place, and brought back a flood of memories for Jim. He and his late wife both loved France, and had spent a lot of time in Paris. In fact, Phyllis had spoken nearly flawless French. It seemed hopeless to stem the tide as they limped awkwardly through dinner, and not knowing what else to do, Paris found herself pulling out memories about Peter. What their marriage had been like, how close they had been for all those years, and the immense shock it had been when he left. They seemed to alternate war stories with each other, and by the time Paris got home, she was exhausted. She hadn't talked about Peter that much since he left her.

“I'd like to see you again,” Jim said cautiously when he took her home after dinner. Paris didn't ask him to come in. She just didn't want to hear another story about Phyllis, nor to talk about Peter yet again. She wanted to bury them both. And she was dying to make a pact with Jim that if they saw each other again, neither of them could speak of their previous spouses. But she didn't feel she knew him well enough to say that to him. “I'd love to cook you dinner,” he volunteered.

“I'd love that.” Paris smiled at him, although she was a little leery of having dinner in what he clearly perceived was his late wife's house, as much as his own. She still thought he was a lovely person, but it had been an uphill battle for neutral conversation all night. Whatever they did, wherever they went, Phyllis seemed to peek around the corner at them, whether talking about children, antiques, or trips. Or anything else that came to mind. And Peter had been running a close second all night. More than anything, Paris wanted to bury their dead. “I have to work this weekend,” she reminded him.

“What about Sunday night?” he said, looking hopeful. He really liked her a lot, and she was a wonderful listener. Sensitive, and sympathetic. He hadn't expected to like her as much as he did.

“That would be perfect,” Paris said, giving him a warm hug, and she waved at him as she closed the door. She had had a nice evening, but she had to admit that being alone in her house again, without Phyllis or Peter, was an immense relief.

“So? How was it?” Bix asked as she walked in the next morning, looking distracted. “Wild sex all night? Are you addicted yet?”