“Are you kidding?” Tanya said easily. “I wish you'd stay forever. And I hope you come back soon.” They had both made Zoe promise to stay in touch, and they were talking about spending a weekend with her somewhere, maybe in Carmel, if she felt up to it, or Malibu at Tanya's, or even in San Francisco. They all thought it sounded terrific. They were not going to let time or distance or, worse yet, tragedy get between them.

Tanya spent the entire day working with her secretary, and trying to make decisions after two weeks away, and late that afternoon, Gordon called her. He was fine, working in the corral, missing her like crazy, and he'd gone up to see the house, and had a contractor drawing up plans for her. He said they'd be ready to move in, in no time. And she told him about all the horrors of coming back to work in the real world. He told her to just hang in until he got there.

“I can't wait,” she said, her eyes filling with excitement.

“Neither can I,” he said, closing his eyes, and imagining her just the way she looked in his cabin in the morning. He couldn't wait to set up their ranch now.

They talked for a long time, he had gone to a pay phone to call her. He kept putting quarters in, and he refused to let her call the number, or call her collect in future. He was stubborn. And he promised to call her again the next day, and asked her to say hello to Mary Stuart. She had heard nothing from Hartley but she didn't expect to. They had agreed not to call each other until she settled matters in London. And she didn't even know where to reach him in Boston or Seattle. She knew he'd be home on Thursday. And she knew what the code was. “Adieu, Arielle,” or “Bonjour, Arieile,” depending on what happened with her marriage.

Tanya took her to Spago that night, and introduced her to Wolfgang Puck, the owner, and she explained who everyone was. Victoria Principal was having dinner with a big group. George Hamilton was there. Harry Hamlin… Jaclyn Smith… Warren Beatty… And George Christy of the Hollywood Reporter was at a comer table. And everyone knew Tanya, but it was one of the few places in Hollywood where, no matter how big the star was, they never disturbed her.

She and Mary Stuart talked for a long time about everything, and Mary Stuart seemed to have made her mind up. She went shopping the next day when Tanya went to rehearsal. And they went to bed early that night. Gordon had called again, and there was a fax from Bill, confirming her arrival. He had said absolutely nothing personal at all, and Mary Stuart shook her head when she saw it.

And the next morning when she left, she and Tanya clung to each other and cried. She didn't want to leave at all, and they both wanted to turn the clock back and leave for Wyoming.

“It'll be okay,” Tanya encouraged her. “It'll be fine. Just think of Hartley.” It was all Mary Stuart could think of, as she left, and all the way to London. She even wrote him a letter. It would be their first, she smiled to herself, the first she'd written to him. Maybe he'd even keep it. He was wonderfully sentimental. She told him how much he meant to her, and how wonderful Wyoming had been, how empty her life had been before she met him. She was going to mail it when she got to the hotel in London.

The hotel had sent a car for her. She was staying at Claridge's after all. It seemed easier than going to another hotel when he was staying there. But she had reserved her own room. She had no idea if Bill knew that. But actually, the hotel had told him.

She went through customs easily, and reached the hotel shortly after. It was all very civilized, and when she reached Claridge's they ushered her upstairs like a visiting dignitary from another country. And they informed her that Mr. Walker was in the suite he was renting as his offices, with his secretary, he was working. But she did not call him as soon as she reached her room. She wanted time to regain her composure. She washed her face and combed her hair and as usual she looked impeccable in a black linen suit that had traveled perfectly from L.A. to London. It was typical of Mary Stuart.

And when she had ordered a cup of tea, and finished it, she called him. By then, it was ten o'clock in the morning. But she had no idea that Bill was going crazy. He knew her plane had gotten in at seven. He assumed she had gone through customs by eight, and gotten to the hotel at nine. And he had called the desk to confirm it. He knew she was in her own room, and hadn't called him. He had been agonizing ever since then. But Mary Stuart was in no hurry. It was Thursday by then. She had allowed a day for this, and as she had been unable to reach Alyssa, she was flying to New York on Friday. It was certainly a circuitous route from Wyoming.

He answered on the first ring when she called him. It was awkward even speaking to him now, and she gave him her room number, and he said he'd come right down to see her. He left his secretary and told her not to disturb him. He was going to an important meeting.

Mary Stuart opened the door and looked at him, and it was painful to see how familiar he looked, how much like the man she had loved for so long until the year before. But she knew this man was different. They both were.

“Hello, Bill,” she said quietly as he came in, and he was about to put his arms around her, but when he saw her eyes, he decided not to. “How are you?”

“Not so great actually,” he said, and surprised her.

“Is something wrong?” It was odd for her, of all people, to ask him.

“I'm afraid so,” he said, sitting in a chair, and stretching his long legs out before him.

“What happened?” She assumed the case wasn't going well, and she was sorry to hear it. He had certainly put enough time and effort into it to win it.

“Actually,” he said, looking at her mournfully, and seeming very young to her. He looked vulnerable and kind of pathetic. “I've fucked my life up pretty badly and yours.” She was startled by the way he looked, and even more so by the way he said it. She wondered if he was going to make some terrible confession, like an affair since he'd been in London. But in some ways, that might make it easy. This was not as easy for her as she'd hoped, just telling him their marriage was over. Suddenly he was a real person, with wrinkles and flaws, and things she had once loved about him.

“What do you mean?” she asked, looking puzzled. What did he mean, he'd fucked his life up?

“I think you know exactly what I mean. That's why you're here, isn't it? I figured that much out, stupid as I am. And as men go, I've been pretty dumb. I've spent the last year with my head buried in my desk somewhere, thinking that if I ignored you long enough you'd go away, or my misery and my guilt would, or Todd would come back, or the stupid things I said to you would be forgotten. But none of that seemed to happen. It just kept getting worse. I felt more awful every day, and you've come to hate me. That was actually pretty predictable, given the way I behaved. The only one who didn't predict it though was me, which is pretty awkward.” He said it all looking like a kid, she had to smile at what he was saying. Sometimes he was very endearing. “Anyway, I don't suppose any of this surprises you. I think I'm the only one around here who's amazed not only by my stupidity, but my behavior. So now you've come to let me know very politely, and in person, which is very kind of you, my dear, that you're going to divorce me.” He was the criminal helping the executioner set up the guillotine, and agreeing all the while that he deserved it. It actually made it harder to kill him.

“Where have you been all year?” she asked. It was the one thing she had wanted to ask him. “How could you have completely hidden from me, frozen me out? You never even spoke to me, or answered questions.” It had been like living with a robot. Or a dead man, and he had been.

“I was unhappy,” he said. He was the master of understatement, and she kept silently reminding herself to think of Hartley. “So what do we do now? Did you bring the divorce papers with you?” He figured she had them ready when he talked to her in Wyoming. It had all suddenly become clear to him, and he knew exactly why she was coming.

“Was I supposed to? Do you want them?”

“Do you have them with you?” He looked ready to sign them, and it annoyed her even more to see how willing he was to give up on what they'd had for twenty-two years. He really didn't care at all, from what she could see. And it infuriated her even further.

“No, I do not have our divorce papers with me,” she said angrily. “Hire yourself a lawyer or draw them up yourself. I can't do everything, for God's sake. I came over to talk to you, not have you sign papers.”

“Oh.” He looked startled. He had also gotten the message when the concierge told him she had her own room. He had been about to tell the housekeeper to prepare for another guest in his room, and it crushed him when he realized she wasn't going to stay with him. That certainly delivered the message. “You're very angry at me, Stu,” he said sadly, looking at her, wishing he could take it all back, or change it. “I don't blame you. I've been a complete bastard to you. I can't even give you an excuse, although you deserve one. All I can give you is an apology. I've been confused ever since Todd died. I felt so guilty, I didn't know who to blame. I blamed myself, but I couldn't stand it, so I pretended to blame you. But I never really did. I was always convinced it was my fault.”

“How could it be your fault?” She was stunned by what he was saying. “It wasn't anyone's fault. It was horrible for all of us, even Alyssa. None of us deserved it. I got really angry at him when I cleaned out his room, and the funny thing is I felt better after I did that.”